Not if they’re in and out of car shows, and I ask what theories are circulating as my thoughts continue ricocheting between Neva and Carme. I’m not surprised when ART answers that the police have no suspects.
They have nothing to go on, only baseless rumors on social media claiming that the owner staged the theft for insurance purposes. But there’s no evidence of any such thing, and I don’t believe it for a minute.
00:00:00:00:0
“IT’S LOOKING LIKE the cars were stolen without the benefit of anybody showing up in person and doing the dirty work,” I say to ART. “Someone technically sophisticated, in other words.”
As I’m saying this, I’m shown more images from traffic videos, the supercharged Hellcat driving east on I-64 toward Norfolk in the wee morning hours, no license plates, growly, low slung, stealthily with red LEDs glowing.
Most likely ART was able to find the Marvel-comic-bookish car by using image recognition software. In frustrating contrast, a late-model black Cadillac hearse with a landau top is going to be trickier if not near impossible. There are plenty of them around fitting that description, more than 300 registered to funeral homes in Hampton alone, ART gives me the statistics.
The missing hearse could be anywhere. Many miles away or right under our noses, it was captured on security video at 0205 hours when it left the coliseum parking lot, disappearing into the windy darkness. Possibly it wisely navigated along a route that didn’t include traffic cameras, unlike the muscle car caught on film taking the Hampton Roads Bridge-Tunnel across the Chesapeake Bay into Norfolk at 0235 hours.
Soon after, it’s recorded again, flicking off its lights, turning into the deserted Plum Point Park on the water. There’s no video of it turning into the parking lot, which the city would have plowed because only federal workers are furloughed. Presumably this is where the Hellcat stayed unnoticed until an hour and a half ago when it reemerged onto the Elizabeth River Trail.
Minutes later it was flying along US 58 in pursuit of the Tahoe Carme was driving, and someone sure as heck knew she was coming. Or that I was, and most of all I’m relieved and grateful because she may have caused the fiery accident but she didn’t burn up in it. No way my sister was driving that stolen car, and I’m fairly certain I know what she did to end an insane chase that lasted a total of 3.4 minutes.
Carme did what Carme does best, getting in the last word, leaving a parting shot. In this instance with the SMOKR I’m guessing, as I recall the thick black mushroom cloud. A real mood killer if you’re trying to see where you’re going, it also could interfere with radio waves and cell signals, which would be problematic in some driverless vehicles, although I suspect that’s not what happened to the Hellcat.
I have a feeling the three loud bangs I heard were fired from a RIP or a WASH, and it would make sense resorting to the rear built-in M16, the water disrupter, one or the other. Possibly both, taking out tires and causing an explosion.
“Carme knows that if even the smallest piece of shrapnel pierces a gas tank, it’s all she wrote,” I announce out loud.
I’m finding myself periodically glancing at the empty passenger’s seat as if ART might be in it. As if I might be getting daffy.
“And since other motorists had slowed way down to get out of the way, it was relatively safe to let her rip, so to speak,” I add, driving past the Air Force base golf course, brown grass and sand pits exposed where the snow has blown and drifted.
I don’t think the message could be clearer, I decide. Someone (I know who I vote for) was tipped off that Carme (or me, the more likely story) would be headed to the medical examiner’s office this afternoon to intercept Neva Rong.
“I guess she somehow found out the plan and knows I’ve got a new truck,” I add, increasingly suspicious that she’s picking up where she left off.
It’s a serious concern that makes me nervous for myself and everyone around me. Not so long ago, Neva’s response to my interferences included a tracking device, a hitman, cement boots and other body-disposal accoutrements. Not to mention I’ve seen what she’s capable of, envisioning the deep furrows in Vera Young’s neck, her dead body drenched in bleach and strung up from a door.
“Well, I’ll take that as a yes,” I continue to goad ART into giving me the intel I want. “Carme has this exact same truck even if you won’t admit it. The question is who Neva was trying to take out. Me? Or my sister pretending to be me? What exactly does Neva know about the Gemini project beyond the fact that there’s a GOD chip? And it’s missing. And that Vera may have had it last.”
But ART’s not about to fall for any of my tricks or pressures any more than Mom ever has. He answers nothing as data comes at me from every direction, and it’s all I can do to focus on any one thing at a time. Although I have to say I’m more acclimated than I was. At least I’m reasonably adept so far at handling my armored SUV on slippery roads, and not making a mess of multitasking like I did when I was leaving Dodd Hall.
“I would expect that everything Carme and I have is identical, our vehicles, our equipment,” I keep pushing. “And when she needs camouflage, which is most of the time, she morphs everything about her Chase Car to be the same as mine.”
But ART isn’t taking the bait, programmed not to share certain information no matter what I say.
“Do you know if Neva Rong is behind the auto heist?” I then ask, because it would be just like her to hack into a highly publicized car show and swipe autonomous vehicles right off the floor.
“There are no suspects,” ART’s unhelpful answer, and suddenly I’m reconnected to the OCME’s security video feed.
I’m watching Neva inside the lobby where she’s helped herself to every newspaper she could find. Using them to cover the sofa and area around it, she makes sure she doesn’t come in contact with furniture or flooring, fashioning her own unspoiled island unto herself in this dirty unfair world she helps create.
“Signal restored,” I tell ART what he already knows.
Ranger must be in the area, and I check my cameras and side-view mirrors as if I might catch my mobile hotspot following us. Nope, nothing there but partly cloudy skies, empty except for fighter jets, and out of habit I head toward the Air Force base back gate.
There’s no sign of the basketball-size PONG that I shouldn’t be seeing anyway since he’s in GHOST mode following from above. Extending the range, the flying orb has restored the link to the medical examiner’s office in Norfolk, and I’m watching Neva Rong dig inside her oversize black crocodile bag . . .