“So you were on the flight?”
“Yes, I told yo—”
“And you are friends with Captain Hall.”
“No.”
“But you had coffee with her.”
Lyle blew air out, wordlessly conceding the complexity. He hadn’t told Jerry about the note Eleanor found in her pocket with Lyle’s phone number. “I think I gave her my number in Steamboat,” Lyle finally said.
“You think? You think?” Jerry laughed condescendingly. He leaned back in the driver’s seat and gripped the steering wheel of the parked car. Lyle could see it for a second from Jerry’s perspective, and it looked bad.
“So how much do you remember about hacking into my e-mail?” Jerry asked.
Lyle let the question roll around in his head.
“I know who did that,” he said quietly. He was speaking mostly to himself. Some things falling into place. “Can you give me a lift to my place?”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Tell me about the e-mails,” Lyle said, feeling and sounding clinical, distant.
“Fuck you. Are you even a real doctor?”
Lyle was no longer listening to this foulmouthed pedant. He said, “I think you and Eleanor and I need to meet.”
“Tell me who wrote them or I’ll fucking kill you.”
Lyle didn’t doubt it. In fact, he flashed on an elusive memory of this faux cowboy firing his weapon at close range. Then it disappeared.
“Maybe someone named Jackie Badger,” Lyle said. “Can I get a lift to my house? I’ll tell you as we go.”
Jerry, feeling good about being in the driver’s seat—literally and, in his own mind, proverbially—softened a touch. He steered the Miata in light traffic and, through his accusatory questions, started to betray what had happened. Best as Lyle could put it together, Jerry couldn’t remember what happened, either. But when he got back to San Francisco, he’d been confronted, like Eleanor, by the airlines. Unlike with Eleanor, the airline had unearthed e-mails supposedly written by Jerry that expressed nearly violent anger at his employer and saying that he would take serious measures if he wasn’t treated more fairly. The e-mails had been sent to Eleanor in the days preceding the flight. The airline discovered them looking on its own server.
“Even if I was pissed at the airline, which I am not, would I send e-mails on their server? How stupid do they think I am?”
Lyle didn’t take the bait on that one. Besides, he was focused on more things falling into place for him, and more certainty that a woman named Jackie Badger somehow was in the middle of this. Her LinkedIn profile said she worked at Google, which suggested computer expertise and, just maybe, gave her access to the driverless car that had followed Lyle and that was three car lengths back from the Miata. Lyle kept one eye on the passenger-side mirror, watching the eerie bubble. He thought he knew what to do about that. It was why he was getting a ride home.
Lyle now suspected that Jackie might’ve had the computer skills to hack into Jerry’s account. Why exactly was not clear. She was connected to Google.
Another thing, Lyle suddenly realized, Jackie Badger had the initials J.B.; same as the initials of Jennifer Babcock, the mystery woman or fictional creation that had invited him to Steamboat.
“She was on the flight,” Lyle said. “I think. Maybe.”
“How do you know that?”
“When we meet with Captain Hall, we’ll put it together.”
Outside the apartment building, they paused, caught momentarily by an urgent-sounding back-and-forth on the cop scanner. “11-54,” said a woman’s voice on the scanner. “City Hall.”
“Suspicious vehicle,” Jerry said and turned up the scanner. Then, suddenly, “11-99” and then shots. A flurry of audio traffic followed that became impossible for Lyle to follow. Jerry turned off the radio and stared at Lyle.
“What the hell do they expect to happen?” Jerry said, which also made no sense to Lyle.
“Who?”
“They’re going to take our guns. But, then again, you just can’t go shooting the good guys, either.”
Lyle realized that Jerry sounded as contradictory and, yet, certain of himself as a two-bit radio talk-show host. Then Lyle made a random connection that nearly left him laughing. He imagined that if Jerry were a virus, he’d be the common cold; mostly harmless but impossible to avoid and, if contracted during a period of frailty or bad timing, could turn to pneumonia and kill you. A simple creature, Lyle decided, but not simply dismissed.
Jerry insisted on coming upstairs with Lyle. Inside, the flight officer made a show of checking the safety on his gun, making sure Lyle could see his nine millimeter.
Lyle pulled his phone from his pocket and plugged it in at the kitchen counter where he kept his charger. He made sure the phone was on. Then he gave it a loving pat and left it there. This all went unnoticed by Jerry, which was neither here nor there. Lyle excused himself to the bathroom. He opened the medicine cabinet and fished around among the mostly empty bottles. He found the one he was looking for. He’d saved it for a rainy day, a really bad, really rainy day. That kind of day might have arrived. He put the two little white pills in his pocket.
Absent his precious device, Lyle walked back down the stairs with Jerry behind him. Lyle led him the back way out.
“I ask only one favor, Jerry.”
“You’re not in a position to—”
“Go around front and get the car and pick me up here.”
“I’m not leaving you.” Jerry smirked.
Lyle gave the first officer his wallet and keys as collateral. “I think we’re being followed,” Lyle said. “Let’s not take any chances.”
For some reason, this conspiratorial logic appealed to Jerry. For Lyle’s part, this was conspiratorial but also likely: the driverless car, he thought, was tracking him via his cell phone and, possibly, taking video of him. Who knew? Anything was possible, given the improbability of everything that had already happened.
Ten minutes later, Jerry appeared in the Miata in the alley behind Lyle’s apartment. Sweat beaded his forehead.
“If anyone was following us, he’s not now,” Jerry said. Lyle climbed in. Jerry continued. “First in my class in evasive maneuvers in a workshop three years ago put on for gun-certified first officers.”
“Would you mind turning off your phone?” Lyle asked.
“Are you kidding me? You’re giving me orders?”
“Phones can be tracked. Just a precaution.”
“Screw you,” Jerry said. But he turned off his phone.
Jerry stopped in front of a white house with a tall fence in a neighborhood Lyle couldn’t recall ever seeing. Less dense houses, bigger than flats, unattached, virtually suburban. So it was in San Francisco; the neighborhoods and architectural patches like the residents themselves, all over the map. It was called Forest Hill and aptly so, with trees and hills.
Lyle got out of the car. “This one?” He gestured to the two-story white house.
“Don’t pretend you don’t know,” Jerry said. He started walking up the hill without explanation as to why he hadn’t parked in front of the house they were evidently walking to. Maybe he was testing Lyle or maybe sneaking up on Eleanor or maybe, Lyle thought bemusedly, this was some trick he learned in first-officer-gun-carrying school. Lyle followed Jerry to the house.
Lyle felt a rush of urgency. They were running out of time and he didn’t even know what the stakes were. It was like he was bedside with a patient with mysterious symptoms, nothing he’d ever seen before, but who most assuredly would die in hours if Lyle didn’t figure it out.