Vance and Nickels did the same.
That’s when the shouting started.
45
Peter
In the storefront office, Peter began to methodically search for anything else that might tell him what the Messenger was planning. He flipped through the pages of the Unabomber Manifesto and found nothing. He checked under the bunkbed mattresses and patted them for telltale lumps, then checked the seams where someone might have sewn up an opening. More nothing.
He returned to the front room and double-checked the junk mail, then went through the storage room, moving the empty shelves one by one to make sure there was nothing beneath or behind them. Then he stuck his head into the utility closet again, looking for anything unusual or out of place. The slop sink with its shower attachment caught his eye. He shone his flashlight into the floor drain and saw water gleaming in the p-trap. In a vacant building, with normal evaporation, it should be bone dry.
He went to the toilet and opened the lid. It, too, still had water. Sodid the cheap saucepan in the bottom of the sink. He thought about the hot plate and the mini-fridge in the office. Someone had been living here.
Were theystillliving here?
He went back to the office and opened the mini-fridge. It held two cans of Monster Energy drink and a partial carton of chocolate milk. Just like Reed’s fridge in his apartment. He opened the carton and took a cautious sniff. It still smelled good. Once opened, milk would go bad after a week. Someone had been here less than a week ago.
Not wanting to miss anything, he stepped back for a wider view of the room and realized someone had stacked an assortment of empty cardboard boxes under the worktable. He picked one up and shook it out over the table, dumping the contents. He found only the packing cardboard and plastic bag that had been wrapped around whatever had been inside.
He examined the box itself. There was no identifying information on the outside. Just a notice that the contents contained lithium-ion batteries. From the size of the box and the packing cardboard, it would be a large battery, almost the size of a shoebox.
He stuffed the waste back in the box, then picked up the next one. It was identical to the first, with the same battery notice. Shaking out the contents, he found the same packing materials and plastic bag. Another battery, he figured.
The next two boxes were a different size, with Chinese printing on one side. He shook them out. More packing materials and plastic wrapping, but nothing else. The last box was different again. He shook it out, too. Same nothing.
Except one of the bags made a faint clicking sound as it hit the table. He sifted through until he found what had made the noise. A clear plastic propeller, thin as a blade, more than a foot long.
Batteries and propellers. He thought back to a title on GeoffreyReed’s bookshelf.Build Your Own Drone. He remembered Reed’s toolbox with its many screwdrivers, pliers, wire cutters, and other hand tools. Including a soldering iron.
Reed had been here. Recently. Peter was sure of it. Using the storefront as his workshop. Building a drone.
Judging by the propeller, it would be a big one. Or maybe two of them, because there had been two batteries. But why?
He thought about the war in Ukraine, where Ukrainian soldiers had taught themselves to weaponize drones. Surely there were instructions on the dark web by now.
Then he thought about the upcoming Conference for the Future at the Seattle Center.
—
He pulled down his shirtsleeve and wiped off everything he’d touched that would hold a print, including the light switches and the crushed lock. Walking back through the storage room, he hit the button to roll down the door. As it began to descend, he slipped beneath it and hopped down into the weeds. The rain had picked up again. As he walked down the alley, the wind shifted into the northwest, carrying with it the fetid smell of rotting seaweed.
He knew Reed wasn’t coming back, because he was dead. But whatever was going on, others were involved. Maybe Circuit Rider was staying here, cooking on the hot plate and showering in the utility room. Maybe he’d just stepped out for groceries.
Peter climbed into the Tahoe and drove a block, then pulled a U-turn and parked in front of the shooting range, where he had a clear view of both the storefront’s main door and the alley entrance. He killed the engine and sat with the .357 on the console and his fists clenched on his thighs, thinking of KT’s last few moments. Thinking of Ellie.
If he was lucky, one of these assholes would show up.
Peter was going to do his best not to kill him.
But if it happened, he sure as shit wasn’t going to feel bad about it.
Waiting, he called Captain Durant, left a message saying what he’d found and that he was keeping watch outside. Time passed slowly. Impatient, he checked his phone several times. Durant didn’t call back.
Instead of hitting redial, Peter texted June’s burner, keeping one eye on the street. “Just left the storefront. I found another brochure for Resilient Systems, just like at Reed’s apartment. The owner’s name is Garrison Bevel. He might be our guy. The company used to be located at the storefront. Also I think someone used the storefront to build some kind of drone. Call me when you get this.”
He saw the three dots that meant June was looking at his text. A moment later, she responded. “I’m talking with someone who met the Messenger. Learning a lot. Call you when I’m done.”
A few minutes later, another text arrived, all caps. “CAPTAIN DURANT MAY BE INVOLVED. AVOID AT ALL COSTS.”
