The Catalyst - Softcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Boyd Morrison has a Ph.D. in industrial engineering and has worked for NASA, Microsoft’s Xbox Games Group, and Thomson-RCA. In 2003, he fulfilled a lifelong dream and became a Jeopardy! champion. He is also a professional actor who has appeared in commercials, stage plays, and films. He lives with his wife in Seattle.

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The Catalyst

ONE

Kevin, the same men who killed Stein are after me.

Michael Ward’s fingers trembled as he lifted his hands from the keyboard. Because he didn’t have Kevin’s cell phone number, Ward had tried his home a dozen times, but he kept getting the damned answering machine. Leaving a message was out of the question. Even e-mail could be intercepted, so he’d have to choose his words carefully.

He needed a cigarette badly. His hand fumbled through his shirt pocket and removed the pack of Marlboros. Only one left. He’d have to get another pack on the way to the airport.

He lit the cigarette despite the shaking and took a deep drag, trying to pull every milligram of precious nicotine into his system. He felt the smoke fill his lungs, and the trembling subsided. His attention returned to the words on the screen. He wanted to laugh at their absurdity, but he was afraid if he started he wouldn’t be able to stop.

A wave of nausea hit him. Ward shook off the feeling. There wasn’t much left in his stomach anyway, just half a bottle of Pepto-Bismol he’d drained when he got home. He’d been spending the Friday in his South Texas University office, working and listening to the radio, when he’d heard the news of Herbert Stein’s death. The story had been short, but it was enough. An execution-style shooting, the body thrown in a Dumpster. He got sick twice, once in his office trash can and again before climbing into his Mercedes. He didn’t feel like a man who was about retire to the Bahamas with ten million dollars.

He checked the progress of his download. The backup of his hard disk to the USB drive had another three minutes to go. With the cigarette stuck in his mouth, he continued typing.

Caroline and I are leaving Houston. I think we’ll be safe where we’re going, but I need your help to be sure. NV117 wasn’t a failure. You know the equipment. The key to everything else you need is in your thesis. I made a deal with Clay

“May we come in, Dr. Ward?”

Ward jerked at the sound of the voice. He recognized too well the distinct enunciation of each syllable and his heart started pounding. He turned his head to see two men standing in the doorway to his study. David Lobec and, behind him, Richard Bern, Clayton Tarnwell’s men here to finalize the deal. They were early. The meeting wasn’t supposed to be for another two hours.

He silently cursed himself for not grabbing the passports and running as soon as he got home. He’d been careful not to call ahead in case the phones were tapped, but they’d found him anyway.

Five minutes, he’d told Caroline when he burst through the front door. Pack whatever you can in five minutes, then we head straight to Intercontinental and get the first flight out. She’d begun to protest, asking if he’d lost his mind. I’ll explain everything in the car, but we need to get the hell out of here. When he’d practically shoved her up the stairs, she’d gotten the message. He was dead serious. Now they were out of time, and Ward’s mind raced for options.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the blinking cursor on the screen and realized that the words on the computer might be seen from in front of his desk. Without glancing back at the monitor, he pressed the F4 key as he turned the chair to face his visitors. The message disappeared from the screen.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Lobec,” Ward said, rising from his seat. “I didn’t hear the doorbell.” The waver in his voice betrayed his attempt to remain calm. He took another puff from the cigarette.

Lobec smiled and strode in without waiting for the invitation he had asked for.

“Disgusting habit,” he said, plucking the cigarette from Ward’s lips. He stubbed it out in a heavily stained brass ashtray. “Much better. Now we can all breathe while we talk.” He sat in one of the leather chairs. Bern remained standing behind him.

“Please sit down,” Lobec said.

“You’re early,” said Ward, lowering himself into his chair. “I wasn’t expecting you until six thirty.” The clock on the study’s mantel said 4:23.

“Of course you weren’t. You expected to be far away by the time we arrived. I’m happy to surprise you.”

He wasn’t tall, no more than five foot ten, but Lobec carried a quiet confidence that made him more imposing than a man six inches taller. His thick ebony hair, a marked contrast to his fair complexion and slate-gray eyes, was combed straight back. His gray suit was tailored, perfectly fitting his athletic frame. Lobec was not a handsome man: his nose angled downward and crooked, his chin was weak but his eyes were always alert and focused. Despite being intimidated by Lobec, Ward couldn’t help but admire the man’s presence.

Lobec’s younger associate was the same height as Lobec but about fifty pounds heavier, most of it muscle. Bern lacked Lobec’s sense of style, wearing an ill-fitting blue suit that looked a size too large. His brown hair was cut in a Marine-style crew, and boredom radiated from his perpetual frown and sleepy eyes. Beyond the visual, Ward knew hardly anything about the man. He’d never uttered more than a few unintelligible greetings.

Ward forced a smile, knowing he’d never be able to overpower either one of them, let alone both. Despite his four-inch height advantage over the two men, his large paunch and fleshy jowls clearly marked him as a professor whose sole exercise was swinging a golf club. Since the fall semester didn’t begin until next week, he was dressed in the three-hundred-dollar sweatsuit he normally wore on weekends. Otherwise, Ward was the archetype of a distinguished professor, down to the thin, graying hair and wire-rimmed glasses. Judging by Lobec’s attitude, he didn’t appear to pose much of a threat.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Ward said. “I was just finishing up some—”

“You do know what I mean.” Lobec seemed more amused than annoyed. “We’ve been searching for you for the last hour. You didn’t take your normal route from the office today. Maybe you can tell us why.”

He had suspected they were watching him, and now Lobec’s statement confirmed it. After hearing the news about Herbert Stein’s murder, Ward had taken the precaution of leaving through the subbasement to another building, hoping to elude his observers for just the ten minutes he needed to hide his insurance. Apparently, he had been successful.

“How do you know what route I take?” Ward was stalling, trying to think.

“The same way we know how you’ve been able to afford a half-million-dollar home and a Mercedes on a professor’s salary.” Lobec scanned the tastefully decorated study, with its mahogany desk, black leather sofa, golf awards, and memorabilia, then looked out the window at the gated community’s eighteen-hole championship golf course in the final stages of construction before his eyes returned to Ward. “Although lately your situation has taken a turn for the worse, hasn’t it? Mr. Tarnwell mentioned your reputation for successful ventures in the stock market. It’s a pity your appraisal of Chromosotics wasn’t as shrewd.”

Ward’s jaw dropped. He...