Structural
by Owen Kerr
Three Weeks Before
The target stepped onto the sidewalk. Marty rolled down the window, steadied his elbows on the center console, and prepared to shoot.
The face jiggled into focus. Marty’s hands shook. I signed up for this. He willed his hands to stillness, lined up the shot, pressed the button.
He took four more, noted the time. He looked around the parking lot. No one had noticed him. Good. He headed home to upload the pictures.
Rule One: Don’t talk about it. BUT. Don’t get arrested, fired, or divorced about it. It’s a game. If approached by an unsympathetic authority, come clean and drop out.
Three Weeks Before
Marty balanced a cup on the edge of the cubicle. “You’re on the Fun Team, right?”
“Yeah.” Steven was large and sweated profusely. He was moving his perspiration around with an electric fan.
“When’s the outing?”
“Noon, March 15th.”
“The ides of March, huh?”
“What?”
“Nothing, Steven. Old joke.”
“Must be.”
“Thanks, man.”
Marty went to his cube and logged on. He glanced around. No lurking managers.
Subject: Assignment # 11
Ed:
Info going UP.
Graven Images Tempe CC is having their company outing on March 15, at Rotary Park, Tempe, noon to 4:30 pm. Approx. 500 people, catering by Big Blue Bull.
Frankie
SEND
There were no other messages, not that Marty expected any. He logged off. A supervisor was coming his way. He smiled, waved to her, and got back to work.
Rule Two: Cells are three people. Requests for more require Alpha Level approval.
Nine Weeks Before
Macie’s Sandwicherie was busy, with four kids taking orders. Marty noticed a few fliers on the counter. They had one line of text, small font, black on white.
www.thestructure.com
Marty smiled an apology at the two Goths behind him. Nothing on the back. He held the flier to the window. No watermark.
He looked around. Three people were looking at the same flier. He saw two at empty tables.
“Viral marketing.”
Marty turned to the old-school Goth behind him, all white lace, black cloth, and makeup. “I’m sorry?”
“That’s viral marketing, sir. Very low budget, lots of curiosity, and word-of-mouth afterward. We studied it in sociology last semester.”
What would a Goth do with a degree in Sociology? Research? Start a band? “Does it work?”
The Goth grinned. “That depends upon the demographic that they’re targeting, sir. I believe you were next?” He half-bowed toward the counter.
“Oh. Thanks!”
The flier, folded neatly, waited in his pocket.
One Day Before
Marty butterflied the steak. Local news droned in the background.
“... was a Tempe businessman, killed yesterday evening in the Chase Financial Services parking lot. Police are urging anyone in the area between 6:00 and 7:00 PM to call...”
Marty dropped the knife and darted into the living room. There was the photo that Ed had sent him. Charles Schumer. Chase executive, Fraud division. Killed in the parking lot where Marty had sat for three days back in February.
Marty grabbed his cell phone, dialed Ed. Voicemail. He didn’t bother leaving another message.
Another call. “Danny? It’s Marty. Listen. I’m not going to the outing tomorrow. I don’t think you should, either. Something’s going on. Call me when you get this. I mean it.”
Rule Three: Cell Leaders must recruit two cellies. Cellies must recruit two lower-level Cell Leaders.
Nine Weeks Before
Marty turned out the pockets of the khakis. Change into the jar, lint in the trash, a half-sheet of white paper, unfolded and inspected.
Oh, yeah. He slid his laptop out of a battered carryall and booted up.
Blank grey screen. A text box: Please enter home Zip Code. 85016.
The site was minimalist. Thank you for your inquiry about The Structure. From the following list, please choose the location where you heard about The Structure. Macie’s Sandwicherie, Hardy and University, Tempe.
Thank you! For more information about The Structure, please enter an e-mail address. This is for contact purposes only.
He entered one
Thank you. A member of our staff will be in touch. Please check your e-mail in the next 48 hours. Thank you for inquiring about The Structure!
Two days?
Rule Four: Report all successful recruitments, including the new recruit’s provisional cell name. When the provisional name is authorized, report their e-mail address.
Eight Weeks Before
Marty got it at work.
Thank you for your interest in The Structure. Please REPLY with the date and time that you will next visit Macie’s Sandwicherie. A representative will meet you there.
No sales pitch, no clue as to what they were selling. He sent a message saying he’d be there tomorrow, January 18, at noon.
It turned into a busy day. Marty was about to log off when the computer chimed.
From: admin@thestructure.com
Subject: Meeting January 18th, 12:00 noon
Wear a white shirt. Sit at the table closest to the restrooms.
Marty frowned. Whatever these people are selling, the cloak-and-dagger stuff is strange.
Two Weeks Before
Marty sat in the parking lot, his window open. The clock showed 3:16 AM. He looked at the restaurant a stone’s throw from the car. The place was still jumping. A trio of college guys laughed their way to an SUV. They drove a wandering path to the street. He didn’t notice the Hyundai sliding into the parking spot until it scraped concrete. Marty turned and saw a yellow sticky note on the window. It had a capital A on it. Marty’s had a Z.
The driver grinned at Marty. Marty smiled back.
“I’m Felipe!” The young man raised his voice to carry past the empty spot between them. He was dark-haired, pale and painfully thin - a TB patient or an übergeek.
“I’m Frankie!”
“This is wicked!”
“Yeah!”
“What are you doing?”
“Picking someone up! You?”
“Package to deliver!”
“Any idea what it’s all about?”
“Nope! You?”
“Nope!”
They both looked up at the black Nissan Titan that came to rest between the cars. Two men got out. They emptied small plastic bags onto the truck seats. The AC was on. Marty watched a thin plume of dust blow into the back. One man got into Marty’s back seat. He heard the other one speak to Felipe.
“Frankie?”
Marty nodded. He met the man’s eyes in the rear-view. Serious eyes.
“I’m Conrad, and this--” the second man climbed in-- “is Carlos.” Conrad had an accent, hard to place. Carlos buckled his seat belt and looked at Marty. Felipe honked and waved goodbye.
“Okay. Here we go.” Marty hesitated.
“It’s okay, Frankie. We’ve got people taking care of the truck.”
“Okay. Which way?”
“South on the freeway.”
Marty pulled out, an island of warm light shrinking in the rearview. Conrad pulled the note from the window and took something from his jacket. Sounded like he was sorting papers.
No traffic. Marty snuck glances at his passengers. Carlos looked like Conrad, with dark hair. He didn’t speak, didn’t look at Marty.
“The next exit, please. Then right.”
“Can you tell me anything?”
Carlos smiled. Conrad stared into the mirror. There was humor in the voice, but none in his eyes. “Need to know, Frankie. It’s no fun with no secrets. Pull in over there, please.” An American Legion post.
The parking lot held a minivan with tinted windows. The side door opened; Marty counted four people. The front seats were empty.
Carlos shut the door gently. Conrad put an envelope on the front seat.
“Give us three minutes, then open it.”
“Okay.”
They climbed into the van. The doors closed and they were gone.
Three minutes. Marty opened it and gasped. The envelope held twenty-dollar bills and a note. Go home.
Martin counted. A thousand dollars? One bill had a damp corner. He sniffed it. Beer. When Marty was waiting tables, he got these. Customers spilled drinks, then left the money in the wet spot. Marty headed home. Do I want to know?
Rule Five: Cell names are alphabetical. Recruits one level down get the next letter heading. Cell Names should be real names.
Eight Weeks Before
“Hello.” An attractive brunette. She wore business casual clothes and a security badge.
Marty looked up. “Uh, hi.”
“Mind if I sit here?”
Marty looked around. There were several empty tables.
“No, no. Have a seat.”
“Thanks.” Her badge faced backward. He couldn’t see her name.
“Are you eating?”
“No. I’m here to meet you.”
“You’re part of... the group?”
She smiled. “Mmmm-hmm. Here, look at this.”
The woman handed him a sheet of paper. He read it, then looked up. “This is a game?”
“Social networking with a twist.”
“Are there only five rules?”
“No. You’ll get the full set if you join.”
“What’s the big secret?”
“The designers found that people who liked a mystery were more likely to get in and stay in, once they joined.”
Marty read the sheet again. “What are the other rules about?”
“Information security and tradecraft, mostly.”
“How long have you been playing?”
“A few months.”
“You like it?”
“It’s fun, and it keeps my mind active.”
“What kind of things...?”
She grinned. “I can’t tell you.”
“How many people are playing?”
“I don’t know.”
“How do I sign up?”
She leaned forward. “Pick a cell name. Anything starting with an F.”
“Uh... Franklin.”
“No. We have a Franklin.”
“Frank?”
“No.”
“How about Frankie?”
She took out a palmtop, scrolled down. “Frankie looks good. Open an e-mail account under that name. Give me a number where I can call you tomorrow. I’ll need the e-mail address then.”
Marty gave her the work number.
She stood up. “I have to run. Nice talking with you, Frankie.”
Marty stood, put his hand out. “And you are...?”
She smiled and shook it. “I’m Edward.”
Rule Six: Information from a higher level will be transmitted face-to-face. Phone contact is permitted, but discouraged.
Eight Weeks Before
“Hi, and thanks for calling Graven Images. My name is--”
“Frankie.”
“Oh. Hi, Edward.”
She had a very nice laugh. “Call me Ed.”
“Okay, Ed.”
“You have an e-mail address for me?”
Marty looked around. No one was paying any attention. “It’s Frankie, I-E, the letter N, Johnny, J-O-H-N-N-Y, at whatzat dot com.”
“You’ll hear something soon.” Click.
Rule Seven: Print a copy of the rules and delete the file. Keep the hardcopy in a safe place. Destroy if necessary.
Seven Weeks Before
The e-mail chime pinged once. A full set of the rules and,
Frankie,
Pay attention to Rule Seven. You don’t want your girlfriend to find this. I have something for you. What’s a good time and place to meet?
Ed
Marty typed 5:30, the Coffee Hut, and sent the message.
Rule Eight: Do not use any real names in a game context (recruiting, e-mails, phone calls, etc). Cell names only.
Six Weeks Before
Marty surfed channels, the massive HDTV dominating the living room. He switched back to the game.
“You’re missing it.”
“Keep your shirt on.” The microwave beeped.
Danny had two beers, a bowl of salsa balanced in a bowl of chips, and a plate. “Hold these.”
Marty held the beer. Danny set his load on the table.
“Whatcha got?”
“Quesadilla.”
“You gonna share, or...?”
“It’s yours.”
“Really?”
Danny grinned. “I didn’t want you to die on me.”
“Thanks, man.”
“No problem.”
They crunched and drank and grunted while the Cardinals got stomped. They didn’t care. Marty only watched football with Danny. Danny, an Army brat, always rooted for the home team, wherever home was that year.
“Hey, what was the name of that game that we played at ASU? The dart-gun thing?”
“‘Killer.’ Running around trying to ‘assassinate’ each other.”
“I’m playing something similar, now.” Marty pulled the first five rules out of his pocket. Danny read them.
“This is it?”
“I can’t show you more unless you want to play.”
“What do you do?”
“Remember Melissa’s going-away party?”
“You brought that God-awful Black Label beer.”
“Yeah. That was a game assignment.”
“What?”
“Bring Black Label to a party. Don’t drink it. When you leave, count the beers and make a report.”
“To your boss.”
“My control. Know what? There were three six-packs of Black Label. Mostly.”
“Someone got desperate enough to drink one?”
“Two. Must have been bad. But there were three Structurals at the party.”
“Structurals.”
“It’s called Cell Structure. I don’t like ‘cellies.’ I say ‘Structurals,’ instead.”
“So you take shitty beer to parties?”
“Not just that. Some of it’s fun. Some of it’s odd.”
“Does it cost anything?”
“Just the two-fifty I spent on the beer.”
“You were robbed.”
“Are you in?”
“Sure.”
Rule Nine: When sending a message Out, pass the message to your drop address. This channel is strictly one-way.
Seven Weeks Before
“What have you got?”
“It’s your drop address.”
“What’s the point of a drop, anyway?”
“Say I got compromised. My boss-”
“Or your boyfriend.”
She smiled. “Sure. He found out about the game, and wanted me to stop playing.”
“You’d be dead.”
“Right.”
“Anything I sent ‘up and out’ would get back to the Alphas, but they’d know that you were the broken link.”
“Exactly.”
“What would I do, if you were dead?”
“I don’t know. Maybe the Alphas would give you a different E-level control. Or maybe you’d start reporting to D Level.”
“That’d be weird, talking to someone I don’t know.”
“You don’t know me.”
“But I’ve met you. You seem nice.”
She smiled, and sipped her coffee. “Thank you.”
“Can I ask you a question, Ed?”
“Ask away.”
“Are you married?”
“No.”
“Engaged?”
“No. And I don’t have a boyfriend.”
“Pretty obvious, huh?”
“Mmmm-hmm.”
“Would you-”
“A date?”
“Yeah.”
“What do I tell my girlfriend?”
“... Oh, shit, I’m sorry -- I mean, I didn’t -- I mean, not sorry that you’re a -- you know what I mean, but --”
Ed threw back her head and laughed. “Frankie, stop! I’m teasing!”
“You’re... what?”
“I don’t have a girlfriend. I’m straight. I wanted to see what you’d do.”
“Oh.”
“I apologize.”
“Yeah, well...”
“Let me make it up to you.”
“Um?”
“Dinner and a movie, on me. If you want a drink afterward, that’s good too.”
“I’d like that.”
“I’ll e-mail you with the details. Frankie?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m sorry -- I really am -- but you should have seen the look on your face!”
Rule Ten: You may print the first five Rules for a potential recruit. Do not give your Cell Name, your control’s name, or any personal information without a commitment from the recruit.
Six Weeks Before
“Danny? I can’t make it on Friday night.”
“Oh? Big plans?”
“I have a date.”
“Blind date?”
“No, we’ve met.”
“Is she cute?”
“Yeah.”
“What’s her name?”
“It’s uh, Elizabeth.”
“Lizzie?”
“Not! Liz, maybe. Or Ellie.”
“Ellie. Is she pushing sixty?”
“Why do I talk to you, again?”
“I keep you honest.”
“Sorry to miss the barbeque.”
“There’ll be others. It’s not like your love life couldn’t stand some improvement.”
“Right. Hey, my boss is heading this way. Later.”
“Late.”
Lincoln leaned over the cubicle wall. “Martin...”
“Hi, Lincoln.”
“When you have a minute, step into my office.”
Rule Eleven: If found out by an unsympathetic authority, DO NOT directly contact any member of the Structure. Avoid other players until you hear from Alpha Level.
Six Weeks Before
Marty sat down. Lincoln made notes on a spreadsheet, then turned to face him.
“What’s up, Lincoln?”
“It’s come to my attention that there have been some odd things going on around the office.”
Oh, shit. “Things? Like what?”
“Like the misuse of company resources on company time. What do you know about it?”
“I’ll be honest, Lincoln. I have been on the Internet a little, but I’ve done it on my time.”
“You’re aware that there are computers in the break area...” After twenty minutes, Lincoln came up for air. “... I’m glad you agree that this is a serious issue.”
Lincoln handed Marty a sheet of paper. “This is a written record of the verbal warning that you’re on. Sign it. Did you want a copy?”
“That’d be fine.”
Marty signed the paper and waited for Lincoln to get back from the copier.
“That’s all, Martin– unless you had something to add?”
“No. I’m good.”
Rule Twelve: Alpha Level may recognize exceptional service with a reward. Do a good job, and the Alphas may show their appreciation.
Ten Days Before
There was a ritual to driving. Starbucks Coffee, NPR on the radio. “...seen leaving the scene in a black Nissan Titan pickup, found in a restaurant parking lot early Saturday morning. The FBI has been called in, though there is some question of jurisdiction, as the actual banks were not robbed. In other news...”
Marty took the next exit off the freeway. He stood in the shadow of a Circle K and sipped coffee until his hands stopped shaking.
Rule Thirteen: If you have a question about an instruction given to you by a cell leader, send it to your one-way drop with a request to escalate the question Up.
Six Weeks Before
“What’s your name?”
Ed sat near the open window and blew smoke through the louvers. Her hair was mussed. A bead of sweat inched down her side. Nude Smoking, by Bouguereau.
“Why do you want to know?”
“Well, we just, uh...”
“Yeah, we did, Frankie.” She ground out the cigarette in a flowerpot. The African violet took it stoically. “Why do you want it any different?”
“What?”
“Right now, we’re a mystery. We’re the shadow people.”
“Uh...”
“I don’t care if you’re Joe from Dell. I don’t need to know about your cat. You don’t want to hear that I’m some drone at a three-letter company, writing reports and making calls.”
Marty leaned back. “I didn’t want to upset you, I just --”
Ed slid in beside him. The kiss tasted like Diet Coke and Marlboro Lights. “You didn’t.” She ran her hand down his belly.
“I’ve never met anyone like you, Ed.”
“And you won’t again.”
Rule Fourteen: If you have a suggestion for a mission, please send it up to Alpha level, and it will be reviewed for suitability, legality, impact, and likelihood of success.
The Day Before
The phone rang. “Hi, and thanks for calling --”
“Frankie.”
“Oh, hi!”
“Can you talk?”
“For a minute. I had a few questions about the last couple of assignments...”
“Do you have any sick time?”
“Uh... yeah, a few days. Why?”
“Good. Take the day off tomorrow.”
“Why?”
“Something from the Alphas. It’s important. This is just for you.”
“Does it have to be tomorrow?”
“That’s what it said.”
“Okay. If it’s important...”
“Sounds like it. I have to go.”
“Hey, I really need to talk to you about what’s been going on. I mean, I had a lot of fun the other night, and --”
“I did too, Marty, but I’ve got to go. Bye.” Click.
Marty? I never... Marty shivered. He looked over at Lincoln’s cube. Empty. He picked up the phone, dialed.
Hi, you have reached the desk of Lincoln Shumway...
“Lincoln, Marty. I’m... not feeling well. I’m all sweaty, and I just threw up. I’m taking the rest of the day off.”
Marty shut everything down and painfully shuffled over to Danny’s desk.
“You okay, bro?”
“Yeah. I got things to do. If anyone asks, I got sick at lunch.”
Danny shrugged. “Okay.”
Marty went to tell management that he was leaving.
Rule Fifteen: Any misuse of the Cell Structure name may result in criminal prosecution. If you do something illegal, we don’t know you and don’t want to. Consider this your only warning.
The Day
Marty checked his e-mail again. He tried Ed’s cell phone, but it went straight to voicemail. Marty stalked around the house. The banker. The money. The truck.
4:00 PM. He headed toward Ed’s place. Traffic had locked up near the airport. The phone rang. Marty snatched it up, juggled it for a second.
“Danny! Where are you?”
“I’m home.”
“Why?”
“You told me not to go in today.”
“Yeah, but you never called to talk about it.”
“What’s there to --”
Danny’s voice was lost in the roar of engines. A new Airbus A380 was just taking off. Biggest passenger jet in the world, the NPR guy had said.
“Danny? Hang on. I can’t hear you.”
The massive craft floated over the highway. Marty had a perfect view when an orange-and-black line of smoke jumped out of the cityscape and streaked into the plane. One engine blossomed into nothingness. Marty heard the shriek as the wing ripped free.
“OhmyGod!” screamed Marty. The crippled airplane rolled toward the strip of road where Marty sat. Danny’s voice rose in a question.
The aircraft slammed into the highway less than a mile away. Marty felt the impact through the roadbed. They didn’t dump any fuel... Marty slammed his seat back, dropped into the foot well, and curled up tightly, mouth open, hands over his ears. The plane detonated. Marty was showered with safety glass. He shook his head to get it out of his hair. Some scraped down the inside of his shirt. Marty could smell burning fuel and hear, dimly, the shrieks of people in the cars around him. He sat up as a woman staggered past, her face bloodied with a dozen cuts, screaming “Oh, God! Oh, God!”
The radios of a thousand cars blatted the same alarm.
“This is not a test. There has been an attack on a number of targets in the Phoenix area. Please stay tuned for further information. Blaat, blaaat, blaaat. This is not a test...”
Marty turned off the engine.
“Danny? I’ll call you back.”
* * *
Sirens screamed down the shoulder. Marty gave his
information to a motorcycle cop. Orange-vested Guard troops
herded the cars to off-ramps. It was 3:00 AM before Marty
made it home. He switched on CNN, took off his shoes.
Bloodstains streaked one sock. I’m never
going to get that out...
“...over two thousand confirmed deaths and another
twenty-three hundred injured in one of the worst terrorist
attacks in U.S. history. We go now to Jill St. Marie in
Tempe, Arizona.”
“Jesus,” Martin muttered. He was probably in shock, but it
didn’t matter. He scratched at dried blood on his neck.
“Thanks, Tom. I’m at the site of the worst poisoning
incident. The police won’t let me inside this park until
they’ve identified the toxic agent.” The camera panned over
the entrance.
“The Rotary Club Park and Recreation Center was full today
due to a company outing involving over five hundred people.
The perpetrators also introduced the toxin into the
Center’s swimming pool...”
Marty stood, stumbled into the bathroom and vomited. He
stared down into the bowl, flushed the toilet. Marty
mechanically rinsed out his mouth, spat, and staggered into
the bedroom. He woke thirteen hours later, to knocking.
Rule
Sixteen: The makers of Cell Structure are not liable for
any injury sustained during gameplay. Players waive all
rights to pursue legal action against the makers of Cell
Structure. Play at your own risk.
The
Day After
For FBI agents investigating terrorist attacks, they were
polite. One sat on the couch and the other monopolized the
loveseat.
“I’m sorry about the mess...”
“It’s fine.” Agent Cardacci had a micro-recorder, and spoke
in a clear, pleasant voice. Hernandez was silent. Marty sat
at the far end of the couch. Hernandez faced Marty. He
hadn’t taken off his sunglasses. Cardacci thumbed the
recorder to life. A red LED glared at Marty.
“This is Agent Joseph Cardacci, Friday, March 16th, at --”
he glanced at his watch -- “4:53 PM. May I have your full
name, sir?”
“Martin Henderson.”
“You’re an employee at Graven Images Limited, in Tempe,
Arizona, correct?”
“Mmmm-hmm. Yes.”
“How long have you been there?”
“Six-and-a-half years.”
“When was the last time that you were at the office?”
“Two days ago. I was sick, day before yesterday. I left
early. Some stomach thing. I was feeling better yesterday
and I wanted out of the house. I went for a drive. The
plane that got shot down almost landed on me.”
Cardacci exchanged a glance with his reflection in the
other agent’s sunglasses.
“Did the local police take your statement?”
“State trooper.”
“We’ll get a copy. You felt better, so you went for a
drive?”
“Yeah.”
“Why did you go to Tempe?”
“I, uh... I’ve been seeing a woman who lives there. I
haven’t heard from her in a few days and I wanted to go by
her apartment, see how she was doing.”
“That took you near the airport?”
“Yeah.”
“This was around what time?”
“After four. I don’t really know.”
“Were you aware of the bombing at the airport?”
“I heard about it on the radio. I didn’t see anything at
the time.”
“After four. Were you expecting your friend to be home?”
“Uh, not really. There’s a coffee house; I was going to
wait, give her a call.”
“How long have you been dating?”
“A few weeks.”
“How did you meet her?”
“Online.”
“What’s your girlfriend’s name?”
Marty’s face burned. The contrast with his ashen tone was
startling.
“Are you all right, Mr. Henderson?”
“I don’t know her name.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means we only used our online names.”
“Mmm-hmmm. What was yours?”
“Frankie. Frankie N. Johnny.” Marty searched the agent’s
face, to see if he got the joke.
He didn’t. “And your friend’s name?”
“Edward Scissorhands.”
“She called herself Edward?”
“Ed. Yeah.”
“Mr. Henderson... Martin?”
“Marty.”
“Marty. What do you know about an organization called The
Structure?”
Oh,
shit. “It’s a game
that I got into a few months ago --”
“A game.”
“Yeah. It’s a social networking thing with a game wrapped
around it.”
“Did you meet Edward through the Structure?”
“Uh, yeah. Is that important?”
“We don’t know, yet. What sort of things did you do when
playing the game?”
Marty told them about the beer, the flowers, and the
fliers. He didn’t mention the businessman, the Titan or the
money.
Cardacci took a photograph from a manila folder. “Is this
Ed?”
Marty’s mouth dried out completely. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s
her. Is she...?”
“This is Sylvia Ross. She worked at the Chase Corporate
office in Tempe. She’s been missing since noon on the
14th.”
“Missing?”
“Yes. When was the last time you spoke to her?”
“She called me. Just after lunch, at work. On the 14th. She
told me to, uh...”
“To what?”
“She told me that the Alphas wanted me to go home sick, and
that I shouldn’t go to work yesterday.”
“For the outing.”
“Right.”
“Any idea why?”
“Uh, no. It was just another assignment.”
A cell phone rang. Agent Hernandez went to the front door
to take the call. He listened, then nodded at the other
agent. Cardacci stood.
“Thank you for your time, Mr. Henderson. You’ve been very
helpful. We’ll be in touch if we need to speak to you
further.”
“Just... I shouldn’t leave town, right?”
Cardacci smiled. “Right.” They left.
Marty tried Ed’s-- Sylvia’s-- phone again, then checked his
e-mail. One from the corporate office, telling all
employees to stay home until further notice.
Marty collapsed
on the couch. Most of his co-workers were dead. His job was
gone. He didn’t know happened to Ed. What am I
going to do?
He was still
crying when the phone rang.
“Ed?!?”
“Hi, I’m calling for Martin Henderson?”
“Speaking.” Marty wiped his face with his shirt.
“This is Special Agent Sam Driscoll with the Federal Bureau
of Investigations. I wanted to speak with you about the
incident at the Rotary Recreation Center, yesterday.”
“Look, the other agents just left. I told them everything I
know. I’m waiting for a very important phone --”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Henderson; the other
FBI
agents?”
“Yeah, Hernandez and Cardacci. They left about twenty
minutes ago.”
“Mr. Henderson, I’m the only agent assigned to this part of
the investigation.”
Marty’s legs wouldn’t hold him.
They knew
about Ed, and the game...
“Special Agent?
Have you ever heard of a game called The Structure?”
Copyright
2008 by Owen Kerr