"If we are technically compromised, isn't the best step to simply shut down and kill his signal entirely?" Baker rubbed the bridge of his nose, still looking at the dormant blue lights.
"No!" Tanner said, perhaps a little too forcefully.
Baker's eyes came down, and for a moment there was alarm. It looked very, very dangerous. "Why?"
"Sir… understand, if… if Mr. Meek knew that he needed us to 'hide him' for a specified amount of time… if he knew that, then he would have thought about our just pulling the plug. Doing so at this point could cause huge, huge problems. He could have safeguards in place… I think it's doubtful, I don't think he could have done it this quickly, but… you… we… have to believe that shutting him down by killing our signal suddenly could have an undesirable result."
"For instance?"
"For instance… his code could lock us out of our own system. Suddenly we would be dead in the water. Maybe totally. And that would be very, very bad." Tanner was sweating and probably, this saved him.
Baker leaned forward, "You'll find the signal, you'll isolate it, and you'll shut it down. Right?"
"Yes sir, that's exactly what I'll do."
"Right the fuck now."
All Tanner could do is nod, his insides felt quite liquefied.
Chapter Fifty–Six
Tracks
Finn and Tonic tried Hack’s home phone, tried his cell. They tried his door, tried his windows. When this turned up nothing, Tonic drove them out to the scene of the accident while Finn tried to find some known relatives to pester. There was no one. Not even Roos the Internet vampire would answer.
Finn tossed his phone up on the dash with a clunk. "You’d think the Super Bowl was on or something. Jesus.” In frustration, he snatched it up again. He searched through numbers for someone to call. “This is supposed to be easier.”
“Doing audits is easier,” Tonic said. “You’re a detective, quit your bitchin’.”
“The guy doesn’t have a car. Where’s he at?”
Tonic checked his mirrors and slowed a bit. There wasn’t much traffic because of the next round of snow that had moved in during the day. Light snow in D.C. was enough to keep most any driver home, but evidently not Hack. “Oughta be comin’ up on the ramp where he augured in…” he said.
Finn leaned forward, searching. “Yeah, here…” They eased up into the median and came to a stop just short of where the shattered orange plastic began.
“Wow,” Tonic said. He flipped on the flashers, then the high beams, but made no move to get out into the wind. It was strong enough to rock the car as they admired the carnage.
“So, assuming that he was following somebody…” Finn began.
“Drunk,” Tonic added.
“Right, but if he was following, he bought the farm here for one of two reasons right?” Finn’s eyes searched the scene. There weren’t really any skid marks in the median leading up to the barriers that he’d crushed. The sand and face-sized shards of “don’t hit me” orange plastic covered most everything. Four drums, cracked open like enormous Easter eggs, lay along side the concrete pylons. This left just one to absorb any future impact.
“Either he just lost it and gave the orange barrels some love, or he was trying to turn.” Tonic rechecked his mirrors, tossed the car into reverse, and scooted back up the road. “Orange barrels, orange barrels,” Tonic sang as he drove over his shoulder.
The engine whined, but Finn kept urging him on… "There!” He pointed. A series of dashed skid marks began about a hundred feet prior to the off ramp, swerved right past the exit, and ended against the drums. This time they did get out. Finn braved the wind chill and balanced himself on the railing, scanning the exit ramp and the city all around.
“Well that settles it,” he said.
“What?”
“All those years of being an alter boy paid off for you, Smokey’s is right there.” Finn hopped down and the two walked to the other side of the road. “If we were more important people in the world, we’d come in on the Beltway more often.”
The Elkhorn plaza beaconed.
“Fuck it. Let’s go get a drink. I’m cold.”
“Yeah, tomorrow’s gonna be another long day.”
Seth had just said just the very same thing not two hundred yards away.
But none of them knew just how right they all were.
Chapter Fifty–Seven
Thalamus
When Smokey arrived after nine the next morning, he found the two detectives lying on the back room floor. Finny was using his rolled up coat for a pillow, and since he was closer to the door, Smokey kicked his leg first. “You should pay rent.”
Finn didn’t wake to the sound, or the kick, but Tonic did. "What time is it?”
“Time to get your asses up,” Smokey gave him a smile, the kind that said better you than me. He turned and clunked out on the wooden floor.
“Finny,” Tonic said as he stood only long enough to sit back down at the poker table. He brought up Meek’s broadcast screen, and was relieved to find it still black. It was 9:40am. He poked Finn in the ribs with bare toes, which brought him out of his slumber in a hurry.
Smokey returned with three mugs of coffee and a couple of newspapers. He sat down beside Tonic. "Don’t spill on my table you freeloaders.” He passed the mugs around and let the two get themselves adjusted and awake. “How long have I known you guys?” he asked. “What? Ten years?”
“Close,” Finn said. His eyes were bloodshot.
“And how many times have you slept on my floor?”
Finn sighed, "A few.”
“So you owe me. How close are you to this guy?”
“Not very,” Tonic answered. “And technically, we’re off that part of the case. The Feds run kidnappings.”
“Where’s the but in that sentence?”
“But…” Finn pulled a newspaper over, grunted, and tossed it to Tonic. Seth Meek’s Jury of Peers the USA Today read. “…we might have a lead on a guy who might have seen something but he might have been shit faced. Oh, but first we need a lead on where to find said guy… it’s a normal day.”
“Do you want to find him?” Smokey lit his second cigarette of the morning.
“Gimme,” Finn said and another one came out of the box. “Personally I don’t want to even hear his fucking name again.”
“Not much chance of that,” Smokey said. He addressed Tonic as he examined the cigarette. "How about you Spence, what isn’t your crony here telling me?”
“We were within about fifty feet of the guy the other night.”
“No shit?”
“Yep,” Finn stood slowly and lifted his shirt.
“Jesus H. Christ,” Smokey said as he too stood and looked at the foot wide deep purple and yellow bruise. He held up a hand by way of measure, which made Finn flinch. "He did that to you?”
Finn shook his head and dropped his shirt. “No, probably doesn’t even know it happened.”
“Bunch of bangers lit us up,” Tonic said. “Right when we were talkin’ to this guy Meek. Finny caught one,” he gestured to his friend. “I watched Meek run the fuckers over in his car, just whap whap whap. They were pretty much right on us, he saved our asses.”
Smokey slurped his coffee. "Little conflict of interests going on here.”
“Fo shore,” Tonic said.
“Doesn’t seem like such a bad guy to me.” The man took a puff, dumped the butt in his coffee and swirled his mug until it sank. “How'd you get your guy on the inside like that?”
“You mean Ray?” Tonic asked, and then went on, “we didn’t.” He explained for a few minutes, but it was clear that Smokey was still dubious. To his credit, he let it go.
“How’s he doing in the press today?” Finn asked even as he read the Post.
“Same. No one wants to come out and say he’s doing what we’d all want to do. Politically, it’s dangerous right? But up at the bar last night it was all anyone was talkin’ about. Peri
od. It’s…well I’ve never seen anything like it. He’s takin’ heat from the ACLU of course. This is like a wet dream for those guys. If you read the papers, you’d think that he was the crazy one. Hell, maybe he is, but on the street… at least my street, people want to see what’s gonna happen next, you know?”
“How’d you vote?” Tonic asked.
The two smiled at one another. "Well read your papers, I’ll be back when things get rollin’ here at ten. Better go take a leak if you need to, eh?” Smokey left, squeezing out of the door and going back to get his place ready for the lunch crowd that was already beginning to trickle in.
Both checked the voting site.
Current voting status:
No Trial: 14,311,100
Yes Trial: 122,032,701
Chapter Fifty–Eight
Thole
“Hey, you want somethin’ or not? Your pal’s long gone.”
Hack’s eyes opened and he found himself looking up at a sloppily painted rooster. It was a peppershaker stamped, Davenport I–80.
“Where the fuck am I?” he groaned.
The waitress snapped her gum, sighed, and went off to find someone to deal with this drunk.
Hack slid out of the booth, stood despite his body’s best efforts to crumble, and then placed both hands on the table and got his bearings. It wasn’t the first time he’d had to think his way through a situation like this; such mornings seemed to have an entirely different set of physical laws.
He did three things in rapid succession, hit the john, found a big bottle of Windsor, and offered a broken down old trucker an extra hundred bucks if he could tag along back to D.C. His plan was to nurse his headache with the Windsor until he was about half way back, then lay off and get some sleep. There was no reason to talk to anyone about his car, he just needed to get back to that intersection, find Meek… and then much would be forgiven in the rush to quote him in on CNN.
The notion led to thoughts of Ray, and the bottle was to his lips before he knew it. His stomach tumbled with acid, but he fought it down so he could take another drink. That little son of a whore had turned it all around – waited for that perfect moment to steal his story, and stabbed him in the back. He had visions of Ray on the television, turning down interviews because there were too many. Writing the million–dollar book. Retiring early. All of the legitimacy that Hack had struggled for over the years would come to this little upstart kid in one goddam week. He took another swig and thought about the coke in his pocket.
Ray needed to pay.
Chapter Fifty–Nine
Tractate
Ray shared a breakfast of soda and stale bagels upstairs with Seth once again. This had served to return the circulation to his limbs, but they had begun to tingle the moment he’d hopped back down stairs and plopped back into his folding chair at 10:00. The two kids were laid out prone on the floor now, and had offered no resistance last night when Meek had moved them – Ray knew how much his body ached, and he’d been allowed to move about a little – those two must have been in agony. They were still bound, hands and feet a deep purple, but Meek had sandwiched them between four of the old shelves from upstairs; the boards were placed in pairs over and under their chests and knees and then cinched down tight. There was no way for them to squirm around like grubs. It was probably better than being all crooked in the chairs, but there was also no way to avoid the fact that they were laying in their own piss. Besides the hum of the computers, it had been the one sound that Ray could identify all night, the gurgle of the floor drain.
They had been gagged with duct tape until an hour ago, a single long strip wrapped again and again around their heads at mouth level. The older kid, Derek, had trouble breathing all night, but Meek hadn’t adjusted the tape when he’d come down to check on them at four in the morning. The younger one had cried once in his sleep, a little sound that came out as a pitiful sob, but there had been nothing more.
By way of contrast, Meek seemed very much alive when he’d helped Ray back down the stairs. They’d talked during their meal about Ray’s article, about how he would parlay his new scoop into a successful career, about the money he’d make and how he’d spend it. Meek drove the conversation as he attached a small wooden frame to the bottom of each of the kids' chairs, a little electric servo, and some wire leads. Ray understood to keep quiet as he watched, puzzled at the contraptions. They were actuators of some sort. Something would fit into the frame... but it wasn't clear just what, and the little electric motor was confounding. The elation in Seth’s eyes, however, was tangible – his animation was intoxicating. It was clear that the numbers were in, clear that people wanted him to move forward.
Bolo lifted his head and then dropped it again. "Hungry.”
“You won’t be soon,” Meek said as he worked at his laptop.
Ray watched their reactions. The camera and lights were repositioned now, looming over them like vultures waiting to pick at their bones, and both were faced with the single eye of their salvation. He could see hope on their faces. Hope that the world would hear them… save them. It was different for each; Saul was stoic. He glanced from side to side seeing nothing, focusing inward. Bolo, on the other hand, stared at the lens. Occasionally his flakey lips would move in rehearsal. Both kids were red from where the tape was ripped away, and both bled from where either hair or bits of flesh had been torn free. They were miserable, completely cut off from their element and at the mercy of forces that must have been utterly terrifying.
“Why?” Bolo finally asked. He was exhausted. The kid coughed, and then raised his head again to look at Meek.
“Evidently the people that voted last night didn’t think that you should just walk off. A hundred million or so thought you should go to trial. My trial.”
“Man fuck you man,” Bolo rasped. “Fuck you and your old lady too. She was a sweet ride."
Ray watched, completely unaware of the shock on his face. The man who had apologized upstairs just minutes ago for the lack of menu had turned 180º. The almost tranquil Seth Meek had changed. He’d stopped typing, but still stared at the monitor. Eyes closed. Then he stood.
“Seth, wait…” Ray said. That had done it, he’d slipped over the edge and without warning, Ray realized that he was about to see another human being die. It was no longer a lingering dream, drawn out through the aches of endless nights – it wasn’t a fantasy, this Bolo kid was about to die. Badly. Ray’s mouth went dry, he floundered for words and his mind tangled in thoughts of pity and revenge.
Meek closed the distance in four strides, leaned down, and then whispered something to the kid. He didn’t scream, didn’t spit in the acne scared face, didn’t take apart the skull that contained all of that hate… he just whispered. Derek was silent, and then as Seth rose from his crouch, went ballistic. He lurched and wrestled with the boards until he let go in one final peal of fury, dropped his head to the side and went limp. He panted like a beaten dog. Then began to cry. Derek Siclo had just learned that the whole world knew about his daddy.
Ray thought he would vomit. Chemicals raced through his body telling him to flee, to fight, to do anything but stay right where he was, but there was no choice. Meek returned to his computer as if nothing had happened, and without so much as a tremble, resumed his typing. This wasn’t right. Ray was overloaded, his mind fragmented when he needed it most. Panic. He didn’t want to see death. Let the system deal with these two, keep them out of sight, out of mind. He suddenly didn’t care if they lived or died, just so long as he didn’t have to deal with them any more.
“It’ll pass Ray,” Seth said as he worked. His voice offered a point of light and Ray zeroed in on it from the fog of panic. “It’ll pass, just relax. Keep your head. Remember what’s happening here.” Meek turned his head and stared directly at him. And even as the kid lay weeping in the background, Ray could see the sanity in Seth’s eyes. "Remember… you’re here to feel it all. To go through everything that the people out there don’t have to g
o through, and to make it real to them. That’s your job.”
Meek turned back to the computer and a moment later said aloud, “This bitch has four holes and I’m going to use them all… that’s what he said Ray.”
Ray felt his body reel forward and vomit spilled down his chin and chest, he heaved again and again until all he was left with were the words. “I can’t…” He repeated this over and over as strings of spit dripped from his lips.
A hand came down on the back of his neck, cool and gentle, it felt like the embrace of a father.
He sobbed, “I can’t.”
Seth’s voice came to him above the drumming in his ears. "It’s not about you Ray. This isn’t some game for you. You can’t turn off the computer and go back to cutting the lawn or bitching about your taxes or wishing you could screw the neighbor. You have to watch. You have to be here to convince the people who can turn it off that my family was real.”
The smell rose up under them, and Ray wretched again, spitting in frustration when his body was through. “God damnit!” he screamed into his lap.
“You understand?” Seth asked.
“Fuck you,” his head came up. "Fuck you all! What’s wrong with you people?” He groaned, which was as much as he could muster.
Meek’s hand stayed put for another minute, and then he slid back into his seat, "Now you understand.”
And then came a new voice: Saul’s voice, “I understand.”
Chapter Sixty
Tumulus
“Here we go…”
“Delay?”
“All set…” The newsroom director looked at his monitors. "Cue it, right side, and cut in…”
Jury of Peers Page 31