The Blue Nowhere: A Novel

by Jeffery Deaver

  “What is it, Frank?” Jennie repeated.

  “That fellow we’re after? He found out you were in the hospital. We think he might be here someplace.”

  Linda Sanchez jogged into the room fast. The guard looked at her police ID, dangling from a chain around her neck, and motioned her in. The women knew each other but Jennie was too upset to nod a greeting.

  “Frank, what about the baby?” She was sobbing now. “What if he gave me something that hurts the baby?”

  “What’d the doctor say?”

  “He doesn’t know!”

  “It’s going to be all right, honey. You’ll be okay.”

  Bishop told Linda Sanchez what happened and the stocky woman sat on Jennie’s bed. She took the patient’s hand, leaned forward and said in a friendly but firm voice, “Look at me, honey. Look at me. . . .” When Jennie did, Sanchez said, “Now, we’re in a hospital, right?”

  Jennie nodded.

  “So if anybody did anything he shouldn’t’ve they can fix you up just fine in no time.” The officer’s dark, stubby fingers rubbed Jennie’s arms vigorously as if the woman had just come inside from a freezing rainstorm. “There’re more doctors per square inch here than anywhere in the Valley. Right? Look at me. Am I right?”

  Jennie wiped her eyes and nodded. She seemed to relax a bit.

  Bishop did too, glad to partake in this reassurance. But that bit of relief sat right beside another thought: that if his wife or the baby were harmed in any way neither Shawn nor Phate would make it into custody alive.

  Tony Mott jogged through the door, not the least winded from his sprint to the room, unlike Bob Shelton, who staggered into the doorway, leaning against the jamb, gasping for breath. Bishop said, “Phate might’ve done something with Jennie’s medicine. They’re checking on it now.”

  “Jesus,” Shelton muttered. For once Bishop was glad that Tony Mott was at the front lines and that he carried that big chrome-plated Colt on his hip. His opinion now was that you couldn’t have too many allies, or too much firepower, when you were up against perps like Phate and Shawn.

  Sanchez kept her comforting grip on Jennie’s hand, whispering nonsense, telling her how good she looked and how terrible the food here would probably be and, man oh man, wasn’t that orderly up the hall a hunk. Bishop thought what a lucky woman Sanchez’s daughter was to have a mother like this—who would surely be stationed just like this, right beside her during labor when the girl finally brought her own lazy baby into the world.

  Mott had had the foresight to bring photocopies of Holloway’s Massachusetts booking picture. He’d handed these to some guards downstairs, he explained, and they were distributing them to hospital personnel. So far, though, no one had seen the killer.

  The young cop added to Bishop, “Patricia Nolan and Miller’re in the hospital’s computer department, trying to figure out how bad the hack was.”

  Bishop nodded and then said to Shelton and Mott, “I want you to—”

  Suddenly the vital signs monitor on the wall began to buzz with a loud sound. The diagram showing Jennie’s heart rate was jumping frantically up and down.

  Then a message popped up on the screen in glowing red type.

  WARNING: Fibrillation

  Jennie gasped and tilted her head up, staring at the monitor. She screamed.

  “Jesus!” Bishop cried and grabbed the call button. He began pushing it frantically. Bob Shelton ran into the hallway and started shouting, “We need help here! Here! Now!”

  Then the lines on the screen suddenly went flat. The warning tone changed to a piercing squeal and a new message burned on to the monitor.

  WARNING: Cardiac Arrest

  “Honey,” Jennie sobbed. Bishop gripped her hard, feeling utterly helpless. Sweat poured from her face and she shivered but she remained conscious. Linda Sanchez ran to the door and cried, “Get a goddamn doctor in here now!”

  A moment later Dr. Williston ran into the room. He glanced at the monitor and then at his patient and reached up, shut off the machine.

  “Do something!” Bishop cried.

  Williston listened to her chest then took her blood pressure. Then he stepped back and announced, “She’s fine.”

  “Fine?” Mott asked.

  Sanchez looked as if she was about to grab the doctor by the jacket and drag him back to his patient. “Check her again!”

  “There’s nothing wrong with her,” he told the policewoman.

  “But the monitor . . .” Bishop stammered.

  “Malfunction,” the doctor explained. “Something happened in the main computer system. Every monitor on this floor’s been doing the same thing.”

  Jennie closed her eyes and pressed her head back in the pillow. Bishop held her tightly.

  “And that injection?” the doctor continued. “I tracked it down. Somehow central pharmaceutical got an order for you to receive a vitamin shot. That’s all it was.”

  “A vitamin?”

  Bishop, trembling with relief, fought down the tears.

  The doctor said, “It won’t hurt you or the fetus in any way.” He shook his head. “It was strange—the order went out under my name and whoever did it got my passcode to authorize it. I keep that in a private file in my computer. I can’t imagine how anybody got it.”

  “Can’t imagine,” Tony Mott said with a sardonic glance at Bishop.

  A man in his fifties with a military bearing walked into the room. He wore a conservative suit. He introduced himself as Les Allen. He was head of security at the hospital. Hellman, the guard in the room, nodded to Allen, who didn’t respond. He asked Bishop, “What’s going on here, Detective?”

  Bishop told him about what had happened with his wife and the monitors.

  Allen said, “So he got into our main computer. . . . I’ll bring that up with the security committee today. But at the moment what should we do? You think this guy’s here someplace?”

  “Oh, yeah, he’s here.” Bishop waved at the dark monitor above Jennie’s head. “He did this as a diversion, to get us to focus on Jennie and this wing. Which means he’s targeting a different patient.”

  “Or patients,” Bob Shelton said.

  Mott added, “Or somebody on the staff.”

  Bishop said, “This suspect likes challenges. What would be the hardest place in the hospital to break into?”

  Dr. Williston and Les Allen considered this. “What do you think, Doctor? The operating suites? They all have controlled-access doors.”

  “That’d be my guess.”

  “And where are they?”

  “In a separate building—you get to them through a tunnel from this wing.”

  “And a lot of doctors and nurses there would be masked and gowned, right?” Linda Sanchez asked.

  “Yes.”

  So Phate could roam his killing grounds freely. Bishop then asked, “Is there anyone being operated on right now?”

  Dr. Williston laughed. “Anyone? We’ve got probably twenty procedures going on, I’d say.” He turned to Jennie. “I’ll be back in ten minutes. We’ll get those tests over with and get you home.” He left the room.

  “Let’s go hunting,” Bishop said to Mott, Sanchez and Shelton. He hugged Jennie again. As he left, the young security guard pulled his chair closer to the bedside. Once they were in the corridor the guard swung the door shut. Bishop heard it latch.

  They walked down the hall quickly, Mott keeping his hand near his automatic, looking around, as if he were about to draw and shoot anybody who bore the least resemblance to Phate.

  Bishop too felt unnerved, recalling that the killer was a chameleon and, with his disguises, could be walking past them right now and they might never know it.

  They were at the elevator when something occurred to Bishop. Alarmed, he looked back toward the closed door of Jennie’s room. He didn’t go into the details of Phate’s social engineering skills but said to Allen, “The thing about our suspect is that we’re never quite sure what he’ll look li
ke next. I didn’t pay much attention to that guard in my wife’s room. He’s about the perp’s age and build. You’re sure he works for your department?”

  “Who? Dick Hellman back there?” Allen answered, nodding slowly. “Well, what I can tell you for sure is that he’s my daughter’s husband and I’ve known him for eight years. As far as the ‘work’ part of your question goes—if putting in a four-hour day during an eight-hour shift is work then I guess the answer’s yes.”

  In the tiny canteen at the Computer Crimes Unit, Agent Art Backle rummaged futilely through the refrigerator for milk or half-and-half. Since Starbucks had arrived in the Bay area Backle hadn’t drunk any other kind of coffee and he knew that the boiled-down burnt-smelling brew here would taste vile without something to take the edge off. With some disgust he poured a large dose of Coffee-mate into the cup. The liquid turned gray.

  He took a bagel from the plate and bit down into it hungrily. Goddamn. . . . He flung the rubber fake across the room, realizing of course that Gillette had sent him back here as a practical fucking joke. He decided that when the hacker went back to prison he’d—

  What was that noise?

  He started to turn toward the doorway.

  But by the time he identified the sound as sprinting footsteps his attacker was already on top of him. He slammed into the slim agent’s back, pitching him into the wall and knocking the wind out of his lungs.

  The attacker flicked the lights out. The windowless room went completely black. Then the man grabbed Backle by the collar and flung him facedown to the floor. His head slammed into the concrete with a quiet thud.

  Gasping for breath, the agent groped for his pistol.

  But another hand got there first and lifted it away.

  Who do you want to be?

  Phate walked slowly down the main corridor of the state police’s Computer Crimes Unit offices. He was wearing a worn, stained Pacific Gas and Electric uniform and a hard hat. Hidden just inside the coveralls was his Ka-bar knife and a large automatic pistol—a Glock—with three clips of ammunition. He carried another weapon as well but it was one that might not be recognized as such, not in the hands of a repairman: a large monkey wrench.

  Who do you want to be?

  Someone the cops here would trust, someone they wouldn’t think twice about seeing in their midst. That’s who.

  Phate looked around, surprised that the CCU had picked a dinosaur pen for their headquarters. Had it been a coincidence that they’d set up shop here? Or had it been intentional on the part of the late Andy Anderson?

  He paused and oriented himself then continued slowly—and quietly—toward a cubicle on the shadowy edge of the pen’s central control area. From inside the cubicle he could hear furious keying.

  Surprised too that CCU was empty, he’d expected at least three or four people here—hence the large pistol and the extra ammunition—but everyone was apparently at the hospital, where Mrs. Frank Bishop was probably suffering quite a bit of trauma as a result of the nutrient-rich vitamin B shot he’d ordered for her that morning.

  Phate had considered actually killing the woman—he could’ve done so easily by ordering central medication to administer a large dose of insulin, say—but that wouldn’t’ve been the best tactic for this segment of the game. Alive and screaming in panic, she was valuable in her role as the diversionary character. If she died the police might’ve concluded that she was his intended target and returned here to headquarters immediately. Now the police were scurrying through the hospital trying to find the real victim.

  In fact, this victim was elsewhere. Only that person was neither a patient nor a staff member at Stanford-Packard Medical Center. He was right here, at CCU.

  And his name was Wyatt Gillette.

  Who was now only twenty feet away from Phate in that dingy cubicle in front of him.

  Phate listened to the astonishing staccato of Valleyman’s fast and powerful keyboarding. His touch was relentless, as if his brilliant ideas would vanish like smoke if he didn’t pound them instantly into the central processing unit of his machine.

  He slowly moved closer to the cubicle, gripping the heavy wrench.

  In the days when the two young men had been running Knights of Access, Gillette had often said that hackers must become adept at the art of improvising.

  It was a skill Phate too had developed and so, today, he had improvised.

  He’d decided there was too great a risk that Gillette had found out about the attack at the hospital when he’d broken into Phate’s machine. So he’d changed the plans slightly. Instead of killing several patients in one of the operating suites, as he’d intended, he’d pay a visit to CCU.

  There’d been a chance, of course, that Gillette would go with the police to the hospital, so he’d sent some encrypted gibberish, a message that appeared to come from Triple-X, to make sure he’d remain here and try to decrypt it.

  This was, he decided, a perfect round in the game. Not only would it be a real challenge for Phate to get into CCU—worth a solid 25 points—but, if he was successful, it would finally give him the chance to destroy the man he’d been after for years.

  He looked around again, listened. Not a soul in the huge room other than Judas Valleyman. And the defenses were much less stringent here than he’d expected. Still, he didn’t regret going to so much trouble—the PG&E uniform, the faked work order to check some circuit boxes, the laminated badge he’d painstakingly made on his ID machine, the time-consuming lock picking. When you’re playing Access against a true wizard you can’t be too careful, especially when that wizard happens to be ensconced in the police department’s own dungeon.

  He was now only feet away from his adversary, a man whose death Phate had idled away so very many hours imagining.

  But, unlike the traditional game of Access, where you pierce the beating heart of your victim, Phate had something else in mind for Gillette:

  A fast blow to the man’s head with the wrench to stun him and then, gripping Valleyman’s head, he’d go to work with the Ka-Bar knife. He’d taken the idea from his young trapdoor at St. Francis Academy, Jamie Turner. As the young man had once written in an e-mail to his brother:

  JamieTT: Man, can you think of anything scarier than going blind if you’re a hacker?

  No, Jamie, I sure can’t, Phate now answered him silently.

  He paused beside the cubicle and crouched, listening to the steady clatter of the keys. Taking a deep breath, he stepped inside fast, drawing back the wrench for good leverage.

  CHAPTER 00100010 / THIRTY-FOUR

  Phate stepped into the center of the empty cubicle, the wrench raised above his head.

  “No!” he whispered.

  The sounds of keyboarding weren’t coming from Wyatt Gillette’s fingers at all. The source was the speaker connected to the workstation’s computer. The cubicle was empty.

  But as he dropped the wrench and started to pull his pistol from the coverall, Gillette stepped out from the cubicle next to this one and pressed the gun he’d just lifted off poor Agent Backle into Phate’s neck. He pulled the killer’s pistol from his hand.

  “Don’t move, Jon,” Gillette told him and went through the killer’s pockets. He lifted out a Zip disk, a portable CD player and headset, a set of car keys and a wallet. Then he found the knife. He placed everything on the desk.

  “That was good,” Phate said, nodding at the computer. Gillette hit a key and the sound stopped.

  “You recorded yourself on a .wav file. So I’d think you were in here.”

  “That’s right.”

  Phate smiled bitterly and shook his head.

  Gillette stepped back and the wizards surveyed each other. This was their first face-to-face meeting. They’d shared hundreds of secrets and plans—and millions of words—but those communications had never been in person; they’d all been in the miraculous incarnation of electrons coursing through copper wire or fiberoptic cables.

  Phate, Gillette observed, se
emed trim and healthy looking for a hacker. He had a mild tan but Gillette knew that the color was from a bottle; no hacker in the world would trade machine time for even ten minutes at the beach. The man’s face seemed amused but his eyes were hard as chips of stone.

  “Nice tailor,” Gillette said, nodding at the Pac Bell uniform. He picked up the Zip disk that Phate had brought and lifted an eyebrow.

  “My version of Hide and Seek,” Phate explained. This was a powerful virus that would sweep through every machine at CCU and encode the data files and operating system. The only problem was that there was no key to decode them.

  He asked Gillette, “How’d you know I was coming?”

  “I figured you really were going to kill somebody at the hospital—until you started to worry that I might’ve seen some of your notes when I got inside your machine. So you changed your plans. You led everybody else off and came after me.”

  “That’s pretty much it.”

  “You made sure I’d stay here by sending us that encrypted e-mail—supposedly from Triple-X. That’s what tipped me off that you were coming. He wouldn’t’ve sent an e-mail to us; he would’ve called. With Trapdoor around he was too paranoid you’d find out he was helping us.”

  “Well, I found out anyway, didn’t I?” Phate then added, “He’s dead, you know. Triple-X.”

  “What?”

  “I made a stop on the way here.” A nod toward the knife. “That’s his blood on there. His name was Peter C. Grodsky. Lived alone in Sunnyvale. Worked as a code cruncher for a credit bureau during the day, hacked at night. He died next to his machine. For what that’s worth.”

  “How did you find out?”

  “That you two were sharing information about me?” Phate scoffed. “Do you think there’s a single fact in the world I can’t find if I want to?”