Robert Ferrigno - The wake-up

Vlad tugged at his socks. "You said you had a lot of respect for Pinto."

"Lot of respect," said Arturo. "After the way he handled himself last night… yeah, he died like a man."

"Then that must mean you have a lot of respect for Thorpe, too," said Vlad.

Arturo's face got red.

"I think he's got you there, Arturo," said Clark. "That's what they call a logical syllogism."

"I'm going to get another ice tea." Arturo stalked toward the kitchen. If Cecil hadn't scooted out of the way, he would have been kicked aside.

There was a beeping from the couch. Missy pulled out her PDA, checked the screen. She opened the e-mail, curious, then closed it, slipped the PDA back between the cushions.

"Who was it, babe?"

"Nobody," said Missy. "Just more junk." "I'm in," said Warren, clapping his hands together like a Vegas dealer making a shift change. "How long, Billy?"

Billy looked out over the beach, impassive and untouchable. The morning light gleamed on his shaved head, his skin so black that it was purple, the color of kings. He was large and powerfully built, but graceful, oddly dapper in ocher slacks, a loose cotton shirt, and a yellow paisley ascot. Sometimes Thorpe thought Billy chose his wardrobe to see if anyone would laugh. No one ever did.

"Billy?"

"Four minutes, fifty-eight seconds," said Thorpe.

Warren's blue-tipped hair was spiked like a cockatoo. "You fucking with me?"

"Not even a remote possibility," said Thorpe.

"Under five minutes…" Warren nodded, flipped Missy's business card back to Thorpe, and went back to the wireless laptop balanced on his knees. "That's acceptable." He sat on a bench just off the beach bike path, wearing a black mesh tank top, Lycra bike shorts, and customized silver-flecked Rollerblades. Without his black leather jacket, he looked scrawny and vulnerable, but his sneer was still in place.

A few minutes ago, Warren had sent Missy spam. She had spiked the free offer without downloading it, but just opening the e-mail had inserted a worm into her operating system, a keystroke-sniffing program that Warren had created himself. Four minutes and fifty-eight seconds later, he had her password and files at his disposal.

"Off-the-shelf encryption… why do people even bother?" Warren sat hunched over, immobile except for his fingers dancing over the keys.

"Can you do it?" asked Thorpe.

"Don't insult me," said Warren.

"In the interest of fair play, I think Warren and I deserve to know what you're up to," said Billy. "The last time I saw you, your little wake-up had gone awry. It doesn't seem like you've made much progress since then."

"Not much."

"If you want our help, if you're exposing us to potential harm, I think it only appropriate that you tell us what you're planning." Billy sat down beside Warren, smoothed his ascot, playful now. "Of course, my own curiosity does factor in, too."

Thorpe hated to admit it, but Billy was right. If Thorpe had leveled with Bishop, he might still be alive. He casually checked the area, but there were only joggers, bicyclists, and skaters, all with their headsets on, moving to their own private beat.

Billy didn't say a word while Thorpe filled him in on what had happened since they had breakfast at the Harbor House Cafe. It had been only eight days since they had sat on the outdoor patio reading Betty B's column, Billy asking Thorpe if it was his doing. Everything had changed at that moment, and Thorpe hadn't even realized it. He told Billy everything that had happened in the last eight days. He left out only Danny Hathaway's involvement and the convenient departure of Gina and Douglas Meachum.

"I'm very sorry to hear about the death of your friend," said Billy when Thorpe was finished.

"We only knew each other for a few days…"

"It's not really a matter of time, is it? It's what you share, the decisions you make."

"He was my friend, Billy."

Billy patted Thorpe's arm, and for a change it wasn't an attempt to be proprietary or intimidating. It was oddly tender. "Don't beat up on yourself, Frank. Mistakes happen. The problem with being a lone wolf is that your mistakes magnify because you have no one to bounce your ideas off of, no one you trust to tell you no. I'm not telling you this to persuade you to work with me; I know you have to carry this wake-up of yours to its conclusion." His eyes were warm. "When you're finished, though, I hope you'll reconsider what we've discussed."

"Thanks, Billy." Thorpe meant it. "I just can't… I just can't quit. Not now."

"That's why you're the best at what you do," said Billy.

"What happened to the businessman who smacked the kid at the airport?" Warren crossed his legs, spun the wheels of his skate. "The art dealer. What happened to him?"

"He's in Hawaii," said Thorpe. "He's drinking mai tais with his wife."

Warren shook his head. "What's the name you want me to hack from her address book?" he asked, fingers poised over the laptop.

"Arturo… I don't know his last name," said Thorpe.

"No big deal," said Warren, tapping away. "I'll just run through her recent e-mail exchanges."

"Don't crash his PDA until I call," said Thorpe. "I don't know when I'll catch up with Missy. You're sure you can do it on a moment's notice?"

"Spare me your doubts, okay?" said Warren. "I'll toast him."

Billy gazed off into the distance, past the Boogie boarders and the building waves, past the curve of the earth, for all Thorpe knew. "You haven't mentioned the Engineer. Was that deliberate?"

"I'm meeting him next week," said Thorpe. "We're going to talk about old times."

Billy raised an eyebrow. "Really? I had no idea your contact had progressed to that stage. Are you sure it's wise?"

"I'm sure."

"You've been on-line with the Engineer?" Warren looked from one to the other. "You should have told me, Billy."

Billy ran a hand across his bare scalp. "Frank knows what he's doing."

"How long do these on-line chats last?" Warren asked Thorpe.

"No more than five or ten minutes," said Thorpe. "I use a cell phone to make my connection. No landline. That's safe, right?"

"Depends on how good the Engineer is," said Warren. "Five or ten minutes isn't enough time to snag your address, but if the hacker is good, really good, he could narrow your location. He could get within a few miles of you."

"A few miles?" said Billy. "No harm done."

Warren glared at Billy. "You should have told me he was talking with the Engineer. That's what I'm here for."

"I apologize," said Billy. "I'm truly sorry."

"Dump your cell phones, Frank, every one of them. Dump them now," said Warren. "I have a box of cloned phones in the car. Take as many as you want. Use them."

"Why are you doing all this?" asked Thorpe. "I appreciate it, but-"

"The Engineer made initial contact with you because of my mistake," said Warren, blue-crested, even more birdlike as he hunched over the laptop. "He backtracked on my own search for him; he used me." His lip curled. "You think you're the only one with a sense of responsibility? The only one who cleans up after himself? Just do me a favor-stay off the Net for a while."

"Scout's honor," said Thorpe.

Thorpe waited for Missy to get out of her car before he called Warren and told him to go ahead and crash Arturo's system. Warren snapped his fingers into the receiver, said, "You're welcome," and broke the connection.

He followed her through the Fashion Island mall for over an hour before making his move, tracked her through Prada and Chanel and Versace, Missy striding along in her sleek forest green skirt and top, snapping her fingers from the dressing rooms, barking at saleswomen. The clothes that didn't meet with her approval were tossed aside, diaphanous dresses thrown onto the floor; those she liked were packaged for delivery later. Fashion Island was four stories of platinum AmEx finery and hauteur, nymphets practicing their sneers as they window-shopped, their mothers proud of their own washboard midriffs, looking like their daughters' older, harder sisters.