THE STORM HAD ALLOWED and people were appearing on the streets. Little by little, like a living organism healing from a wound, New York seemed to be returning to normal.
After a short journey, they arrived at the house. A simple building in an average New York neighborhood. Martin didn't bother to look for possible vigilantes around the house; it was unlikely that anyone could have gone so far in surrounding the targets of death. Even so, he wondered to what level this conspiracy would go...
After hesitating for a few minutes, standing in front of the house, facing his past closer than he wanted, the young man had the courage to go in. With the key that he kept hidden in a drawer in his current house, he opened the door and entered, followed by Clooney and Carl Benedetti.
Everything was in its proper place, even the pictures of the two of them and their families were on the walls. The place must have been extremely dusty, but he periodically hired someone to clean it up, although he didn't usually visit the place.
The three of them started to search every corner of the house, looking for something that might be out of place in the room. Furniture, drawers, carpets, wherever there was the slightest possibility of storing something, one of them turned it over. They spent some time there, until they got tired of looking for something they didn't even know what it was. Martin began to question whether his assumption was correct.
He walked to a room that was connected to the living room, a kind of reading room, where there were bookshelves, with many photos and paintings, as well as his vinyl collection and the piano that Mary loved to play in the afternoons.
Martin stopped in front of those memories that rested on the objects and refrained from touching anything. The longing beat strongly in his chest, as if it really hurt. He could almost see himself fiddling with those vinyls, telling her to choose which artist would be the next to fill the house's space, while they drank hot chocolate in the winter. He also saw her tidying up the books, grumbling about the work it took to keep everything clean. Finally, there she was, sitting on the bench, playing her arpeggios, chords and waltzes with the affection she so sweetly held for music. He himself had even learned a capriccio or a waltz, but he had never played the music that she said belonged to the two of them. He always told her to play, because he preferred to listen to her and enjoy it.
It was then that he remembered the letter.
"...I can no longer finger our notes on my piano..."
The piano! Why was it mentioned so diligently?
Would it just be a flourish of the text?
He approached the dusty grand piano and began to look at the instrument.
What do you have here?
Its lid was ajar, and nothing could be seen that could be hidden inside.
What would it be?
He looked at the scores that were still on the lectern and saw nothing but a small text that said:
Sound is our deepest source of communication with the world, when the soul comes into contact with the material and they become one. It is not cold or hot, but beautiful music can make us feel cold or warm. Simple vibrations that can make us sad or happy, or can inspire us, but no matter how sad they may sound, they will never discourage us. Beethoven suffered from hearing loss, but even though he was unable to use his ears, he still managed to pursue his career and feed his passion, composing his beautiful works. He used a wooden drumstick between his teeth and pressed it on the piano's soundboard to feel the vibrations of the strings and hear the music, even if not through his ears. He never lost heart, never gave up, and therefore never regretted it.
Martin was somewhat intrigued by the text, but he didn't see any message in it. Perhaps it was a short self-help text for musicians like Mary had once been.
Without any doubt, he sat down on the piano bench, blew on the dusty keys and played a few notes without any pretense of doing well. He tried to remember some song, but he was sure he wouldn't know how to play it anymore. He just sat there, sliding his fingers over the keys, playing a dissonant and meaningless melody, just to try to think. He even heard Clooney making some joke about his "music" from the living room.
The nostalgic mood remained until he played a few keys and noticed something different. Two of them sounded a little muffled and without sustain. At first he thought it was normal, since the instrument had not been serviced for many years. So he played the same sequence again. The same two keys sounded that way.
That bothered him greatly.
What could have caused that?
Was something holding the strings?
Wait! Is there something holding your strings?
He eagerly opened the piano lid and looked at the strings of those keys that were sounding badly. At first he saw nothing, but after a closer look he noticed a string tied to them. So he lay down under the piano and there it was! A roll of papers, duly tied with a string and hanging from the piano strings!
That was it! It could only be!
So it all connected, Payne was indeed a very intelligent man, and he was a very intuitive investigator!
Martin pulled out the documents and untied them. Standing up, he spread them out on the piano lid. Brad Clooney and Carl Benedetti came over to see what he had found.
There were many papers with photocopied documents and also a pen drive. Among the papers were plans for the occupation of several countries, analyses of the oil production of each of them, military contingent and its concentration in each area, as well as the military technologies of each nation. A veritable dossier of all the plans made by the President more than a year ago, according to the dates of some of the documents.
— Incredible! — exclaimed Clooney excitedly.
— So things change sides... — said Carl Benedetti thoughtfully.
—Or we're the ones who've changed sides now. — Martin replied.
— We have to take this to the authorities! — said Benedetti.
"To the authorities?" Clooney interrupted. "What authority could possibly go against this defendant? Before we could even hand this paperwork over to someone capable of doing harm, we'd be dead."
"We don't know who's involved, not yet," Martin said, scratching his unshaven chin.
—What could we do then? — Benedetti asked excitedly.
— I don't know yet... — he said.
He looked at his phone and there was still no message from Greg.
What the fuck...
— But of course, we can't explain this in any way, — added Brad Clooney. — Now I know why there was so much fuss at the NSA, and why even we ourselves were under surveillance. Someone there, possibly the director, is involved in this and has discovered the existence of these documents. They are doing everything they can to find them!
— It is possible, — said Martin — And that is why Dr. Payne did not want to send it any other way.
— He needed to use the old methods.
—I always say, old things are still the best! — exclaimed Benedetti humorously.
Suddenly, a sound of breaking glass startled them. When they saw it, a smoke grenade was bouncing around the room, fogging up the entire room.
— Quick! Let's get out of here! — Martin shouted.
To escape, they needed to cross a section of the living room and reach the kitchen, to use the back exit. The path, however, was already almost completely gray.