State of War

27

Ames was tooling along in his new chocolate-colored Mercedes, pushing it a little. He was doing seventy-five and was still a dozen miles or so south of Waterbury on I-84, on his way north.

He was driving up from the city for an estate sale in Wolcott, just north of Waterbury. A rich old lady he had met a couple of times, Marsha Weston, had recently passed away, leaving a medium-sized fortune and some outstanding antiques. She had owned a grandfather clock brought over from Europe a couple hundred years ago that he thought would go perfectly in his entry hallway, and he didn’t expect there would be anybody showing up for the sale who could outbid him for it. The Westons were old money, though the younger ones had gone into computers and had a fair amount of stock in several of the larger hardware companies. It was his hope that they didn’t have any interest in Granny’s moldy old furniture. But he figured if they had, the clock would never have been put up for sale.

Thinking of computers, he remembered he was going to call his pet hacker today to make arrangements for another payment.

Ames reached into the center console and removed one of the four throwaway cell phones he had there. He used a memory trick he’d learned in med school to bring the hacker’s number to mind, thumbed it in as he passed a refrigerated tractor trailer hauling frozen fish sticks, and waited for the connection.

“Thumper,” came the deep voice.

He shook his head. The hacker used a voice-altering device on his calls, a precaution that Ames thought was a waste of time. They never said anything that would identify either of them, and the cell phone Ames was using was never going to be used again. Surely the hacker wasn’t stupid enough to use his own phone for this kind of thing?

“I see our project has continued successfully,” Ames said.

“That’s the idea,” Thumper said.

“Indeed. If it is convenient, meet me at the usual place tomorrow, one P.M. for remuneration.”

“I think I can make it,” Thumper said.

Ames smiled. Of course he could make it. The man spent ninety percent of his time parked in front of a computer, he had no other life. Walking to the kitchen for another Twinkie was probably the most exercise he ever got.

Ames thumbed the disconnect button on the cheap phone and tossed it onto the passenger seat. He would take it out at his next stop and stamp it under his heel, distribute the smashed parts into a couple of trash bins at different locations, and that would be that.

He frowned and gripped the wheel tighter. He was a little irritated that he hadn’t heard from Junior yet. The man was supposed to have dealt with that loose end and called him. So far, however, Junior hadn’t made contact.

He sighed, then, and made an effort to relax. Junior would call eventually. In the meantime, Ames would get himself a nice antique clock, and enjoy a leisurely drive to his place in the country for lunch before heading back to the city.

Everything was going along as it was supposed to be going.

Toni smiled at the phone that belonged to the hacker who called himself “Thumper.”

“Gotcha,” she said.

Jay Gridley, passing by her office door, paused. “Huh? What did I do?”

She shook her head. “Not you. Thumper’s boss just called.”

“Ah.”

“Thumper is going to meet him tomorrow at one — at least that’s what he thinks. We’ll bag him then.”

“Are you going to have the local cops grab him?”

“Yes,” Toni said. “No point in stepping on anybody’s toes if we don’t have to. Besides, some businessman on Long Island is hardly a case for the Net Force troops.”

Jay nodded. “It’ll be interesting to find out why he was doing it. I’m thinking maybe he’s making money on securityware or something. The Net gets attacked and people buy more of his product. Find a need and fill it. If there isn’t a need, make one.”

Toni nodded, too. She would have Liaison call the regular FBI, who should call in the local cops — she wasn’t sure who the police agencies in charge on Long Island were — and that would be that. Once they picked the guy up, she’d zip up, maybe take the train, interview the man, and her part would be done. Another strike for Truth and Justice.

Junior had broken down and gone to an ER at a hospital fifty miles away from the rental house in college town. Three of the worst cuts on his arm needed sewing, and when the doctor was done there were forty-seven stitches on the outside, plus a bunch of the dissolving ones that would itch like crazy later on the inside. He told the doc, who looked like he was about sixteen, more or less the truth — he’d put his elbow through a TV screen, though he told the guy it was an accident, of course. Young as he looked, the doc had heard stranger stuff.

With the bandages and all, his arm was hardly inconspicuous, so he bought a cheap sport coat and hid the dressings. Nobody remembered a guy in a bad jacket, but a guy whose arm looked like it belonged on the Mummy might stick in a few heads.

But his arm was the least of his worries. Somewhere out there, Joan was on the run. If she used his credit cards or her own to buy tickets, he’d be able to trace her. The problem was, she was smart enough to know that. In fact, she knew most of the ways he had to trace her, and she’d be avoiding all of them. So the question was, where was she going to go?

Junior had a good memory. Somewhere along the line, a year or two back, Joan had let it slip that she had a sister, her only living relative, who lived in Atlanta. The sister, she’d said, worked as a bartender in some biker bar on the outskirts of town. Joan had been pretty plastered when she told him, so chances were probably good she didn’t remember she had told him.

When a woman like Joan wanted to hide, she’d go where she had friends or family. As far as Junior knew, she didn’t have any friends. She sure wasn’t going back to Biloxi, because she’d know that’s the first place he’d check. And he didn’t think she would go to the cops — at least not yet. He knew Joan, and he knew that her first thought would be to see if she could get something out of the deal.

She knew Junior had tried to take her out, no way around that, and that was bad. She’d be on her guard constantly, knowing that if he tried to kill her once, he’d do it again. But she also knew that he had to have had a pretty good reason to try and kill her, and that made her valuable.

Joan was smart, but she was also greedy. She’d see this as a chance to squeeze some serious cash out of him, and that was his only hope right now.

Someone other than Joan would likely flee across the country, maybe to Canada, change her name, and lay low. But not Joan. Not when she saw an opportunity like this. And that bought him a little time, but not much. He had to get to her before she started setting things up so she would be covered. Once she told some people, maybe put a file somewhere with a lawyer in case she accidentally got run over crossing the street, that would be the game.

So, he had to find her fast. And the sister was the place to start.

He didn’t know her name or where she worked. He figured, though, that there weren’t that many biker bars with women bartenders, and even fewer where the bartenders looked like Joan. He was also pretty sure he would recognize her if he saw her. Once he had her, if she had any idea where Joan was, he would get that out of her.

It wasn’t much, but it was what he had.

By now, Ames would be sweating bullets wondering what was going on, but it wasn’t a good idea to bring him up to speed just yet. Not until Junior had something good to tell him. He would wait. Ames being angry at him for not calling was a lot better than how he’d react if he found out Joan was loose and knowing Junior had tried to kill her.

He did have one other advantage. White guys hung together in prison, and he’d gotten to know a few bikers when he was in Angola. A couple of them ran around Atlanta, so they’d know the bars. He’d give them a call. You didn’t want to walk into a biker bar without some friendly faces around.

He’d find the sister, somehow. And then he’d find Joan and finish the job.

Michaels was in the kitchen looking for something fatty to eat after his workout when the phone rang. He picked it up, and a man asked for Mrs. DeBeers. He started to tell the caller that he had the wrong number, but then remembered that Mrs. DeBeers was Guru’s real name. They never called her anything but “Guru,” which meant “Teacher.”

“Hold on a second,” he said.

Guru was in the living room, telling a story to Little Alex.

“—and then the Garuda snatched up the little monkey and flew him away from the tigers!”

Little Alex laughed, certainly one of the most delightful sounds on Earth, and said, “Again, Guru, again!”

He hated to break in. “Guru, telephone for you.”

The old lady nodded and went into the kitchen to take the call.

Michaels squatted down and picked up his son, twirled him around, and got him to laugh again. After his daughter had been born, he had thought he would never feel that kind of love again. When he and Megan had fallen apart and gotten divorced, the time he could spend with Susie became much too short. She was almost a teenager now. But Little Alex was another joy, and Michaels was, he thought, a better father now than he had been when he’d been on the upward career track. At least he hoped so.

Guru came back into the living room.

“Everything okay?”

“My great-grandson in Arizona is sick,” she said. “Gone to hospital with pneumonia. My grandson and his wife are worried. The doctors tell them the boy will be okay, but they are worried. I think maybe I need to go and be with them.”

“Yes, of course,” Michaels said.

“I can take laki-laki with me,” she said, nodding at Alex.

Laki-laki meant “little man.” Michaels nodded. “You could,” Alex said, appreciating her offer, “but you need to be able to concentrate on your grandson.”

That he would even consider allowing an eighty-five-year-old woman to take his young son on a plane across the country might seem strange to anybody who didn’t know them, but Toni trusted Guru with any of their lives. She was as much the baby’s great-granny as any of their blood kin, and she was here with him every day. She knew the boy as well as he or Toni did, and Little Alex loved her. And even at her age, she was a formidable nanny. She could still knock most men down before they had a clue she was dangerous.

She nodded. “That might be best, if you are sure.”

Guru took her responsibilities very seriously, so Michaels nodded. “You have more than one family,” he said.

“Yes. I will make preparations.”

“Toni will be home in a little while,” he said. “And she can call our travel agent and set things up.”

Guru nodded gravely.

After she had gone to her room, taking Little Alex with her, Michaels wondered what it must feel like to be as old as she was and still bear the responsibility for all the generations of her family. And that a grandson had called his grandmother about his child when he was ill, probably knowing she would hop on a plane and come out there. Did they think she could somehow fix the boy, with some old-country magic?

He shook his head. Probably not. But it was amazing that they would call her, and that she would pick up and go, just like that.

Toni was going to have to take some time off from work to watch the baboo. He paused, then. No, he thought. Maybe he could take a couple days off and stay home with Little Alex.

He thought about the pending lawsuit and Corinna Skye. He thought about the meetings on the Hill, and the thousands of other time wasters and frustrations that were all a part of running Net Force — or any government agency.

He thought about all that, and then he thought again about that latest job offer he’d looked at the other day.

Yeah, maybe he should take a couple of days off. He’d think about it some more and talk with Toni about it when she got home.

All at once it seemed like he had a lot of thinking to do.