tell her that theyâve perfected their technique ⦠and I know what theyâre going to use it for. Has she told you anything about the Scalps?â
Caul sat back ever so slightly, a guarded expression on her face. He knew heâd scored a hit.
âOkay, so what kind of stuff do you work on?â she said. âYouâre not a crime correspondentâI know everyone with the papers and the main news sites and youâre a bit young to be investigating intelligence or politics. Itâs normally a veteransâ game. Who do you write for?â She gestured at his laptop. âShow me some of your work.â
Chi gave a tight smile, hesitating, before opening a file that contained links to a few of his best stories. He didnât have much published in printâhe doubted sheâd be impressed with his piece in Paranormal Monthly on the likelihood of genetic manipulation on developing telekinesis (it was very unlikely, but he teased the reader along for a while before admitting it). Or the subversive and potentially illegal hacking tips offered in his articles for the underground magazine The Unspoken Truth. Most of the pieces he thought suitable were on his blog or other like-minded online publications. She perused the open windows, scanning through articles on how world domination had been achieved through the system of central banking. There were his thoughts on the September 11th attacks and his assertion that climate change was a centuries-old ploy of the Illuminati, who were suspected of working with an alien race to help them maintain their control of, and continue experimenting on, humanity.
Caulâs face gradually lost all emotion as she flicked from one written piece to the next.
âOh,â she said at last, her voice tired and flat. âYouâre a conspiracy theorist.â
âThatâs a contemptuous term,â he objected. âIâm looking for the facts about who controls our lives. Using dismissive labels to sideline people like me is just one of the ways the mainstream media avoids having to deal with the lies they peddle every day. Itâs easier to belittle us, turn us into figures of ridicule, than to deal with the Truth.â
âRight,â she sighed, rubbing her face with her left hand. âThe Truth .â
She moved her right hand as if to touch the laptop. Suspicious, he went to stop her and, in a fluid motion, she cupped her right hand over his left and curled her fingers around his, folding the ends of his fingers in painfully, squeezing the joints so they felt as if they were being crushed. He nearly yelped, looking around reflexively to see if anyone else was watching. She had really strong hands. He tried to pull his fingers free, but she squeezed harder, causing him to flinch and whimper until he held up his other hand to show he would stop resisting. Caul was staring at him, all civility gone from her face, her mouth a tight thin line.
With her other hand, she pulled his laptop toward her and started looking through his browser history and searching through all of his recently opened files.
âYou canât bloody do that without a warrant,â he said, grimacing as he felt another squeeze on his aching fingers.
âWho sent you here?â she asked. âThis has a spookâs stink all over it. Whoâs pulling your strings? It wasnât your idea to come here, was it? And donât play the innocent; I grew up with this nonsense and Iâve no patience for it.â
âThis is assault!â Chi squeaked. âYouâre going to break my fingers!â
âIâm a female police officer who started to question a much larger male member of the public about something she happened to see on his laptop screen. He went to lay his hands on me and I defended myself. Itâll be your word against mine, of course, but giving testimony in court is something I do every day. My story will be better