Page 32 of Factory Thief

She’s just going to turn me over the Factory if the flash drive doesn’t pan out.

Fear and trepidation gnaw my belly as the truck U-turns and heads toward our destination.

VICTORIA

The drive to San Jose takes hours. I hadn’t realized just how little progress we’d made before the truck tried to force us off the road earlier. The sea is far more beautiful, and far less treacherous, when viewed from the highway. Its sun-dappled, undulating surface is best appreciated at a distance in this clime, I believe.

I wonder what we’re going to find at the end of this journey. What really does await us inside that house in San Jose?

It’s entirely possible that we’ll find the flash drive. That’s the best-case scenario, and the one I’m ardently wishing for. If the flash drive is there, then I know unequivocally Jack is telling me the truth.

In that case, I can rest assured he’s not a grandma killer, and that he hasn’t lied to me.

On the other hand, there’s a possibility my mind has danced about, too afraid to approach lest it burn away my mental wings like a moth darting through an open flame. What if we get to this house and there is no flash drive? What does it mean for us, then?

I can think of two distinct possibilities. One represents all of my worst fears, and the other, my salvation.

If the drive is gone, and it’s been stolen by Xtera, then it likely means Jack was telling the truth all along. It’s entirely possible they’d take that step. Theft is nothing compared to cold-blooded murder and open assault on the highway.

If, on the other hand, the drive isn’t gone but never existed in the first place…then Jack has been lying to me from the start. Not only that, but I’ll have also put myself in a vulnerable position, walking right into the den of a brutal murderer. For all I know, Jack made up the whole story so I wouldn’t turn him over to the Factory right away.

Could this whole thing be a ruse just to escape?

Can I trust Jack? He’s a convicted killer, after all. Surely the courts would have, at least, tried to prove his guilt before locking him up and throwing away the key? I mean, wouldn’t any decent defense lawyer have tried to use the flash drive as proof Jack was being framed by the Xtera corporation to hide its dirty little secrets?

Jack and I were simply poetry in motion when we made love. What if I’ve let our sudden intimacy interfere with my ability to read him? Normally, I’m so meticulously careful with whom I dispense the bittersweet nectar of trust. Have I made a mistake this time?

After a torment-filled drive, we see the exit for San Jose at last. I feel both relief at having made it here in one piece and a swell of anxiety. This is the moment of truth. We’re going to learn whether the flash drive is where he says it will be, or not.

We leave the main drag and approach a residential neighborhood. The only thing which stands out about Jack’s neighborhood is that nothing at all stands out. If you took a picture of middle-American, middle-class zeitgeist, it would probably look a lot like this neighborhood.

Our dilapidated ride draws more than a few glances. I do my best to seem friendly and approachable, even waving to folks.

“Smile, Jack. Don’t look so grim.”

“Sorry, I’m not in a smiling mood. A lot of memories tied up here.”

“I know, but we need to look like we belong. We certainly don’t want to look like a couple of grim fugitives looking to avoid attention. So, smile. Laugh. Act like I told you a joke?”

“A joke?”

“Okay, fine, it doesn’t have to be a joke. Maybe an amusing anecdote about a platypus.”

He laughs at last, and I relax a bit. “I’m not sure what a platypus is.”

“Duck-billed marsupial from Australia. Are we getting close?”

He slows to a crawl and gingerly pulls into a gravel driveway in front of a two-story home. “We’re not close. We’re here.”

Jack gets a spare key from under a false rock and uses it to open the door. It only opens part way, which draws a worried frown across his face.

“What’s wrong?”

“Something’s blocking the door.”

He heaves harder. A shudder, then a heavy crash greets our ears. Jack pushes the front door open at last and reveals two things; a tipped-over chest of drawers has been blocking the door, and the rest of the house has been ransacked.

“Oh no,” he says, face going white. “We’re too late. They’ve already been here.”

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