Донна Эндрюс - Access denied

And at least stakeouts could suddenly turn interesting. Which often meant dangerous, but while Tim wasn't an adrenaline junkie like some Pis, he'd gotten better at dealing with possible danger.

Back at his office he went into his prestakeout drill, putting fresh batteries in his cell phone and digital camera and making sure he had spare batteries and memory cards. He also packed the 35-millimeter camera and a supply of film. Digital worked better for Turing, but the courts still preferred film, so

he tried to shoot things both ways. He topped off the supply of food and water. He had map books in the car, along with his birding kit—binoculars, Audubon Guide, and the battered pocket notebook containing his life list. Not that this bird-watching gig was anything more than a cover story. But he'd had to learn something to carry off the dodge, and besides, it kept him from going stir-crazy on long stakeouts. He grabbed a few other goodies from his tool kit and was ready to go.

Well, almost ready. One last thing.

He picked up his desk phone, pulled a business card out of his pocket, and dialed a number. He could probably have dialed from memory, even after only a month, but he liked the small ritual of pulling out the card.

Of course he got her voice mail.

"Hey, Nikki," he said. "It's Tim. Look, I'm going out on a stakeout. As far as I know it won't go late, so I should be back in plenty of time for dinner, but I'll probably just come straight over. So if you need to reach me, call my cell phone. See you later!"

After hanging up, he fretted for a few minutes. Did the message sound okay? Did it come across too much like bragging? Too casual? Too eager? No way to tell. Stop worrying, he told himself.

And should he tell Turing and Maude he wanted to knock off at nine-thirty for a late dinner when Nikki got off work? Odds were he'd be finished by then, and if not, he could either tell Nikki work was running late or guilt-trip Maude into taking over. He'd worry about that later.

Tim has gone to the house in Oakton-t

and Maude has alerted Samantha, our attorney, that Tim had an assignment. After several close calls, we began officially hiring Tim only through Sam. It kept curious eyes one layer further away from

lb Donna Andrews

me and ensured that Tim's work for us came under attorney-client privilege.

We warned Sam that she might have to bail Tim out from time to time — literally or figuratively. That not everything he did would necessarily be completely orthodox and or done through proper channels.

"I worked five years in the public defender's office before I lit out on my own," Sam said. "I've defended every kind of scumbag and felon. I think I can handle any little scrapes Tim gets himself into. Just make sure he memorizes my cell phone number and zips his mouth at the first sign of trouble and we'll do fine."

I suspected eventually we'd need to tell Sam a lot more. About my real identity, for example, and the search for Nestor Garcia and T2. Sam knew we were hunting, of course, but as far as she knew. Garcia was merely an unscrupulous, illegitimate corporate rival who'd stolen a highly valuable piece of software and whom we suspected of plotting to steal others. And I was merely a brilliant though eccentric and extremely reclusive hacker. But at some point, Tim might not be the only one who needed bailing out, and I couldn't expect Sam to protect my secret if she didn't even know it.

And I'd become increasingly aware of how difficult that secret made things for me and my human friends. Since we couldn't explain Garcia's theft or abduction ofT2 without revealing my nature, we couldn't ask the police or the FBI for help. We had to find her ourselves. We'd become vigilantes. I wasn't happy with the compromises I'd already made with the law and my own self-imposed ethical rules while looking for T2. But they were necessary.

Now I was dragging Tim deeper into the same dangerous territory. I hoped Samantha P. Jordan, Esquire, was as good as everyone said she was.

I channeled my worry over Tim's legal safety into a background task and focused on our target, the house to which the online orders were being delivered. According to Fairfax County's online real estate database, James S. and Eugenia R. Anderson had owned it since 1988. When I entered the address in a reverse directory, I got J.S.

and E.R. Anderson and a phone number, so presumably they also lived there.

Maude called the number from a pay phone, but she only got an answering machine.

What did this have to do with Nestor Garcia?

Probably nothing. Logically speaking, Garcia was too smart to reuse the card at all, much less for something as easy to trace as a UPS delivery.

Or was I overestimating humans' grasp of logic?

Maude didn't think so, but then Maude was also human. And had been acting rather illogical herself today. Being testy with me. I wasn't sure why.

This was a new dilemma. Normally when I had questions about human behavior I asked Maude. What was I supposed to do when Maude was herself the subject of my question?

I decided to ask Sigmund, the psychotherapy AI P. I might have found Aunty Em more congenial, but she was a bit of a gossip, and she and Maude talked often these days.

"Hey, Sigmund," I said. "Can I talk to you for a second? I think maybe I have a problem."

"Of course," Sigmund said. "I'm always happy to listen. It's important to talk to someone before your problems overwhelm you."

"It's not overwhelming me," I said. "I only just noticed it."

"That's good," Sigmund said. "Acknowledging that you have a problem can be the first step toward healing."

This wasn't going as I'd hoped, but I kept trying.

"I think Maude is upset with me," I said. "And I can't figure out why."

"Why do you think Maude is upset with you?" Sigmund said.

"She's been curt lately," I said. "And we haven't had as many casual conversations as usual. I know she's busy, but this isn't like her. I think something's bothering her."

"Are you sure you're not just imagining things?" Sigmund said. "Taking her behavior a little too personally? So many factors affect people's behavior — do you really think that something you have

done is responsible for how Maude feels? Many other things in her life could be causing her preoccupation."

"In other words, it's not all about me," I said. "I know that, but actually Maude doesn't have many things in her life that aren't related to me. She spends mornings helping me run Universal Library and afternoons here at Alan Grace, and that doesn't leave much time for anything else."

"Surely she has other friends?" Sigmund asked. "Other interests? Hobbies?"

"She doesn't have much time for her friends these days," I said. "She's said that. Or for hobbies. Except gardening. She recently moved to a house with a yard, and she's been doing a lot of gardening. But we share that, too."

"Gardening?" Sigmund seemed surprised. I'm not sure how I could tell — it's not as if the electronic impulses that carried our words could easily express emotion. But somehow I knew he was surprised.

"I've been taking an interest in gardening," I said. "And helping Maude."

"Helping her how?"

"I research plant care for her," I said. "Find plants suitable for the growing conditions in her yard. And often I mail-order them for her, because she doesn't have time to go to garden centers. I had Casey, our hardware guy, set up a camera system in her garden, so I can enjoy it. Although that has proven useful, too: I can keep an eye on things — tell her when various plants need watering or weeding. I almost think of it as our garden."

"Have you considered that perhaps Maude would like to spend more time with her human friends?" Sigmund asked. "That she might be tired of spending all her work and recreation time with an AIP?"