Origin - Season One by Nathaniel Dean James Page B

the floor. He put these in the inside pockets of his jacket. When he was ready, he took a final look around, then moved to the door, turned off the lights, and left the apartment.
    There was a black motorcycle leaning on its kickstand at one end of the underground parking lot. It was a GSX1300R turbocharged Suzuki Hayabusa, custom upgraded by a firm in Ohio that took on business by referral only and did not advertise. When he pushed the start button, the engine roared to life and quickly settled down to a soft purr.
    As soon as he was outside, he pulled to the side of the road and unzipped the cover on the fuel tank bag to reveal a small GPS tracker. He turned it on and waited until the icon in the top corner of the screen showed four bars, then scrolled through a touch screen menu until the words Gerald A4 appeared in a drop-down list and selected it. A moment later, the screen displayed a map showing the Vermont/New Hampshire border. A small green arrow showed the car traveling up Interstate 91 past the town of Bernardston on the Vermont side.
    Francis pulled back onto the road and took a left at the next junction. Gambling that Gerald had been smart enough to send her all the way to the border, he headed for Interstate 93, intending to cut across and reach her before she got there.

Chapter 16
    Ipswich Bay, Massachusetts
    Monday 17 July 2006
    2030 EDT
    When he was a quarter mile from the shore, Gerald eased the throttle back and let the bow of the boat sink into the water as she lost speed and began to drift. He had turned off all her lights when he rounded Halibut Point. Now, standing in the dark, he scanned the shoreline looking for the house. He picked it out quickly as the central property in a cluster of only three on that part of the shore. No lights were on and he was too far away to make out any signs of activity. For the second time, he prayed that Cynthia had not stayed.
    It took less than a minute to inflate the lifeboat using the battery-powered pump. When the small dinghy was in the water, he tied it off and went back to the cockpit to drop anchor. Next, he went below and put on a sweater and a beanie, then packed his laptop into a watertight bag. In one of the drawers beneath the counter of the kitchenette he found a snub-nosed silver revolver. After a brief moment of hesitation, he added the box containing the flare gun.
    Half an hour later he was cursing himself for not having stopped closer to the shore. His arms ached and every time he turned to gauge his progress, land seemed further away, not closer. Another half hour passed and this time he thought the shore was getting a little closer. He had to stop and rest twice, and when he finally felt the boat begin to bob in the swells beating at the coastline, he put the oars down and let nature take care of the rest.
    Gerald stepped into the shallow water, letting the boat drift away as he walked the final few yards to dry land and dropped the bag. In front of him, a cliff face about eight feet high marked the end of his own backyard. He clambered up the wall of loose dirt and rock to get a better look at the house.
    Something moved behind him and he spun his head around, lost his footing and slid down the slope on his backside. When he looked up, a man was standing in front of him. At his feet Gerald saw the open box of the flare gun. It was now in the man’s hand and pointed at Gerald.
    “This yours?” the man asked.
    Gerald didn’t answer.
    “I’m glad you showed up, Mr. Ross. We’ve been wanting to speak to you.”
    “I don’t have it!” Gerald found himself saying before the man could ask.
    “You don’t have what?”
    “The hard drive. It’s not here. If it was, I’d give it to you, I swear.”
    “Then who does?” the man asked.
    “I don’t know.”
    “I was afraid you might say that.”
    The man pulled the hammer back on the flare gun. “Ever been shot with one of these?”
    “I don’t have the drive,” Gerald said again, pushing