She flashed a smile. “This ‘stuff,’ as you call it, is. . . variable. That is, it depends on so many things. From what you told me, all I can say is that it
“Safe? I don’t get it. I mean—”
“It would be a true death only if the dead person never came back—that is what you’re asking, isn’t it? And I’m giving you the best answer I can. As long as the. . . environment was safe, really truly safe. . . if the. . . original conditions never resurfaced, then, yes, it could be a ‘true death,’ as you put it.”
“How do you know he’ll—?”
“I don’t,” I told Lorraine. “But I have to be ready in case he does.”
“And you’re sure he’s the one who—?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll get a cot put in here,” she said. “The bathroom’s right through that door over there. You want food, just walk into the kitchen, I’ll take care of it.”
“Thanks.”
“I would like to go with you,” Rusty said quietly. I hadn’t even noticed him before he spoke.
“It can’t work like that,” I replied, bowing slightly to show my respect for what he was offering.
“What kind of dog is that?” Xyla asked me.
“She’s a Neapolitan mastiff,” I told her. “Aren’t you, sweetheart?”
Pansy ignored me, watching Xyla. I saw a look pass between them. And I recognized it. “You love dogs, don’t you?” I asked Xyla.
“Oh, I
“Yeah. Whatever. Listen, do
“I wasn’t gonna—”
“Yeah, you were,” I told her. “It won’t matter. She wouldn’t take food from a stranger anyway.”
“I guess I’m busted,” she said, face reddening. It was a pretty sight in that machine-cold room, like a flower blooming at the base of a prison wall.
“I’ll call you when it’s time,” I told her, lying back on the cot and closing my eyes.
I wasn’t surprised when Xyla’s computer screen started blinking at 3:44 a.m. Sure. Let him think the machine was sitting in my house—that’s what the test was all about.
>>50-50<<
his message said. I told Xyla what to do, and she hit her keyboard:
yours $125K
Xyla was about to get up, but I put my hand on her shoulder, telling her he wasn’t done.
>>why target?<<
“He’s using ICQ,” Xyla said excitedly. “He’s there. I mean. . . somewhere. But he’s on the line.”
“He won’t stay long. Just type what I tell you.”
Cork unauthorized
His response popped up almost immediately.
>>next?<<
4 names. major money. but they want to deal direct
“What does that—?” Xyla asked.
“Ssshhh,” I told her. “He wants that too. You’ll see.”
>>understand. but no face-to-face<<
they don’t want that either. afraid
>>then?<<
want proof
>>*names* = proof<<
no. want proof he’s alive
>>*you* tell them<<
polygraph
>>understand. you know who i am?<<
think so
>>not *look* same<<
so?
>>how pass polygraph then?<<
only question: did i talk to him in person?
>>understand. you *do* know who i am.<<
yes
>>no more talk. next message, instructions for meet<<
got it
The screen flickered, glowed red, then yellow. Then Xyla’s computer just shut itself off.
“Fuck!” she snarled, flicking switches like a madwoman.
I watched her in silence. It was almost a half-hour before she pushed herself away from the computer, rolling her chair back across the room, sweat-drenched.
“He crashed it,” she said. “Thunderbolt. I’ve heard about them, but I didn’t know if they were real.”
“What’s a thunderbolt?”
“A giant spike. Electrical. It’s transmitted over the modem during ICQ. When the sender signs off, it’s activated.”
“You lost all your data?”
She gave me one of those “What are you, stupid?” looks young girls probably memorize in the cradle. “Of course not. That’s in a separate unit. I don’t leave anything connected. All he spiked out was my software. But there was a
“I’m sorry,” I told her. Even as I realized that his attack on Xyla’s setup was another message: whatever meeting he was going to set up wasn’t going to be soon.
I learned a lot of trades in prison. Not the ones the rehab-geeks talk about. The ones we all learn, some better than others. Trades have tricks. One of them I did learn was how to use time you’re stuck with. And that’s what I did while I was waiting for the finale.
“I know the whole thing now,” I told my family.
They were all there this time: Michelle and the Mole, Terry sitting between them. The Prof and Clarence. Max and Immaculata. Even little Flower was around someplace, probably playing with the cooks in the back. Mama hawk-eyed the kitchen area, getting up every couple of minutes to check on her granddaughter.
Nobody said anything, waiting for me to fill in the blanks. I did it. Slow, taking my time, testing every link before I added it to the chain.
When I was done, the Prof was the first to speak. “If it’s written in blue, it must be true,” the little man said. “He found the Gatekeeper.”
“Prof!” Michelle snapped at him. “Stop it! This is insane enough without a bunch of superstitious—”
I reached over and took Michelle’s hand, squeezing it gently. “Prof,” I asked, “you said the only way to work it is to give them a soul for every one the. . . dead guy took, right?”
“One for one, son,” he agreed.
“That plane. . . the sex-tour one. I figure that probably evened the score.”
“It is impossible to transmit matter in that way,” the Mole said, earning a loving glance of approval from Michelle.
“Nobody knows some—” Clarence started, defending his father.
“Both true,” Mama said.
We all looked toward her, but she nodded at Immaculata, the first time I’d seen her defer. Mac gulped at the honor, knowing it had to be her profession Mama was deferring to, not her wisdom—Mama believed nobody under seventy knew anything of value from their own life experience. “Psychologically,” she began, “a belief can become a fact to the believer.”
