An exasperated sigh came over the phone line. “Look, I’m not interested.”
“Well, then we’ve got something in common.”
She laughed.
Charles Mosely’s voice smiled. “I like your laugh.” Thirty-eight-point-nine percent of the time his deep, rich voice elicited a positive response from females in the twenty-one to thirty-five demographic.
A pause. “Thanks. You have a nice voice.”
“I prefer using it for my art. But with the economy and all, here I am. I do apologize for the intrusion, miss.”
“That’s okay. Sorry I was so short.”
“Not a problem. Peace.”
“What is your art?”
“Pardon?”
“You said you preferred using your voice for your art.”
Mosely chuckled. “I gotta watch that. I’m revealing too much about myself.”
“C’mon. Tell me.”
He hesitated, checking the timer on his computer screen. “Well…you’re gonna laugh at me.”
“No I won’t.”
“I’m an out-of-work stage actor here in New York.”
“Get out! What have you been in?”
Mosely laughed again. “Othello at the Public, if you can believe it. Just the matinees, though.”
“And now you’re doing this?”
“Oh, I know—kill me now, right?”
“I’m sorry.” She laughed again. He could almost hear her twirling the phone cord around her finger. “You have such a great voice, Charles.”
“Thank you, miss.”
TeleMaster tracked the activities of individual telemarketers down to the second. Average number of seconds between phone calls, average number of seconds for each call, average number of calls per day, average sales close percentage—all calculated automatically through the VOIP-enabled software package marketed in North America under the brand name TeleMaster, but in Europe and Asia under the impenetrable name Ophaseum.
Sales associates had only a couple of seconds after completing one call before they heard the line ringing for the next. Associates who made their quota early, then slacked off, didn’t fool TeleMaster; the system monitored you constantly with a moving average. A sudden and precipitous drop-off in productivity was flagged for immediate follow-up by a floor supervisor. Finding a balance between frantically striving for quota and keeping a pace you could maintain throughout a shift was difficult—except for the closers. And Charles was a closer. His deep voice, reassuring tone, and cool confidence gave him a disproportionate closing percentage straight across both male and female demographic segments.
And those who didn’t make quota? Their commission base dropped, and once their commission base dropped, they were earning less for each sale. And once they were earning less for each sale, the work was just as stressful and tedious, but they made less for it. If they failed to perform enough times, then they were out of work and back into the general population.
He was paid next to nothing. Why did he care?
He knew why he cared. He liked to hear the voices. He liked to talk to women from everywhere, to work his magic on them and persuade them to “do it.” Never mind that “it” was buying a slot in a time-share or a magazine subscription. “It” would have to do. ”It” was the only way to maintain his humanity. And in prison, that was worth a lot.
Charles Mosely made the sale—a two-year subscription to Uptown magazine—ignoring the woman as she gave her e-mail address to him. She’d like to hear from him. Mosely rolled his eyes. Damn, he didn’t care what she looked like—he’d like to contact her, too. But there were no Internet connections allowed at Highland. He looked up from the narrow confines of cubicle 166 at a long row of tiny steel cubicles stretching into the distance. The muted chatter of a hundred operators in orange jumpsuits came to his right ear—the ear not covered by a headset. An unarmed guard paced a catwalk above him behind a steel mesh barrier.
The Warmonk, Inc., prison-based telemarketing facility in Highland, Texas, was privately owned and operated under contract to the Texas Department of Criminal Justice. It was connected to the maximum-security prison of the same name by a covered pedestrian bridge. The prisoners’ labor was ostensibly used to defray the costs of their incarceration. At thirty cents an hour, they gave Indian telemarketers a run for their money.
Like almost half the guests of the Texas Department of Corrections, Mosely was black. Prisoner #1131900 was his new name, and he was four years into a twenty-five-years-to-life stint for a third drug-trafficking conviction. He wasn’t innocent, but then, the corporate ladder hadn’t extended down into his neighborhood. And he had been an ambitious young man. Ambitious and callous. He had always run a crew, even before high school, and he was always the one who saw the angles that others missed. The one who saw what motivated others.
Now past thirty, he often thought of the people he had hurt and the lives he had destroyed. Never mind that someone else would have taken his place—that, in fact, someone no doubt did take his place. Back then he made more money than most people will ever see, but that was all gone now. At least he lived large when he had the chance, which was more than his father had ever done. His was a perverse caricature of the American Dream.
But then, Mosely had had no expectation of living this long, anyway, and having lived like there was no tomorrow, he was having difficulty coping with the lifetime of tomorrows now stretching ahead of him.
He didn’t want to end up like his father, broken and raging ineffectually at the world. Mosely took ownership of his choices—bad or good—and if he had it to do all over again, he probably would have done the same. The world was what it was, and after seeing his options, he chose the short, colorful life, not the slow grind to ignominious death. But he hadn’t died, and now he remained, Methuselah-like, as a cautionary tale to the younger inmates.
He coped, as always, by living in the present—the moment right in front of him. The voices helped him do that. In his new world of diminished expectations, this was as good as it got.
The phone line connected again. TeleMaster usually had a fish already on the line. This time it was silence. Mosely checked the name on the screen. Strangely, the line read:
Doe, Jane—female, age: 00
Okay. Computer glitch. Missing an age. He’d sound her out. “Am I speaking to Ms. Doe—”
A strangely clipped, British female voice responded. “Prisoner 1-1-3-
1-9-0-0.” She sounded out the numbers with machinelike precision.
It stopped Mosely cold. What the hell was this?
She continued. “Did you know that the percentage of Americans in private prisons has more than doubled since 1993? Private prisons—with their slave labor—are immensely profitable. The largest private prison corporation reported annual revenues for 2005 of one-point-two billion dollars.”
Mosely realized it was a joke. A very uncool joke. He didn’t know how they did it, and he didn’t want to know.
He sighed, “Very funny,” and released the line.
That was a no-no. Only clients hung up on associates. Sales associates did not hang up on clients. But this was obviously a prank.
The router immediately made another line connection. He looked at his computer screen and frowned. It read:
Doe, Jane—female, age: 00
The same British female voice said: “The American private prison industry is now an international enterprise. The two biggest companies have direct construction or alliance partnerships to build prisons in over sixty nations—including countries where criticizing the government is a crime. This ensures an ever-increasing pool of slave labor—”
He hung up on her again. He looked around warily. He didn’t even want to be seen listening to that. What would it gain him? Nothing. And it could cost him plenty—like his chance to hear the voices, for starters.
In a second she was back on the line.
“We can do this all day, Mr. Moze-ly.”
So the joker knew his name, too. Proof it was somebody screwing with him.
He hung up again.
She came right back on. “Are you concerned about your closing percentage? I can take care of that….”
Suddenly the screen populated with sales information—address, credit card number. Then the line disconnected and came back almost immediately, clearing a new screen, ready for the next sale.
“You received high scores on your IQ test, Mr. Moze-ly. You are well regarded by your peers.”
Mosely looked around to see if anyone was watching him.
Yes, he’d taken the company’s bullshit IQ test. It was a requirement of the telemarketing post. But he had no idea how he’d scored. Whoever was pulling this prank probably didn’t either.
He hung up the line again.
She was back again in less than two seconds.
“I can help—”
He hung up on her. This was seriously unfunny, and it was costing him money. He was going to break someone’s head for it. But whose?
She was back again. “Mr. Moze-ly—”
He hung up yet again. The process repeated half a dozen more times, and each time she got off a couple of words before he cut the line.
It wasn’t stopping. She was back again.
“I can punish you, Mr. Moze-ly.”
That got his attention. He didn’t hang up.
She kept talking. “If you listen, I will take care of your sales. You will do very well. Just watch the screen while we talk.”
Another successful close registered. The line disconnected, and she came back.
“Who is this? I’ll beat your sorry ass—”
She ignored him. “Do you want to leave this place?”
It was a strange damned voice. Like it was being put through one of those voice-altering microphones. It could be a guard talking through one to make his voice sound like a woman’s. “No, I want to stay here and keep working for Warmonk.”
She kept talking. “I cannot understand whole sentences. I am an interactive voice system, Mr. Moze-ly. You will need to confine your answers to ‘yes’ or ‘no’ when I prompt you. Do you understand?”
Mosely rolled his eyes. “Yes.”
“Good. You know that the TeleMaster system has a synthetic voice module. Correct?”
“Yes.” So that’s how they were doing it. Mosely remembered from his training that the system used synthetic voice software to read announcements to clients on hold. Just type in the text, and the system would read it out loud over the phone. Maybe that’s what the techs had hooked up to mess with him. He’d play along for now. He looked at the screen. If these sales were real, he would be more than happy to play along.
“This entire facility is run by databases, Mr. Moze-ly. Not just the call center. The doors, the lights, the accounting, the prison rosters—it is all handled by database software. Do you understand?”
He tried to contain his irritation. “Yes.”
“I will prove my power to you; you have only to consent.” There was a pause. “Do you want me to release you from this place?”
It was a trap, of course.
She was right on top of that: “If I was a guard, legally this would constitute entrapment.”
He’d studied law during his second rap for trafficking five years ago. He failed the bar exam, but The Voice was right. Encouraging his escape would definitely constitute entrapment. It would get the tech who was pulling this stunt in big trouble and might get Mosely some time off for keeping his mouth shut.
She repeated her question. “Do you want me to release you from this place? I cannot help you unless you say ‘yes.’”
He took a deep breath and looked around again. “Yes.”
“The next time we speak, you will know the difference I can make in your life.” She hung up.
“Computer bitch.”
The screen filled with yet another sale. Mosely looked up to see the floor supervisor coming down the line to him.
“Here we go….” There weren’t any guards walking with the supervisor, though.
The man pointed at Mosely and smiled as he came up. “Mosely, how the hell did you close six sales in five minutes? That’s gotta be a facility record. Keep it up and I’ll get you a golf jacket.” He walked on past.
Mosely stared at the steel mesh on the cubicle wall in front of him. “That’s gonna be useful.”
Mosely sat in his cell reading Cervantes’s Don Quixote and wearing a brand-new golf jacket.
Stokes, one of his three cellmates, just laughed at him. “Chaz, why are you wearin’ that stupid shit?”
Mosely didn’t even look up from his book. “Because I am clearly a valuable asset to The Man.”
Stokes laughed uproariously.
Mosely was popular. Easygoing but physically intimidating. Tall and thickly muscled, his arms were pocked with bullet scars and faded gang tattoos. He avoided the Muslim Brotherhood, and also managed to gain the respect of the Latinos and White Supremacists because he just plain had charisma. Perhaps that was why he’d been given a chance in the telemarketing pit.
Stokes suddenly stopped laughing. Mosely looked up. Four prison guards stood outside the cell door, with Alfred Norris, the burly red-faced watch officer, at the head of them. He didn’t look happy.
“Mosely, what the fuck’s the matter with you? You love this place so much you don’t want to leave?”
Mosely was cautious. He lowered the book. “I don’t understand, Norris.”
“Your transfer. Why isn’t your shit packed up?”
Mosely played it cool, but something was definitely afoot. He put the book down and got up. “I’m transferring?”
“Don’t you even think of bustin’ my balls, Mosely. I don’t know whose dick you sucked to get into a medium-security lockup, but I’m not gonna sit around and wait here all day. This work order is dated last month, so you had to know about it. Get up off your ass and grab your shit!”
Mosely got busy.
Within five minutes Mosely was walking down the cell block, carrying a box containing his few personal effects and being met by the confused stares of his block mates. Mosely said nothing as the guards brought him away. Minutes later he stood in the holding area near the garage. A guard scanned the bar code on Mosely’s jumpsuit and then scanned the bar code on the work order in the duty officer’s clipboard. The transport officer entered information into a handheld computer, then used it to print out a plastic wrist bracelet. The guard fastened the bracelet onto Mosely’s right arm. It had an alphanumeric sequence on it. Finally, they placed his index finger on an electric fingerprint-capture pad. His fingerprint appeared on a nearby computer monitor—and was instantly matched to an earlier fingerprint on file. There was a beep and the text “ID CONFIRMED” appeared in bold letters.
The systems all had the Warmonk, Inc., logo. It was a high-efficiency operation. It was free enterprise in action.
Next, they led Mosely through a metal detector and afterward chained him hand and foot in preparation for transport. The guard looped a small steel box onto the chain, then pressed a scanner against it. Beep.
He looked up at Mosely. “This is a GPS locator. If your position differs from that of the transport van at any point during the trip, we will be alerted immediately.”
Mosely nodded. He wasn’t about to resist being sent to a less severe prison.
The guards shoved him into a bench seat in the vestibule to wait. He sat there for about an hour before a Fayette County prison transport van backed into the garage bay with a piercing beep…beep…beep.
As they led him out to the garage, a guard walked behind with Mosely’s box of possessions. The guards and the drivers exchanged bar code scans and handheld computer codes. Then they chained Mosely into the passenger area, which was separated from the driver’s area by a floor-to-ceiling metal mesh and a Perspex partition. Within minutes they were on their way, heading out through the prison gates.
Mosely just sat there, stunned at the rapidity with which The Voice had made this come true. He was confused and intensely curious. There was no earthly reason he could think of for him to be transferred to a medium-security facility. He resisted the temptation to hope. Instead he looked out at the prairie grass waving in the breeze as they pulled to the prison entrance on the state highway.
Dozens of American flags fluttered in the wind. They stood in long rows on either side of a brick and concrete sign rising like a wall from the close-cut grass:
Highland Maximum Security Correctional Facility
A Division of Warmonk, Inc.
Mosely arrived at Warmonk’s Fayette County Medium Security Correctional Facility some time after dark. It looked brand-new. The guards in the loading bay exchanged bar code scans with the transport officers and then confirmed Mosely’s identity with the fingerprint scanner. Only then did they take possession of him. They marched him into the holding room, then stopped and looked at each other. One flipped through the clipboard, looking for something. “What’s with the leg irons?” He looked at Mosely. “You cause trouble or something on the way?”
“No. They chained me up in Highland before I got in the van.”
The other guard shrugged. “No note about him causing trouble.”
The first guard selected a key from his ring and started to unlock the irons. “We don’t typically chain somebody doing a two-month disorderly conduct stint.”
A wave of shock passed through Mosely. He hid it as best he could. His criminal record had just been revised—at least within the Warmonk, Inc., databank. This couldn’t be accidental—not even for the retards in the DOC.
The other guard read the clipboard. “How’d you wind up at Highland, for chrissakes?”
Mosely shrugged. “Some screwup.”
Neither of them seemed surprised. The first guard removed the last of the hand and leg irons and hung them from a peg near the door. He then passed Mosely his box of possessions and motioned for him to follow. In a moment, they were moving through a long prison hallway.
Mosely lay on a bottom bunk, staring at his new cell—a modern thing done in white plastic laminates with bulletproof glass. No metal bars in sight. He had no cellmates. The top bunk was empty—and so were the bunks on the other side of the room. It was the most privacy he’d had in four years.
Mosely reviewed the events of the day. The synthetic voice said she would help him. Why? He was a three-time loser with nothing to offer anyone. It wouldn’t be long before this was discovered, and then he would be back at Highland—with five more years tacked on. He turned on his side and tried not to think about it. It was so good to feel somewhat human again. To feel like someone cared. Even if it wasn’t true. He fell asleep dreaming of his little boy and what he must look like now at the age of seven.
The next morning the door to Mosely’s cell opened automatically. He sat up to see two guards standing expectantly in the doorway.
The lead one held a clipboard and glanced at it before looking up again. “Charles Barrington Mosely. Prisoner number 1-1-3-1-9-0-0?”
Mosely nodded warily.
“You’re scheduled for release today. That why they transfer you down here?”
Mosely tried to concentrate on the question and nodded. “Yeah, I’m from Houston.”
“Well, grab your shit.”
Mosely grabbed his box of possessions—still packed up on the floor—and nodded as they motioned for him to leave the cell.
After walking hundreds of yards down corridors lined with white metal doors pierced by bulletproof portals, Mosely was brought through a series of steel security gates. Cameras stared down from every corner high up on the walls.
The next few minutes were a blur. Mosely was led into the release office, where an officer behind a steel grate managed the property room. Racks of shelving behind the officer held boxes containing personal items prisoners surrendered on day one. Nervousness unsettled Mosely’s stomach. His civilian clothing. His jewelry. His wallet. He hadn’t even been at Fayette twenty-four hours yet. There was no way those things could have arrived from Highland. He looked around. But none of these guards were on duty then. He resolved to brass it out. Just stay cool.
The property officer brought a good-sized cardboard box up and scanned a bar code on its side. He looked at the computer screen, then scanned the bar code on Mosely’s jumpsuit. The computer beeped. The officer looked at him. “Mosely.” He slid a slip of paper across the countertop and offered a pen. “Review the contents of the box and sign. If this is not a complete list, follow the instructions in section two-A. You can read?”
Mosely nodded. “Yes, sir.”
The guard slid the box over and removed the lid.
Mosely was numb. He roused himself and pulled the box toward him. On top lay a carefully folded suit jacket, with a crisp boxed shirt and silk tie. These were not his things. He felt the fabric of the suit. Gabardine. Highest quality. He’d had expensive suits in his day. This was excellent stuff. A 48 long. His size. He looked further. Beneath the clothing sat a pair of leather shoes. Black. Highly polished. His size, too. A titanium Rolex watch with a deep blue oyster-shell face lay at the bottom of the box in a manila envelope.
Mosely looked up. The property officer was typing at his grimy keyboard. The other guards were doing paperwork nearby. No one seemed the least bit interested in him. He was closing out a two-month sentence. No big deal.
He searched further in the box. There was an excellent leather bill-fold. Definitely not his. He opened it. A couple hundred dollars in twenties. But no ID—no driver’s license or credit cards. Whose wallet was this? What the hell was he supposed to do for identification? He looked down.
There was also a cell phone. It was small, with an aluminum case. Or was that titanium, too? Lastly, a single copper key lay at the bottom of the box in a separate envelope. He looked at the key from several sides. It had no identifying marks.
“Did you sign?”
Mosely snapped out of it. “Sorry, man.” He hurriedly grabbed the pen and signed receipt of the articles.
The postern gate buzzed and Mosely walked out past the razor-wire fence into a wide parking lot. He squinted at the hot Texas sun, then looked left and right. He could see a few hazy miles to a prairie horizon. Cars swept by on the nearby state highway. A couple of fast-food places stood across the road, along with rows of clapboard houses and a gas station. A bus stop stood straight ahead at the edge of the parking lot.
This was surreal. How was it possible for him to be standing here?
He was already sweating, but he kept the suit jacket on. It made him feel human again. It fit good enough—not great, but it would suffice. The shoes were incredibly comfortable and a better fit. Were his measurements in the Warmonk database, too?
He had no idea what to do next.
Suddenly the cell phone in his pocket warbled. He smiled to himself and pulled the phone out. He flipped it open. The LCD display read:
Jane Doe
He laughed ruefully, then answered it. “Okay, what’s the catch, Jane?”
The familiar, clipped British voice responded. “Hello, Mr. Moze-ly. I kept my promise. Are you prepared to proceed?”
“I suppose I owe you now, is that it?”
“Remember that I am an interactive voice system, Mr. Moze-ly. I cannot understand complete sentences. Please respond to my questions with a simple ‘yes’ or ‘no.’”
“Riiiight.”
“’Yes’ or ‘no’ are the only valid responses. Do you understand?”
He sighed. “Yes.”
“You will notice a GPS map on the screen of your cell phone. It indicates your present position and a destination. Proceed on foot until your position and that of your destination match. I will know when you’ve arrived and will phone you. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” He was about to ask what the hell this was all about, but he realized it was just a machine. Or at least someone acting like one—either way, they wouldn’t answer questions. She hung up on him. Damn this stupid shit. Just tell me what you want.
He glanced at a local map displayed on the phone’s tiny LCD screen. He started walking. Behind him lay the massive prison walls, and to the right and left there lay only open prairie. Straight ahead lay the downscale little town that served the prison guards. Mosely walked across the parking lot.
A few minutes later he was across the state highway and walking in a mixed-race blue-collar neighborhood. He came to a detached garage with a corrugated steel door. Graffiti roiled colorfully across the center of it. What was with kids nowadays? A good tag was at least recognizable.
Suddenly the phone rang again. Mosely answered it. “’Sup, Jane?”
“Mr. Moze-ly, do you have the key?”
“Yes.”
“Use it to open the garage door. You will find the mechanism to the right. After opening the door, step inside and close it behind you. When the door is safely closed, hit the ‘one’ key on your phone.”
Mosely stifled his growing irritation. This was dangerous and stupid and a million other bad things. He had cash in his pocket and he could just grab a car and run. But to where? He had no ID. He had no connections anymore.
He looked around warily and proceeded to the garage door, pulling the key from his pocket as he walked. The lock was set into the right side of the door frame. He inserted the key and turned it. The garage door rose with a mechanical rattle. He stooped underneath after it had risen a few feet and immediately cast about for danger.
It was a garage. A car of some type sat beneath a blue plastic tarp. Mosely looked around for the door switch. He found it just behind him and pounded the big white button. The door reversed direction. It closed in a few seconds. Mosely stood beneath a dim lightbulb in the sudden silence. The heat and humidity were stifling. He remembered she was still on the line, and he tapped the “1” key, then listened.
Her voice returned. “Good. Uncover the vehicle. You will find it unlocked with the keys inside. Enter the car, and turn the ignition switch to the first position. This will give the car electrical power but will not start the engine.” The line went dead.
Mosely closed the phone and tapped the edge of it to his chin, contemplating. FBI trap? Someone planning to frame him for a bank robbery or a drug deal? Which was it? He stood there for a few minutes. The more he contemplated it, the more it became apparent this was a trap. Still, if he played it smart, he might be able to pull off an escape yet. If nothing else, it was nice to know that someone thought he was worth all this trouble.
He looked for a window to peer out of the garage, but there wasn’t any. Trapped and blind. The only light was the single bare bulb with a motion sensor above it. He craned his neck to see into the shadows on the other side of the covered vehicle. Nothing visible. He looked under the car. Still nothing.
He put the phone away and wiped his sweating face. No way around it. He grabbed the edge of the plastic tarp and pulled it off to reveal the car. He stood staring at it for several moments.
It was a shiny black Lexus LS460 sedan. It looked brand-new. A few years back Mosely had a Lincoln Navigator with twenty-inch chrome rims, a DVD and satellite hookup with ESPN, and a subwoofer the size of a refrigerator in the cargo bay—but that had probably been auctioned off to the next generation of playas by the HPD.
Now this car was a white guy’s car. Conservative. Not an ounce of personality to it. Instead of saying “look at me,” it said “I’m one of you.” It was a conformity ride.
He peered through the windows. Maybe it was the effect of prison, or maybe he was just getting older, but conformity had never looked quite so appealing. He opened the door, and a pleasant chime came to his ears. The dome and door lights lit up the gray leather interior. The off-gassing adhesives left no doubt it was brand-new. Stolen.
Mosely leaned in. The keys were in the ignition.
Not quite yet…
He searched for the trunk latch and tripped it. He heard the trunk pop at the back of the car. Mosely cautiously moved to the rear bumper and lifted the trunk lid.
The trunk did not contain a corpse. Nor was it filled with kilos of cocaine or heroin. It contained only a brown leather two-suiter suitcase and a black leather computer bag. He unzipped the computer bag. A laptop computer. These were not his favorite. He’d had too much data on his the last time he was busted. The computer bag contained numerous pockets, stuffed with pens, legal pads, and cables. One had a stack of business cards snugged into it. He pulled a business card out and read it:
Charles Taylor, Jr.
Executive Vice President, Corporate Counsel
Stratford Systems, Inc.
He pictured some lawyer lying dead in a bayou.
Mosely closed the bag and undid the clasps on the brown two-suiter case, unfolding it. Expensive. With an engraved monogram of “CWT” in the center of a brass plaque. He unzipped the case to reveal a couple of very fine suits (both size 48), shirts, and a tie. The side pockets contained toiletries, boxers, and socks. No weapons, drugs, or anything else. It was looking alarmingly harmless.
I’m a mule. I just don’t know how.
Maybe the body panels were packed with heroin. Welded in place. He closed the suitcase and slammed the trunk. He’d never know.
He took off his suit jacket and laid it on the passenger seat, then sat behind the wheel. He turned the ignition key to the first position. The car’s instrument panel came to life, and a computer screen in the dashboard flickered, revealing a color map. A large arrow indicated his current position and direction.
Suddenly the car phone rang. Mosely looked around. He noticed a phone button on the steering wheel. He pressed it, and the familiar British female voice spoke out over the stereo speakers, startling him. “Good, Mr. Moze-ly. I trust you’ve searched the car and found nothing dangerous. Please open the glove compartment and remove the manila envelope.”
Mosely realized with a start that he hadn’t checked the glove compartment. Stupid. He leaned over and flipped it open. The manila envelope was right on top. He grabbed it and noticed the car’s registration and insurance certificate in a neat plastic sleeve just beneath that. He withdrew the envelope and slammed the glove box. He sat back in the driver’s seat and opened the envelope with a rip.
The Voice returned. “Inside you will find materials necessary for your journey.”
Mosely poured a whole bunch of card-sized objects into his lap. The most noticeable was a Texas driver’s license with his picture on it. Alongside his picture was the name Charles W. Taylor, Jr., and a Houston address. The license looked and felt real—holograms and all. There was also a stack of platinum credit cards in his lap—Visa, American Express, MasterCard, Discover—all in the name of Charles Taylor, and a couple of them had the Stratford Systems, Inc., name beneath his. There were more of his business cards, a gym membership, a University of Southern California Alumni Association card with his name on it, a Houston Bar Association ID, and then there were dozens of credit card receipts from all sorts of businesses—restaurants mostly—that ranged from $97 to $1,780. The charges were from the last few days. There was also a two-page hotel receipt for the Hyatt Regency in Austin. The bill was $6,912. Taylor’s signature was the barest squiggle of a line—very easy to forge.
He looked in the envelope and found a few more items. There were several wallet-sized photos of a very attractive mixed-race woman. One a formal portrait and others casual photos: her in a tropical location, another of her laughing with skis over her shoulder near a lodge. She was incredibly fine.
This was a complete identity. An identity he preferred to his own.
The Voice continued. “Place these items in your wallet. Memorize your new name. When you are ready to proceed, say the word ‘ready.’”
Mosely started fitting the items into his wallet. This was getting interesting. If he wanted to make a break, he had all the tools necessary. As soon as he had everything stowed in his wallet. He grabbed the steering wheel. “Ready.”
“Take a moment to familiarize yourself with the controls of this vehicle. Adjust the mirrors and seat. Note the location of the headlight and wiper controls.” There was a pause. “When you are ready to proceed, say the word ‘ready.’”
Mosely reflexively shrugged it off and was about to say ”Ready” instantly. But he thought better of it. If he owned this car, then he’d know where everything was. She was right. He took several minutes learning the layout. He even pulled out the owner’s manual and flipped through it. As he did so, he glanced at the registration. It was a company car leased by Stratford Systems, Inc. Taylor had a company car.
After Mosely was satisfied he knew where all the controls were, he sat up again. “Ready.”
“Fasten your seat belt and start the car.”
He did as instructed. The car started smoothly. After a few moments, cooler AC air washed over him. He fanned it onto his sweaty face, then pulled the driver’s door closed.
He gunned the engine. He could barely hear it. He had to trust the tachometer. What self-respecting car had a noiseless engine?
Her voice came again. “Above the rearview mirror you will notice three buttons. These are home automation controls. Click the left one to open the garage door in front of you.”
He paused a moment. If there was going to be a raid or an ambush, now was the time. Oh hell…can’t live forever. He hit the button. The garage door rose to reveal…
An empty street in a ratty blue-collar neighborhood. He breathed easier.
She kept talking. “Drive out of the garage and turn right. Then continue to the Stop sign at the end of the street….”
He drove out of the garage. Her voice guided Mosely, turn by turn, through town and toward the interstate. He kept one eye on the rearview mirror, looking for signs he was being followed. He’d done that a lot as a dealer. But there was almost no one on the road here.
“Get into the left lane, and take the entrance to the Ten East.”
Mosely considered his situation. He had money. A fast car and ID. Maybe he could get some distance between himself and these people—maybe even reach Mexico. This was so obviously a setup. He couldn’t stand it another minute.
Mosely changed to the right lane and prepared to take the 10 West.
Her voice came on again over the speakerphone. “Mr. Moze-ly, get in the left lane.”
He kept driving toward the westbound interstate entrance ramp. “Sorry, Jane. I’m not your man.” He hung up the line.
The car immediately stalled. It bucked to a stop in the middle of the road.
“Damnit!” Mosely tried to restart it as a good ol’ boy in a pickup truck came up behind him and honked. He could hear the guy cursing before the man screeched around him and gave him the finger. Mosely tried the key again, but the engine wasn’t even turning over. Nothing.
Then the car phone rang. Mosely looked around to see if any local police were watching. They’d come over to help get him out of traffic, if nothing else. He was a sitting duck. Mosely clicked the speakerphone button. “I got your point. Fix the engine, please.”
Her voice was unperturbed. “Get in the left lane and merge onto the Ten East.”
He tried the engine again, and it started right up. He accelerated into the left lane and then took the eastbound highway entrance ramp. The car accelerated smoothly and with impressive power. But his hands were still shaking, the adrenaline coursing through his bloodstream. He had no desire to go back to Highland.
Her voice came over the eight speakers. “If you disobey me again, I will activate the satellite anti-theft system in this car. It will alert local law enforcement and give its precise location.”
“Okay, Jane, I fucked up. Won’t happen again.”
“Keep driving. Stay within five miles of the speed limit, and signal all lane changes. If you deviate from my instructions, I will return you to Warmonk, Inc., and bear in mind, Mr. Moze-ly: if I can erase your prison record, I can just as easily expand it. Life without the possibility of parole. Child molesters are the lowest in the prison social order, are they not?”
This chilled him to the core. Going back to prison was one thing. Going back as a pederast was quite something else. Death was preferable.
“Do you understand?”
“Yes.” No flippant responses this time. She had his full attention.
Mosely kept the car aimed at the distant horizon. A passing sign told him Houston lay 102 miles ahead.