the page to form text. Holding up the wire with the tip of the screw starter, I stick two small pieces of tape to it, one on either side of the tool point. Then I snip the corona wire in half.
“Twenty-five seconds,” Drewe says in a tight voice.
I toss her the wire cutters. “Cut the mouse off the Gateway!”
“Why?”
Using the tape scraps to guide me, I attach a short length of guitar string to each loose end of the corona wire. Then I carefully feed the two wires through the holes I punched in the toner reservoir and fix them in position with tape.
“Time’s up!”
“Get some towels!” I shout, snapping the cartridge cover back into place. “Wet them in the bathtub!”
“You said he wouldn’t do it!” Drewe wails.
Fumbling like a teenager with a condom, I pop in two plugs to anchor the cover, then run to the open printer and shove the cartridge home.
The moment I close the printer’s lid, I have a lethal bomb. But Edward Berkmann is the detonator, and for him to function properly, I have to make a nonfatal choice impossible. My hands fly across the keyboard, closing out possibilities for failure-
“Harper, stop it!” Drewe pleads, standing beside me with two soaking wet towels.
“Get in the closet!”
“I won’t do it!”
“You want to die?”
“We
Berkmann’s digital voice paralyzes us both.
She watches me like a kid with her finger plugged in a leaking ocean dike. “Let me talk to him!” she begs.
“He doesn’t want to talk! Get in the closet!”
Her arms fall slack at her sides, letting the wet towels plop onto the floor. “I can’t,” she says in a broken voice. “I’m sorry.”
I’ll drag her into the closet if I have to, but first I have to arm the bomb. I stare at the printer, my stomach near spasm.
“Get back, Drewe.”
“Fuck you!” I yell. With the knowledge that it could be my last, I take a deep breath. Then I lay myself over the printer in case it blows prematurely, and hit the ON switch.
Nothing happens. The yellow and green status lights on the face of the printer glow, blink off, then come back on, indicating the unit is warmed up, on-line, and ready to print. And I am still alive.
“Can you hear me, Edward?”
I whirl, my heart pounding. Drewe is seated at the EROS computer with the headset on.
“Harper won’t let me! He thinks if I come out, you’ll burn the house with him in it. Or shoot him if he tries to come out.”
“I want to. I’m going to try something, okay? You’re using a cell phone, aren’t you?”
“I’m going to hook a telephone to this modem line. Then I can come to the window. You’ll be able to see me then. We can work this out.”
Berkmann doesn’t reply.
“What the hell are you doing?” I hiss.
Drewe motions frantically for me to bring her a phone. I don’t know what she’s trying to do, but every minute that ticks past is a mile and a half closer for Wes Killen and Sheriff Buckner. I toss her the cordless and run for the answering machine that is its base.
“What’s the number of the data line?” Drewe asks, her finger pressed to the space bar.
“Six-oh-one, four-two-seven, three-one-one-four.”
She repeats the number into the headset, then says, “Do you have that on your screen, Edward?”
Berkmann says nothing.
“Call me in thirty seconds. I’m attaching the phone now.”
I scrabble behind a bookshelf with my left hand, trying to disconnect the answering machine’s electrical plug while holding the.38 ready in my right in case Berkmann breaks down the door.
“Hurry!” Drewe pleads.
I have it. Dropping the base into Drewe’s lap, I shove the electrical plug into the back of the power supply that feeds clean electricity to the EROS computer. “What the hell are you trying to do?” I ask again.
“I’m going to get you a shot at him.”
“What? How?” I ask, clicking the RJ-11 jack into the back of the modem.
“Just be ready.”
“I don’t think he’s listening to you anymore.”
The ringing phone makes a liar of me.
Drewe reaches for it, but I grab her wrist. “Let the machine get it, then pick up.”
After the machine answers, Drewe picks up and says, “Just a second!” over my outgoing message. When it finishes its run, I press MEMO, which will not only record Berkmann’s words but also allow me to hear everything he says through the answering machine.
“Are you there, Edward?” Drewe asks.
Even transmitted by the tinny speaker of the answering machine, that single word-spoken without the digital midwife of Miles’s voice-synthesis program-communicates more subtlety and danger than the whole of Berkmann’s words so far.
“I like that better,” Drewe says. “
The little speaker hisses and crackles in her lap.
“I’m coming to the window, Edward.” She rises from the chair.
Drewe freezes, her eyes asking me what mine are asking her. Is Berkmann really at the back door? There’s no way to know.
“Harper won’t let me. But I’m coming to the window.”
Despite my fraying nerves, I force myself to let her cross the room to the right front window. She seals the transmitter of the phone with her palm and whispers, “You’re mad as hell. You’re losing it. You’ll kill me before you let me go out there.”
“What?”
She gives me a frantic look like, Come on, stupid! “When I slap the windowpane, that means he’s exposed. That’s your shot. Not until then, okay?”
Before I can argue, Drewe grips the blind cord in her right hand and takes three steps backward, pulling the blind to its highest position and exposing six vertical feet of glass.
“Can you see me, Edward?” she says into the phone.
Berkmann doesn’t answer. He’s not about to reveal his position by admitting he can see her. What is he thinking at this moment? The only light in the office comes from the halogen desk lamp, but it falls across Drewe from the side, illuminating her white robe and still-damp hair with a diffuse yellow glow. Berkmann would probably like to smash the window and snatch her out through it, but our house is built off the ground, which would make that very tough to do. He also knows I’m armed.
