She nudged her partner with her elbow, showed her notebook to him. “Messages that day, and since.”
Now I was getting it.
“You’re Ray, and your father was Adam,” Agent Parker said. “Is there a Thomas Kilbride who resides here?”
“Yes.”
“And what would his relationship be to you?”
“He’s my brother.”
“Is he here now?” Driscoll asked.
“Yes,” I said again. “He’s upstairs.” I was already ill at ease, but my discomfort had now multiplied exponentially. What the hell had Thomas done to bring the FBI down on us? And how was he going to react when he learned that they were here to see him? “My brother stays in his room most of the day. I don’t know what you want with him, but he’s absolutely harmless.”
“What’s he doing in his room?” Parker asked.
“He’s on his computer.”
“He’s on it a lot, is he?” she asked.
“Look, my brother has certain psychiatric issues. He prefers to spend a lot of time on his own.”
“What sort of psychiatric issues?” Driscoll asked.
“Nothing that anyone else needs to worry about,” I said. “He’s got his problems, but he never bothers anyone. He’s very…docile, basically.”
“But he likes to send e-mails,” Parker said.
This wasn’t getting any better. “What kind of e-mails?”
“Do you monitor your brother’s communications?” Driscoll asked.
“What? No. I don’t. I’m not even aware of his communications. I told you he keeps to himself.”
“Are you aware that Thomas Kilbride has been e-mailing the Central Intelligence Agency on a regular basis?”
“Oh, Jesus,” I said.
“And that many of these messages have been addressed to former president Bill Clinton?”
I felt my insides liquefying. “Please tell me these were not threatening messages. That you’re not here to arrest him or anything.”
The two glanced at each other, exchanging some unspoken decision, and Parker said, “No, not threatening. But…concerning. You want to call him down or shall we go upstairs and get him?”
I hung my head and shook it. “Wait here.”
I went upstairs, opened Thomas’s door without knocking.
“It’s too soon for me to start dinner,” he said. “Leave me alone.”
“I need you to come downstairs, Thomas,” I said.
“What is it?”
“You have visitors.”
I expected him to ask who, but instead he just said, “Oh.” He stood from the chair, and as he was heading for the hall I grabbed him gently by the arm.
“They’re government people,” I warned him.
That stopped him. It took a second to register, and then he nodded quickly a couple of times, as though he’d been expecting this to happen sooner or later. “Oh,” he said. “That’s great.”
“Thomas, it’s not great. What the hell kind of messages have you been sending to the CIA?”
“Progress reports,” he said, and slipped past me for the stairs. Once he hit the living room, he went straight for them, the woman agent first, then Driscoll, shaking hands.
“I’m Thomas Kilbride,” he said. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. The president never said anything about you dropping by for a visit.”
“The president,” Agent Parker said.
“Well, former president,” Thomas said. “But Mr. Clinton said you can still call him that. But I hardly need to tell you this if he’s the one who sent you.”
“Why would he have sent us?” Driscoll asked, stone faced.
For the first time, Thomas looked concerned. “Aren’t you from the CIA?”
“No,” Parker said. “Agent Driscoll and I are from the FBI.”
Thomas was unable to hide his disappointment. “FBI?” he said. “I thought you’d be from the CIA.” He reminded me of a kid who opens up a Christmas present he thinks is a video game, and it turns out to be socks. “They’re the ones I’ve been in touch with.”
“Actually,” Parker said, “they contacted us. We’re helping them out today.”
“Is this about where I’ll do my work? Because I’d like to be able to work from home. I don’t want to go to Washington. Tell them, Ray. I like it here.”
“Mr. Kilbride,” Driscoll said, “why don’t we all have a seat.” The agents took the two chairs, and Thomas and I sat on the couch on the other side of the coffee table from them.
“Don’t get the wrong idea,” Thomas said. “I didn’t mean to offend you. The FBI does a good job, too. But I was expecting the CIA.”
“Well, we all work together,” Driscoll said. “All on the same side, right?”
I was detecting the slightest change in tone from him. Less edge. Now that they had met Thomas, they could see-I hoped-that he did not present a threat.
“You’ve been writing to the CIA about a computer virus that’s coming,” Parker said. Maybe Driscoll had lost his tone, but not Parker.
“Well,” Thomas began, “I’ve already explained this in my messages to the CIA, and President Clinton and I have talked about it.”
Just recently, I thought.
Thomas continued, “But I don’t mind going over it again. I don’t actually have any inside information on the virus. It’s speculation on my part. I don’t even know if it will be a virus. It might be a solar flare, or a kind of nuclear explosion. It could even be caused by a meteor hitting the earth. That kind of thing can be very cataclysmic.”
“Uh-huh,” Parker said. “So, whatever it is, what is it you think it’s going to do?”
“Wipe out all the GPS systems and maps that are stored on computers. All gone, just like that.” He snapped his fingers, but he was never very good at that, and the action hardly made a sound. Thomas then explained his role in helping the country through this catastrophe; how he was memorizing the streets of all the major cities in the world. “And, as you know, I’m at the ready, should any agents of the U.S. government be on the run in a metropolitan area anywhere in the world, to offer guidance. Street locations, alleys, that kind of thing.”
“Uh-huh,” Parker said. “Thomas, you wouldn’t be trying to write some kind of virus yourself that would cripple the computer systems of the U. S. government, would you?”
“No,” he said, not the slightest bit offended. “I’m not really that good with computers. I mean, I’m on mine a lot.” He looked my way, perhaps expecting me to weigh in with a critical comment. “I know how to turn them on and do e-mail and how to use Whirl360 to get around, but that’s about it. I don’t know how to take them apart. When my computer needs to be fixed my dad takes it to a shop in town.” He paused. “But not anymore. My dad died.”
“We heard about that,” Driscoll said. “Sorry.”
“I found him,” Thomas said. “The tractor killed him.” He said this almost formally, as though he wanted our guests to be very clear about what had happened.
“So your brother said,” Driscoll said.
“And what is it you want from the CIA, Thomas?” Parker asked.
Thomas sat up a little straighter. “I don’t want anything from them. It’s what I have to give. I’m offering my services. You should already know this if you’ve seen the e-mails. When all the computer maps crash, I’ll be able to assist the government.”
“And just how will you be able to do that?” she asked.
Thomas looked at me, as if to say, Are these people thick or what?
He sighed. “Because I have them in my head. All the maps. All the streets. What everything looks like.” He made a tsk noise with his tongue to signal his irritation. “When all the computers fail I’ll be able to draw the maps,
