Your weapon, your kit, and only then yourself--that's the order of things. I wanted to ease my magazine springs; it wasn't strictly necessary, but I felt that I needed to do it to mark the end of one phase and the beginning of a new one.
By now Kelly was sound asleep.
I plugged in the telephone to recharge it. It was my lifeline.
Then I tipped all the supplies out of the bag and sorted them out. The new clothes were put to one side, and I packed the CTR stuff back into the duffel. I was pissed off about having to leave the video camera on the roof; it would be found and a connection inevitably made between us and the shooting.
Plus, the videotape was lost, and that might have been of use to Simmonds--it might even have been enough to guarantee me a future.
I repacked the kit and lay back on the bed, hands behind my head. Listening to the low drone of the air-conditioning, I started to think about this whole fucking game and how people like me and McGear were the ones that got used time and time again. I was starting to feel sorry for myself. I cut it. McGear and I both had a choice; this was what we chose to do.
There were a few good things that had come out of last night's drama. At least I didn't have to worry about dumping all the blood-and piss-stained clothes that were in the blue duffel. The cops would no doubt match the blood to the Browns', but that was nothing compared with the trouble I was already in. And best of all, I had confirmed a definite connection between Kev, PIRA, the building, and whatever it was that I'd copied from that computer.
I wasn't going to attempt to get the laptop out and start messing around with it now. I was too tired; I'd make mistakes and miss things. Besides, the adrenaline had gone, and the pain across my back and neck was even more intense.
I had a hot shower and tried to shave. McGear's bite marks on my face were scabbing nicely. I left them to sort themselves out.
I dressed in jeans, sweatshirt, and running shoes and reloaded my mags. I needed rest, but I had to be ready for a quick move. The plan was to have a couple hours' sleep and something to eat, then sit down and see what was on the laptop, but it didn't work out. I tossed and turned, snatched a bit of sleep, woke up.
I turned the TV on and flicked through the channels to see ifMcGear was news yet. He was.
The cameras panned the front of the PIRA building, with the obligatory backdrop of police and ambulance crews, then a man faced the camera and started rattling on. I didn't bother turning the volume up; I knew the gist of what he'd be saying.
I was half-expecting to see my piss-covered homeless friend describing what he had heard or seen.
Kelly was starting to toss and turn, probably with pictures ofMcGear in her head.
I lay there looking at her. The girl had done well, without a doubt. The last few days had been chaos for her, and I had really started to worry about it. Seven-year-old kids shouldn't be exposed to this sort of shit. Nobody should. What would happen to her? It suddenly occurred to me that I was worrying more about her than I was about myself.
I woke with the TV still on. I looked at my watch: 9:35. At noon Pat would be calling me. I hit the Off button. I wanted to start working on the laptop. I started to get up and found I could hardly move. I felt like a very senior citizen as I lifted myself off the bed, my neck as stiff as a board.
I made a racket getting the laptop out of the duffel and plugging everything in. Kelly started to wriggle around. By the time I'd got it up and running and connected to the backup drive, she was propped up on one elbow watching me. Her hair looked like an explosion. She listened for a while as I cursed the laptop for not accessing the backup drive, then said, "Why don't you just reboot and then look at the program?" I looked at her as if to say. You fucking smartass! Instead, I said, "Mmm, maybe." I rebooted, and it worked. I turned around and smiled at her and got one in return.
I started to scroll through the files. Instead of the business like file names I'd been expecting, the documents had code words like Weasel, Boy, Bruce. A lot of them turned out to be spreadsheets or invoices I could see what they were, but I didn't know what they meant. To me, the whole forty or so pages could just as well have been in Japanese.
I then opened up the file called Guru. It was just dots and numbers across the screen. I turned to Kelly.
"What's that then, smart guy?"
She looked.
"I'm only seven, I don't know everything."
It was five minutes to noon. I turned the phone on and carried on flicking through the files, trying to make sense of them.
Twelve o'clock came and went.
By a quarter past, the call still hadn't come in. I was sweating. Come on. Pat, I need to get out of the US and back to Simmonds. I have enough information maybe. The longer I stay now, the higher the risk. Pat, I need you!
For Slack to miss an RV there must be a major drama; even when he was high, he'd managed it before. I tried to block dark thoughts by telling myself that he'd call at the next arranged window. But as I carried on halfheartedly on the laptop, I started to feel almost physically sick. My only way out had been lost. I had that awful, sinking feeling that everything was going to go horribly wrong. I needed to do something.
I closed down the laptop and put the backup disk in my pocket. Kelly was half-buried under the covers, watching TV.
I joked, "Well, you know what I'm going to have to do in a minute, don't you?"
She jumped out of bed and threw her arms around me.
"Don't go! Don't go! Stay and watch TV with me. Maybe I can come with you?"
"You can't do that, I want you to stay here."
"Please!"
What could I do? I felt her pain at being scared and alone.
"OK, come with me but you've got to do what I say."
"I will, I will!" She jumped up and went to get her coat.
"No, not yet!" I pointed to the bathroom.
"First things first.
Get in that bath, wash your hair, come out and I'll dry it, then you'll get changed into your new clothes, and then we'll go out. OK?"
She was trembling like a dog about to go for walkies.
"Yeah, OK!" She skipped to the bathroom.
I sat down on the bed and shouted into the bathroom as I flicked through the news channels.
"Kelly, make sure you brush your teeth or they'll all fall out and you won't be able to eat when you're older."
I heard, "Yeah, yeah, OK."
I found nothing more about McGear. After a while I walked into the bathroom. The toothpaste tube hadn't been squeezed.
"Have you brushed your teeth?"
She nodded, looking guilty.
I said, "Well, let's have a smell." I bent down and put my nose near her mouth.
"You haven't. Come on, do you know how to brush your teeth?"
"Of course I know how to brush my teeth."
"Show me then."
She picked up the toothbrush. It was way too big for her mouth, and she was brushing from side to side.
I said, "That's not the way you've been taught, is it?"
She said, "It is, too."
I slowly shook my head. I knew that she would have been taught properly. I said, "All right, we'll do it together." I put some toothpaste on the brush and made her stand in front of the mirror. I stood beside her, and she watched as I pretended to brush. Looking after kids was easy after all. It all came down to EDI: explanation, demonstration, imitation. Just that instead of doing it with a weapon to a room full of recruits, I was doing it with a seven-year-old girl.
"Now with me, like this, then brush around in little circles. And let's make sure we do the backs."
And then it got silly. She started to laugh at the sight of me pretending to brush my teeth, and as she laughed, all the toothpaste sprayed from her mouth and onto the mirror. I laughed with her.
She got on with her bath and changed into her new jeans and sweatshirt. I'd also bought us matching baseball hats at the supermarket, black denim with the words Washington,