Budweiser, a pizza box, and ketchup, the unit's interior was empty.
“Want one?” he asked.
“Too early for me,” Watcher said. “I brought you something,” he said, putting a glass vial on the table. He had taken it from his jacket pocket, using his fingertips on the edges to avoid leaving prints.
“What's this?”
“A reward for your amazing work.”
Bert lifted the vial and opened it, peering in at the white powder.
“Meth? I have plenty of meth. I like meth. You want some?”
“It's Peruvian flake, Bert. Ninety- eight percent pure, so be careful.”
“No shit?” Bert poured the powder on a plastic CD case. “Cool. I haven't had any coke in months. So, we're rock stars, man! We made a humongous splash with the naughty porno thing.” He laughed and held his clammy hand up for a high- five slap.
Watcher slapped the young man's open hand and smiled.
“You keep any of the kiddie pictures to look at later?” Watcher asked.
“Well, I've got the virus copies like you said to keep for you, the code and all that, but I'm not stupid enough to keep it around longer than necessary, even if it's a thing of beauty, virusly speaking. Not the porn, though. That's really creepy stuff, man.”
Watcher took a number-ten envelope from his pocket, again by the edges, and handed it to the programmer. “Five thousand dollars,” Watcher said.
“You already paid me,” Bert said. “Why the bump? Oh, because I'm such a rock star and because it was so effective for your guy?”
“Yep. It's a bonus. You earned it, man,” Watcher said, handing Bert a business card without his prints on it, but those of its owner. “Cut it with this.”
“Cool,” Bert said. He took the business card from Watcher-putting his own prints on it in the process-chopped at the pile of cocaine, and deftly split it into wide two- inch- long rails. Rolling up one of the bills from the stack inside the envelope, he bent down and snorted each rail, one, then the other. He straightened, pinched his nose like a child about to jump into a swimming pool, and sucked in air abruptly as he released his nostrils.
“Far out!” he said, spinning his chair in circles, using his filthy bare feet for propulsion. “We've been all that's on the jazzing news.” He stopped spinning, sighed. “Wish I could use this in my portfolio. I mean, I wouldn't, because I'd end up in jail… again. But I sure wish I could just tell some of my hacker buds. They'd go ape shit, man!”
“Are you sure the FBI can't trace this job to you?”
“No way, man. No frigging way. I put in so much bullshit code around the meat-excuse my pun-that they will never work through all of it. Then I piled the covering shit on shit, so deep that I'm never going to have anybody within ten miles of me. You hired the best, man. The absolute best.”
Watcher shrugged. He knew Bert's confidence was horseshit. The cops knew all about people like Bert, and given time they'd brace him and he'd end up rolling over like a dachshund puppy approached by a pack of ravenous wolves.
When Bert bent over the table to put the envelope into a wire bin, Watcher slipped the stiletto from his pocket, pressed the button releasing the long, thin blade, pressed the tip against the base of Bert's skull, and pulled back on his ponytail, shoving the blade in to the hilt. Watcher pulled it out, closed the weapon, and, after wiping off his prints, dropped it into a plastic bag, which he then put into his pants pocket.
He looked at the disposable cell phone on the table that he'd given Bert. Using his fingertips, Watcher took the envelope of cash and put it under the computer's keyboard. Satis fied, he took one of Bert's business cards and pocketed it for later use. Now, he thought, the circular evidence trail was exactly half laid.
TWENTY-EIGHT
While Ward was relieved that he wasn't leaving his building in handcuffs, Gene Duncan had told him that being arrested by the FBI in the near future was possible. Just being accused of anything related to child pornography would leave a permanent stain. As he walked out of the building with Gene and Mark, Ward saw that all of the cameras in the parking lot turned on the trio. Ward realized the mistake they'd made in agreeing to join Gene when he made a statement. The cameras were pasting human faces to the scandal.
Ward fought the urge to turn and bolt for the building. He walked out in front to stand behind Gene, facing the waiting cameras like a politician. Firman and his partner, Mayes, left the building after them. They strolled to a stone gray sedan and drove off, watching Ward the whole time.
“All we can tell you at this point,” Gene was saying when Ward focused on him, “is that RGI called in the FBI as soon as they were aware of what had happened. It appears obvious that someone intentionally infected RGI's computers with this despicable virus, and we are hopeful that the FBI will find the culprit or culprits and bring them to justice. Raceway's owners and all of its employees are cooperating with the FBI and hope to see this resolved in the very near future. My clients, I am certain, will be exonerated. Thank you.”
Ward felt certain that not one of the people in the lot or out there in the free world would believe for a second that he was innocent.
After Gene's statement, the three men went to their respective cars and drove away. Ward drove straight home, with Gene following him. Twenty minutes later, they had to slow to pass through a sheriff's department roadblock at the entrance of his driveway He couldn't believe the number of cars and trucks parked on the side of the road, the milling curious, and the reporters shouting questions at his car as he rolled by. Even though he knew the FBI was planning to search his house, Ward hadn't expected them to be at it so soon.
Gene and Ward parked in the grass beside the Crown Victoria driven by Firman and Mayes. Ward walked with Gene to the open front door. Natasha stood in the foyer, crying. Her trembling right hand held the FBI search warrant, which she handed to Gene.
“They're searching Barney's room,” she told them between her sobs. There were no words for what Ward was feeling as Gene took the warrant and started reading it. Ward tried to put his arms around his wife to comfort her, but she pulled away, crossed her arms, and went outside into the sweltering heat. Firman and Mayes both walked in and out of view, directing traffic. A tech wearing surgical gloves who was carrying Ward's personal laptop computer walked around him, heading out to the closest van.
An hour later, while Ward sat on the couch in black- cloud thought, the last of the FBI search party left the house, leaving a mess behind. Gene had a list of everything they had taken, and, seated beside Ward, studied it carefully. Ward got up and went to the door leading into the dining room where Natasha sat at the table in silence, sipping a glass of orange juice.
“I'll clean up,” Ward told her.
“I work with children,” she said. “Can you imagine what my patients’ parents think?”
“Someone did this to us,” he said angrily. Ward wasn't so much angry as he felt like he wanted to lie down on the floor and die in place so this would end.
She looked up at him, and in all the years he'd known her, and except for the ordeal they'd gone through with Barney's death and its aftermath, he'd never seen her so utterly devastated.
“Who? Why?” she asked.
“He's right,” Gene said.
“Can you prove it?” she asked.
“We will,” Gene said positively.
She shook her head slowly.
Ward wanted to believe him but wasn't any more convinced than his wife seemed to be.
“You can't believe I had anything to do with this?” Ward asked her.
“How does what I think matter here?” she demanded. “My husband's company sent child pornography out to the world. The press has already told everyone he's a pedophile. The FBI questioned me like I was a criminal, destroyed our home, and carted off our computers. My office phone hasn't stopped ringing all morning because our computers sent the trash out to hundreds of people, my patients chief among them. The majority of my new
