LuEllen slid in beside him, on the wound side, and Rachel, carrying a plastic Wal-Mart shopping bag full of clothes, got in the front passenger seat.
I had no idea where Carp had gone. Never saw a Corolla. And at that point, didn’t much care.
>>> LUELLEN looked at the bullet hole and said, “There’s no pulsing blood, but he’s bleeding. What do you want to do?”
“Get back to Longstreet,” John said. “I can handle it if I can get back home.”
“That’s six hours, man.”
“Doesn’t hurt that much yet. Put a pressure bandage on it back at the motel.”
“I’ve got some Vicodin at the motel,” LuEllen said, looking at me. “We could get back to Longstreet, if he doesn’t bleed to death.”
“Is he gonna bleed to death?” I asked. Rachel was now kneeling on the front seat, looking wide-eyed at John over the seat back.
“I don’t think so,” LuEllen said. “Not if we keep some pressure on it. He may be down a pint when we get there.”
>>> SO THAT’S what we did: checked out of the Baton Noir, a pressure bandage, made out of a fresh towel, tight against the wound. Couldn’t speed: had to stay right on the limit. On the way north, when we were clear of New Orleans, John placed a long-distance call to Memphis and asked to talk with Andy. He had to wait for a moment, and then said, “Hey, man, this is John. I been bit. Uh-huh. Went in right in the triceps, not too bad, there’s no artery bleeding, but it didn’t come through.” He explained the bandages, and where we were. “We’re about five hours out from Longstreet, coming up from New Orleans. I’d appreciate it if you could have George come down and take a look. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. That’d be good. Some shit this chick gave me, um, Vicodin, and it doesn’t hurt much. Uh-huh. I’ll see you then.”
We didn’t talk much. I was focused on driving, and John was trying to sleep. We caught snatches of news from various talk-radio stations and it was all about the Norwalk attack; that and the upcoming high school football season. At one point, John said, “Jesus, this is boring,” and then, “Carp said we should tell Krause to stay away from him. That’d have to be the senator. Head of the committee.”
“Carp said that?” LuEllen asked. “I didn’t hear that.”
Rachel said, “He asked me if a Mr. Krause had called, or somebody from the government, and I thought he meant you because he said it was a white man and a black man together.”
“What’d you tell him?”
“I told him that a white man and a black man came and said they was Bobby’s friends, and they were looking for Bobby.”
John exhaled and said, “Not good.”
“He was gonna kill me, man,” Rachel said. “He said he’d shoot me right in the eyeball, and he would have. He’s a crazy man. And he does want to fuck me.”
>>> ONCE in Longstreet, we paused at the local Super 8 just long enough for LuEllen to check in. LuEllen didn’t want to see any new faces—she’d already seen too many that day, and there wasn’t any point to her coming along. After she had a room, John and I and Rachel continued to John’s place. A new Chevrolet was parked in the driveway, and Marvel was pacing around in the yard. When she saw me coming, she ran up to the car window and looked in the back and saw John and jerked open the door and cried, “How bad? George is here, how bad?”
>>> MARVEL was angry and unhappy and scared, and also worried about Rachel, never quite understanding from me what was going on with the girl. George, as it turned out, was a doctor, a big squared-headed, square-chested guy who might have been a tight end in another life, and he was prepared to operate right in the house. He frowned when he first saw me, a white guy, but never asked a question.
John was the calmest of us all, and took some time to explain to Marvel the exact situation with Rachel. As he did that, George was checking his blood pressure: checked it once, checked it again, then nodded. “Good blood pressure,” he said to Marvel.
When that was done, John told Marvel to go away—“Go anywhere, I just don’t want you fussin’ around”—and we went into the kitchen, where George had spread a sterile sheet on the kitchen table.
After washing John’s arm with an antiseptic, George gave him a blocking shot, pulled on some sterile plastic gloves and a mask, and went to work on the arm. He didn’t have any X rays, but he seemed familiar with gunshot wounds, and located the .22 slug with a probe. He had to work it awhile, with a variety of small tools that would have looked at home on a dentist’s tray. In twenty minutes he’d winkled the slug out into his glove.
“Gonna hurt like heck in the morning,” he told John. “I’ll give you some stuff to take, some painkillers and antiseptics, but it’s still gonna be sore.”
There was more to it than that—especially on Marvel’s side, because she was royally pissed—and sometime after two o’clock, I went down to the Super 8 and fell into bed next to LuEllen.
>>> THE next morning, first thing, without bothering with security, I went out on the Super 8 phone line and checked my mail-boxes.
There was nothing from the ring, but there was a letter from Bobby.
Kidd:
I’ve been gone for a while now. I assume that I’m dead, though maybe I’m just too sick to stop this from going out. Here is the important thing: a good friend of mine, who calls himself Lemon, has a selected set of my working documents, and will continue my operation now that I am gone. He does not know you or of you (unless you have a connection that I don’t know about) but will take you as a client. To sign on with him you need to identify yourself as 118normalgorgeousredhead at [email protected] and provide him with a dump address. I leave that to you, if you want a new hookup. He’s not a bad guy and has substantial resources. Anyway, good luck and good-bye; it’s been interesting working with you.
—Bobby
That gave me a chill: a voice from beyond, more or less.
LuEllen got the same chill. “Dead people should stay dead. You shouldn’t be talking to people after you’re dead.”
“He might not be completely dead.”
“What?”
“He’s like Janis Joplin or Frank Sinatra. I heard ‘Me and Bobby McGee’ on the radio the night I drove up to Jackson. Janis is dead, but I never knew her personally, and I keep hearing her song, so to me, it’s the same as if she was still alive. Her song keeps going.”
“Yeah, but this . . . I mean, the guy’s talking to you, personally.”
>>> GEORGE, the doctor, had gone home. No longer worried about another person seeing her face, LuEllen came with me to John’s. Marvel ushered the kids out into the yard, where they wouldn’t hear it, and said—shouted—something like this at us:
“I don’t know what the three of you could have been thinking of. What the fuck could you have been thinking of? You already got shot at once. You already got your asses shot at in the trailer. Why did you think he wouldn’t shoot you again? You knew the crazy motherfucker had a gun, because he already shot at you. Why didn’t you call the cops? Fuck this laptop. What was going on in your stupid heads? Is there anything in there at all? Look at this silly motherfucker sitting at the kitchen table with a big bandage on him and that shit-eating grin on his face like some watermelon-eatin’ coon in a goddamned travelin’ show. Oh, Lord, why does Thy servant have to put up with this shit? Why is that . . .”
You get the idea.
>>> JOHN was okay. He was going to be okay, though George was right: he hurt like hell. And Rachel was okay. She and Marvel had come to an understanding, and she sat at the kitchen table with John, pounding down the Cream of Wheat, enjoying the Marvel show. After we got Marvel calmed down—calmed down wasn’t exactly the idea, but quieted down, anyway—I went back to the motel and continued mining Carp’s laptop, going online to look for names, places, dates. LuEllen went visiting, out to see a farmer friend who lived across the river. She came back in the early afternoon and told me that the Norwalk attack was getting more and more play, and that there was virtually nothing else on televis
ion.
“It’s like the days after nine-eleven,” she said. “It’s really brutal.”
>>> I KEPT working, since I couldn’t think of anything else to do.
Two-thirds of the names in the PalmPilot sync list were identifiable through Google: I’d stick the name in and the information would pop up. Most of the names were associated with the Intelligence Committee and belonged to minor political onions in the Washington stew. Others belonged to computer people, and only a few seemed to be personal.
The personal names were the hardest to get information on. Of the dozen names in the file, I struck out on four of them, and while I found the other eight, I couldn’t determine any particular connection between Carp and the person named, except in the case of his dentist.
The DDC Working Group—Bobby remained a mystery.
>>> “WE’RE coming to a blank wall,” I said. We were back at John’s, the three of us together. Marvel was down at city hall, perpetrating some commie plot. Rachel had gone with her, and the two kids were taking a nap.
“Could we hack into CNN and when he attacks, figure out where it’s coming from?” John asked.
I shook my head. “Not unless we had the phone line, right when he was on it. We’d have to monitor thousands of calls.”
“You can’t tell just from his address.”
“Naw. He can just grab a wi-fi system like we did and ship it from some one-time e-mail address. I’m sure that’s what he’s doing, or the feds would have grabbed him by now. He’s like Bobby—he’s coming out of nowhere.”
LuEllen asked the key question: “What do you think about him?”
I said, “He might be nuts. He probably killed Bobby, he lost his job and he has no money and he’s way deep in debt, he doesn’t seem to have any friends, women don’t like him, his mother just died, he feels like he’s been ripped off by this lawyer.”
“Anything in there about his dog?” John asked.
>>> AFTER more talk, I decided to get in touch with Lemon, Bobby’s successor. Among other things, I needed to tell him that Bobby was dead, in case he didn’t know for sure, and to set up a routine we could use to communicate with each other. I also wanted to check again on the FBI investigation.
That evening LuEllen and I drove down to Greenville and located another warehouse with a friendly wi-fi. I called into the FBI first, went straight to the guy’s folder, and found some snappy memos back and forth from Jackson, the essence of which was that they were getting nowhere. I signed off and went looking for Lemon.
Lemon from 118normalgorgeousredhead:
I am a friend of Bobby’s and a member of the ring. Went to Bobby’s house with another member of ring, found Bobby murdered and his laptop gone. His true name was Robert Fields of Jackson, Mississippi; see news stories on cross-burning in Jackson. We have informed National Security Agency of his identity in effort to close attacks on hack community. We have Bobby’s backup DVDs but they are encrypted. The current holder of the laptop is launching attacks signed Bobby. Apparently not all files are encrypted; we are trying to recover it. We are searching for a man named James Carp, a former employee of U.S. Senate Intelligence Committee who we believe now holds the laptop and is launching the attacks. Any help appreciated. We believe it necessary to find Carp before government agents. Believe agents already searching for him.
—Estragon
I dumped it with a return address, and then went looking in another direction. We had all of his credit card numbers from the bills we’d found at his place. Credit card databases are basic stuff, and I checked the ones I had for card activity: as far as I could tell, he hadn’t used a credit card for a month.
LuEllen had the inspiration: “Check his mom’s cards.”
I did, and immediately found a Shell card that was getting activity. It had been used the afternoon of the shooting—once, an hour later, near Slidell. Had he gone back to his mother’s place, or was he just heading east on I-10? No way to know from just that. But the next use of the card was at a pump in Meridian, Mississippi, way north on I-59. Then, the next morning—just about the time Marvel had been screaming at us about John—he’d used it to charge gas and food in Chattanooga, Tennessee.
“Going north,” I said. “Going fast.”
“Headed for Washington.”
“Maybe.”
>>> A HALF-HOUR had passed by the time we finished with the credit cards, and I went back to my dump site. We found a note from Lemon:
Estragon:
YOU MUST RECOVER THE LAPTOP. When I was online with Bobby, he rapidly accessed multiple encrypted laptop files, I believe with encryption codes kept on the laptop itself. I don’t know how codes were kept, but maybe disguised as another encrypted file. While Carp may not be able to use them, any encryption center would break them out almost immediately, if that is how they are disguised. GET THE LAPTOP. I will search for Carp and advise at this address. Much Carp information online. He maintains current address at 1448 Clay Street, Apt. 523, Washington, D.C.
I went back with the three e-mail addresses we had for Carp, suggested that Lemon monitor them, but not give away his presence:
We maybe try to find Carp for face-to-face using e-mail, if nothing else works.
He was back in a second:
Will do that, will begin research now. You go to Washington?
I went back:
Think so. Will advise. Will check here every six hours.
He said,
Who did burning cross?
I said,
We did—wanted FBI investigation, so we could monitor. Monitoring now, they find nothing, but should start working on Bobby angle.
He said,
Okay. Will get back in six hours.
>>> “ARE we going to Washington?” LuEllen asked.
“Tell you in a minute. I’m gonna run a little check on this Lemon stuff.”
I went back out, looked in a couple of databases, and came up with a phone bill—a big phone bill—for Carp at the Clay Street address in Washington. “There it is,” I said.
“So . . .”
“Everything goes there,. Carp’s headed that way, Lemon says he has a current apartment there, and so does AT&T, and there’s this working-group thing. I think that’s where it’ll happen.” I turned and put my arm around her shoulder. “But it’s getting a little strange for a simple burglary wench,” I said.
“I’ll hang on for a while longer. Guy’s starting to piss me off.”
>>> BACK in Longstreet, we lost John, which we’d expected. Marvel, arms crossed, said, “I’m putting my foot down. If John gets killed, I’ll have to find work to support the kids. To do that, I’ll have to go out of town and the whole Longstreet project goes down the drain. So I’m telling him, No.”
John looked abashed, the guy who didn’t want to appear to be under his wife’s thumb, but who knew she was right. I couldn’t see any reason for him to come with us. “It’s all gonna be computer stuff at this point. If we need help carrying a body, we’ll give you a ring.”
“Do that,” he said. But I think he wanted to come.
>>> WE LEFT for Washington the next morning, driving. We were driving because that’s about the only anonymous way to travel around the U.S. Everything else will wind up in a database.
Even by car, anonymity is tough: if you pay for motels or gas with credit cards, if you speed and get a ticket, if you use your cell phone, you’re gonna be on a computer, fixed at an exact spot at an exact time. I’d noticed, once—you can see for yourself—that when you pull up to the parking-garage exit booth at Minneapolis–St. Paul International Airport, to pay your money, they’ll give you a receipt with your license tag number printed on it. This is four seconds after you pulled up, so your tag is being automatically read somewhere along the line.
Both LuEllen and I had a couple of alter egos who had their own credit cards, all carefully paid, and we used hers in the only motel we needed while heading north. Building an alter ego is almost
like identity theft, but backwards. You build a nonexistent life, rather than steal someone else’s. It’s fun, if you’re careful.
The trip was pleasant enough, nine hundred miles or so with the inevitable side trips to look for decent food and places to run. We did it in one long and one reasonably short day, riding up I-40 to I-81 through the heart of the summer, along the Appalachians and up the Shenandoah, then over to Washington on I-66.
The first night, in a mom-and-pop hotel, I went online and found a note from Lemon:
Find six calls last night and this morning from Carp’s Washington apartment.
I went back:
On the way. Need anything new.
>>> WE WOUND up in a Holiday Inn in Arlington, checking in separately, for separate rooms, although we’d only use one or the other. It’s better to have a bolt-hole and not need one, than to need one and not have it.
LuEllen checked in first, dropped her bags, then walked back out to the parking garage and gave me her room number. I checked in, put a bag in my room, stuck a sport coat in a closet, rumpled up the bed, hung a “Do Not Disturb” ticket on the door, then toted the rest of my stuff up to LuEllen’s. There was one big bed, and the room was decorated with colors that you forgot when you weren’t looking at them. Like almost everything now, it smelled of cleaning fluids.
“So,” LuEllen said. She pulled back a curtain and looked out: cars and tarmac. The sun was still well above the horizon. “What’s first? Carp’s?”
“That seems reasonable. Take a look at it, anyway. Watch the news for a while.”
Kidd and LuEllen: Novels 1-4 Page 82