Everything was ordinary. Except for the guns.
“Mrs. Jenkins,” the woman said pleasantly. “I’m the Coach. Will you come join us, please?”
Cathy’s foot landed heavily on the step below her, and she almost stumbled. She caught herself with a hand on the wall andfelt a fingernail bend back.
Ignoring the pain, Cathy walked unsteadily down the remaining steps and into the living room. She passed two of the pasteland khaki gunmen, who moved to stand between her and the stairs. She could see Becky’s face much more clearly now—terror,nothing else. Her eyes flicked back and forth wildly between her captor, Cathy, and the gunmen.
I write code, for God’s sake! Cathy thought, desperate. What is this?
But she knew, of course.
“Sit down, just there,” the Coach said. She gestured to the other couch. “You, too, Mrs. Shubman.”
Becky looked at her, her face confused. The Coach smiled gently at her and gave her a slight push on the shoulder. Becky stoodand stumbled around the glass-topped coffee table to the other couch. Cathy sat down next to her. Through the picture windowsthat looked out onto the beach, she could see sunbathers and people walking hand in hand, off in the distance.
As soon as Cathy sat down, she reached for Becky’s hand and met it as it grasped across the cushions for her own.
“Are you all right?” she whispered.
Becky nodded—but she didn’t talk, and Becky Shubman never stopped talking.
“I apologize for the intrusion, ladies,” the Coach said. “We’ll be out of here just as soon as possible. Before anything else,let me say the thing people in these situations always say. In this case, though, it’s the truth. I promise. We don’t wantto hurt you.”
She interlaced her fingers, nails painted a shade of blue that nicely complemented her scarf. She raised her eyebrows andtapped her thumbs a few times, as if considering how to begin. Cathy watched her, and to her surprise, felt impatient.
“Please,” she said, “what do you want? Money?”
The Coach’s mouth quirked. Her eyes looked almost amused.
“Do we look like we’re here for money?”
“I don’t know!” Cathy said. Becky squeezed her hand.
“Relax, Mrs. Jenkins,” the Coach said. “We just want information. We know that at least you, and probably both of you, setup data security for the Oracle. We need to know who engaged you to do this.”
Becky’s grip tightened another notch. The Coach leaned forward.
“This doesn’t have to go the intimidation route, either. You can just think of it as a job. We’re happy to pay you for yourhelp, in fact.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Cathy said. “Who the hell are you?”
The Coach sighed. She held out her hand, and one of the gunmen placed his pistol in her palm. The Coach held the weapon up,displaying it to the women. To Cathy, it looked singularly ugly; it gleamed dully like some sort of malevolent metal insect.
“Personally,” the Coach said, “weapons like this scare the hell out of me. The idea of killing someone is horrible. You neverget tough about it. I remember everyone I’ve ever had to kill, or even hurt. Whatever lives they had left, whatever momentsof happiness they had left, disappeared because of me.”
She handed the pistol back to the gunman.
“In my heart, I don’t believe I’m a killer. However,” she said, gesturing at the stony crew standing around them, “these mencertainly are, and every one of them is completely fine with that label. I want you both to understand that, and be frightened,because the last thing I want to do today is walk out of here with another face or two to keep me up at night.
“I’m going to ask you a few questions, and I’d like you to answer me honestly. That doesn’t seem like too much to ask, doesit?”
A sickening suspicion began to dawn in Cathy’s mind, related to a certain turn of phrase she might have inserted into herprogram code for the Oracle’s e-mail system—just a reflex, something she included in almost everything she created.
The Coach pointed her index finger, with the nail painted that incongruous shade of royal blue, directly at Cathy’s face.
“Here’s why you want to answer honestly,” she said.
She shifted her finger to point at Becky.
“Because of what I’ll do to Mrs. Shubman if you don’t.”
The Coach’s eyes were sincere, open, without guile.
“Imagine, Mrs. Jenkins, feeling her hands on you, feeling the missing fingers, and know that they’re missing because of achoice you made . . . assuming you get to feel them at all. Hands come after fingers.”
Becky’s hand clenched on Cathy’s.
Cathy bowed her head. She looked at Becky.
“I told her we don’t know anything, but she didn’t believe me,” Becky whispered. Her voice was tiny, like a child’s. “Whatare we going to do?”
The Coach waited patiently.
Cathy smiled sadly at Becky.
“His name is Will Dando. He lives in New York,” she said, not looking anywhere but Becky’s face. “I don’t know if he’s theOracle or just works for him, but I think he’s probably who you want. He’s listed. I can get you the number, if you want it.”
Becky sucked in a little breath. Cathy had never told her that she’d figured out John Bianco’s real name. She felt Becky’shand loosen on hers.
“Thank you,” the Coach said. “We’ll want to verify what you’ve told us, but it shouldn’t take long, and then you’ll neverhave to see us again. And isn’t it better this way?”
Cathy saw Becky’s eyes narrow. She cocked her head at the Coach, who was dialing a cell phone she had produced from withinher suit. Very deliberately, Becky extended her hand toward the other woman. She slowly, elegantly curled down all but hermiddle finger, leaving it standing straight up.
Chapter 30
Leigh Shore left room 1952 of the Waldorf-Astoria and turned right. She walked
