“I was his-” Mary cut herself off. She had no reason to say anything more.
“Boots,” said Mindy, halfway out the door.
“Excuse me?” said Mary.
“The good-looking guy called the fat one Boots. They looked like they were friends. Just sayin’.”
Mindy closed the door behind her.
“Anything else I can help you with?” asked Cal Miller.
“There is.” But Mary didn’t know what. There had to be something. She hadn’t driven twenty-five miles just to find out that Joe had eaten his last lunch with a fat FBI agent nicknamed “Boots” with a heart condition and a New York accent. Unfortunately, she didn’t have a clue who Boots might be, and she didn’t think Don Bennett, Randy Bell, or anyone else at the FBI would appreciate her asking. Certainly not Edward Mason. Not after her promise to keep her nose out of Joe’s business and his none-too-subtle threat to jail her if she didn’t. Besides, she didn’t want to jeopardize the nation’s security.
National security. The twenty-four-carat unimpeachable excuse for any and all government actions. Question at your peril.
“Ma’am?”
Mary sighed and stood up, knowing that she was forgetting something but not knowing what. “Thank you,” she said finally as she squeezed past the stuffed armadillo and the desk.
Cal Miller opened the door. “If you’re hungry, I’ll be happy to get you whatever you’d like. On the house. We’re famous for our chicken fried steak.”
National security. And then it came to her. What about the Nutty Brown Cafe’s security?
“Cameras,” she blurted. “You have security cameras, don’t you?”
Miller nodded. “Like everybody else, but I’m not sure they’ll be any help.”
“How many do you deploy?”
“Deploy?” said Miller. “We’ve got twenty-five cameras on the premises. The insurance company demands that we keep every square foot of the place covered.”
“So there’s a camera inside the restaurant?”
“Two. On the front door and the cash register. And of course there are several on the parking lot. That’s where the trouble usually takes place. Fistfights, altercations, the like. The rest of the cameras are over in the outdoor pavilion. But it might be too late. The disk records over itself every two days.”
“I’d like to take a look anyway.”
“All yours.”
“Let’s start inside.”
60
Jessie spotted the headlights pulling into the driveway. Hurriedly she took a last vape from her e-cigarette. “B rt thr,” she texted.
Backpack. Laptop. Pepper spray. Jessie made sure she had everything she needed, then ran downstairs. Grace sat on the sofa, waving the remote. “Can we start now?”
Jessie left her backpack by the front door and plopped down next to her sister. The TV was tuned to Survivor. “I’ve got to go out, mouse.”
“But it’s the finale. We have to see who won.”
“I know, but this is more important.”
“You’re supposed to look after me. Mom left you in charge.”
“Sorry, but I have to. It’s for Dad.”
“Out where?”
“Out out. That’s all you need to know.”
“When will you be back?”
“I’m not sure.”
“More than an hour?”
“Who are you, Mom?”
“I don’t like being here alone. It’s creepy.”
Jessie shifted on the couch. She’d tried to be patient and understanding, but it wasn’t working. Little kids only thought about themselves. “Lock the door and watch TV. Pretend I’m in my room like I always am anyway. Either way, you need to be in bed asleep by the time Mom comes home. You’ll be okay. I promise.”
“But you’re not in your room.”
Jessie stood. “Grace, you’re almost twelve. You’re going into seventh grade in a few weeks. Grow up.”
“You have to at least tell me what you’re doing.”
“I want to figure out how Mom lost Dad’s message. I think someone hacked into her phone. I’m going to talk to my TA to see if he can help.”
Grace considered this. “You going with Garrett?”
Jessie looked out the window. She could see the blond head, the spiky, carelessly combed hair, at the wheel of the old VW bug. Maddeningly, her heart skipped a beat. “Maybe.”
“You’re wearing makeup.”
“Am not.”
“And perfume. You smell like Mom.”
“Stop being a pest. I have to go.”
Grace followed her sister to the front door. “What if I get scared?”
“You won’t. And besides, Mom will be home before you know it.”
“She’ll know you’re not here.”
“How? She’ll look in my room and think I’m asleep.”
“Sometimes she comes in and sits on my bed. What if she does that to you?”
“I’m fifteen. Mom doesn’t come into my room anymore.”
Grace grabbed her sleeve. “If they hacked into Mom’s phone, they might be watching us.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Why would anyone watch us? Dad’s dead.”
“Why would anyone hack into Mom’s phone?”
Jessie crossed her arms and blew out a frustrated breath. She’d asked herself the same question a dozen times and hadn’t been able to come up with an answer. Which made it all the more important for her to figure out who’d done it. You couldn’t know why without first knowing who. “I’m going. If you tell Mom, I’ll kill you.”
“I won’t.”
“Don’t!” Jessie leaned down and gave Grace a peck on the cheek. “Wish me luck, mouse.”
“Good luck, peanut.” Grace watched her sister run down the walk and climb into the car. “For what?” she shouted after her. “The phone or Garrett?”
61
A child’s bedroom.
Morning. Sunlight streaming through a crack in the curtains.
A girl sleeping in her bed. Blond hair fanned across the pillow. Pink cheeks. An angel.
A tattooed hand brings a razor-sharp blade near the child’s face.
The blade passes over the girl’s chin, her nose, her eyes.
As vipers writhe from the skull tattoo.
One mile away, in the parking lot of a minimall that housed a Papa John’s, a 7-Eleven, and a Green Mesquite BBQ, the Mole sat alone inside the command van, watching the Vine he’d made earlier that morning of Grace Grant.
His angel.
A movement on the primary monitor drew his attention and he put down his phone. It was a VW Beetle pulling into the Grants’ driveway. The Mole sat up straighter, watching the older girl run down the walk and jump into the car. Behind them, framed by the foyer’s light, a thin blond girl stood in the doorway.
The Mole zoomed in on the girl. He saw a rustle of blue nightgown, a sheaf of blond hair, and then the door closed.
He leaned back in the chair, his heart pounding, his eyes unable to leave the monitor.
His angel was alone in the house.
62
“Gentlemen, welcome. I congratulate you on the momentous step you’ve taken I’m grateful for the faith you’ve shown in me personally, and for your belief in my vision for the future. Thank you.”
Ian Prince allowed his words to sink in as he looked out over the executives from Israel sitting among his own lieutenants at dining tables running the width of the room. Graves Hall was a cavernous space with heavy wood paneling and stained glass windows set high on the walls. Candles burned from wrought iron chandeliers. Life-sized portraits of Cerf, Jobs, Berners-Lee, and, of course, himself, stared down from the walls. To Ian’s eye it was a cathedral, a sacred place for worshipping the great minds who had launched the digital revolution.