The driver finally broke the tense silence. “You a witness or something?” he asked.
“What?” Wrestling with his thoughts, Matt had barely heard the question.
“I asked if you were a witness or something,” the driver repeated. “Usually, we wind up shuttling people who work late in the office, with the occasional personal delivery or family emergency. I know all of the partners’ kids, so that lets you out on the last bit. You look like you’re going to blow a valve back there, so I figured maybe you’re some kind of surprise witness the firm is keeping under wraps for a big case.”
For a crazy minute Matt felt the desire to go along with the guy. He could probably spin out some sort of story. After all, his folks were always watching courtroom holodramas. It would take his mind off…
But that brought his mind right back to the problem he would face when this ride was over.
“A friend of mine is in trouble,” Matt finally said. “I’ve been asked to talk to him, to help put his mind at ease.”
“Yeah, kids today, always getting into something weird. Myself, I blame the Net. Back when I was a kid, all we had was TV and the movies. You guys may laugh at the old stuff as ‘flatfilm,’ but that was real entertainment. We never had problems back then….”
Right, Matt thought. Back when Washington had the highest per capita murder rate of any city in the country.
He let the driver talk on, thinking Matt was going to visit another teenager, until they finally arrived in Winters’s neighborhood.
“Huh,” said the driver. “Nice enough area. Isn’t that always the way?”
He pulled up on the street. “I’ll wait for you here until you’re finished.” The man gave him a conspiratorial wink. “No need to hurry. It’s all on the law firm’s tab.”
Matt took a deep breath and walked up the drive. The last time he’d been here — barely two weeks ago — the place had been crawling with Net Force I.A. technicians. Now Winters’s house looked deserted. The lawn was overgrown, obviously way past due for mowing, and the flower beds needed weeding.
I guess the captain isn’t coming outside to take care of yardwork, Matt thought.
Mr. Winters, Matt corrected himself.
Well, he probably wouldn’t want to mow, or paint, or even bring out the garbage, if that meant having people stare at him as if he were an animal in the zoo. Or, worse, if they were trying to thrust microphones into his face and ask him inane questions.
Winters had clearly disappointed the camera crews posted outside the house by not offering holo opportunities of any sort. At least the network vans were gone now, working the standard news cycle on some other story. An old saying popped into Matt’s head. “The moving finger writes and, having writ, moves on.”
Except in this case it was more like “The news ruins a life, and having ruined, moves on.”
What was he going to find inside this house?
Matt reached the door and rang the bell. No answer. He should have realized it wouldn’t be as easy as all that. How many reporters, camera crews, photographers, and just plain curious idiots had rung this bell since Winters’s appearance on Washington People?
Actually, Matt was surprised to hear the faint sound of chimes inside. If he’d had to put up with this much nonsense, he’d have disconnected the doorbell.
Unless, of course, the chimes were announcing an incoming call….
Matt waited a minute. No chimes. Then he hit the button and heard the faint sound. Okay, he wasn’t just standing out here like an idiot.
No, he was. Winters wasn’t answering his bell.
Matt tried a couple more short taps. Then he had it. He stretched out his thumb and just leaned on the bell. The faint sound of never-ending chimes seemed to travel up his arm.
The briefest movement at the window caught his attention. The drawn drapes had twitched. Someone was taking a look outside.
Matt let up on the bell, and a second later the door opened. There stood James Winters, staring at him.
Well, at least the captain’s still shaving, Matt thought. He’d had this wild mental image of Winters turning into a stereotypical hermit, with long hair, a beard, and wild, red-rimmed eyes.
James Winters’s face was thinner, the flesh seemingly stretched tighter over the bones of his skull. There were a few new lines at his eyes and on his brow. His expression was full of surprise as he took in his visitor.
“Matt!” Winters said. His voice had a strange, rusty sound to it.
Not surprising, Matt realized. If the man was staying in his house and not answering the door or the phone, who would he talk to, except himself?
And that might not be a good thing.
Winters seemed to remember his manners. “Come in!” he invited. “Sorry about the door. Last time I bothered to answer, there was some jackass with a camera and an autograph book. Called himself a murder buff. I was almost tempted to let him see how a murder worked — firsthand.”
The captain’s face set in bitter lines. “I mean, it couldn’t do me any more damage than when this travesty goes to court.”
They went into the living room. Matt was caught a little off-guard to see that the computer system had been removed. Then again, why should that be a surprise? It meant the room would be free of incoming calls and network news. Of course, it also meant no entertainment or research. If Winters was doing any preparation for his trial, he wasn’t doing it here.
But there were traces of occupancy. Books lay on various pieces of furniture, several of the volumes resting facedown and open. Matt’s mother hated to see that. “It breaks the bindings,” she complained. “We’re not going to have these things around forever, so let’s not be in a hurry to destroy them.”
Then Matt spotted something familiar on the sofa. It was a large, cylindrical scroll of paper — the statement of support Matt had delivered with the signatures of all the Net Force Explorers. He remembered how clumsy the bulky package had been to carry. Now it was undone, loose, and somewhat crumpled, as if it had been unrolled and read many, many times.
Matt could feel his face grow warm.
Winters came up behind him and followed his gaze. “You’re looking at the relic?” he asked.
“Relic?” Matt echoed.
“A fossil, from the long-lost days when I could say something and people would believe me.”
“We still believe you,” Matt said. “All the Net Force Explorers believe you, Captain.”
“Mister,” Winters cut in. “‘Captain’ is a Net Force title. Another relic.” He shook his head. “All those years on the job, and it disappears in less than a week. People you risked your life for — and with — suddenly don’t know you—”
“I’ve talked to the Squirt — Mark Gridley — his dad believes in you, too. He just can’t speak out—”
“Oh, yes, political concerns. You see a lot of those in Washington. I’m sure I’ve got a personal message from him somewhere in the answering system.”
It wasn’t the words that chilled Matt’s soul — although they were pretty upsetting. Even more upsetting was the bleak, lost look in Winters’s eyes as he spoke.
This wasn’t the James Winters Matt knew — sometimes stern, sometimes sharp-tongued, with a quick sense of humor and a tremendous concern for the young people entrusted to him.
This was a man who’d been dragged through the mud and then kicked a few times while he was down. He was wounded, and it showed.
Matt felt Winters’s eyes resting on him. “So, this situation is most intriguing. My lawyer called earlier today. Counselor Laird was quite insistent on getting me to the phone. He wanted to ask me about one Matthew Hunter. Afternoon comes, and the same Matthew Hunter appears at my door. Coincidence? I think not.”