"So am I, except that the clerk saw me when I checked in."
"Yeah, but Lane looked sort of Latino and half the people around there looked Latino. I bet the clerk identifies her as the woman who checked in, because she looked like a lot of other women who checked in. And her face is shot up. Good thing I didn't check us in, with Green being black. Then they'd know."
"Maybe Green won't cover for us."
"He couldn't give them too much. He doesn't know who we are, really."
"He could find out. Or give the cops enough information that they could."
"I don't know. I think Texas is a felony-murder state. If he says he doesn't know what was going on, that he was simply a hired bodyguard for Lane, who was doing something with her computer. If he says that, he'll kick clear. If he lets them know that he knew what Lane was doing, then she would have been killed in the course of committing a crime, and that might make a case against him for felony murder."
"So he can't talk."
"He wouldn'tif he knows all this."
"So let's call Bobby; maybe he can get the word back."
We called Bobby from a pay phone. When he came up on the laptop, I wrote:
call me now voice line: emergency.
He called back five seconds after I was off. I'd only talked to him on a voice line a couple of times. The only thing I knew about him was that he was a black guy, who I thought lived someplace in the Mississippi River South. He had one of those soft Delta accents, and was tied into a lot of interesting black people who, in the sixties, would have been called activists, or maybe, in that part of the world, agitators.
"What happened?" he asked, without preamble.
I gave it to him as succinctly as I could, then said, "Somebody's got to get with Green. A lawyer, who can tell him to stick with the ignorant bodyguard story. If he lets on that he knew Lane was committing a crime, then they might."
"Felony murder," Bobby said. "Bad for you, bad for me."
"Yeah. Somebody's got to get in touch."
"I can handle that," Bobby said softly. "How are you?"
"We're good, but we're clearing out. We don't think anybody will be looking for us too hard, but just in case. we're gonna run down, to, ah, Austin."
"Check in from there."
"Talk to you," I said, and hung up.
"Austin?" LuEllen asked.
"It's a big city with lots of people coming and going," I said. "Other than Dallas, it's about the closest big city to Waco."
"Corbeil's ranch." She was quiet for a while, then said, "So now you're on a revenge trip. Forget Jack, you're going to get them because they killed Lane."
"No. If I could, I'd go home right now. But I need to get loose; I can't get loose. The feds have a list of names, they've got murder and evidence of a conspiracy and the IRS attack and maybe what looks like an attack on a major encryption company. They'll eventually start peeling back the names. I've got to figure out what's going on, and get them running that way, or I'm fucked."
She didn't say anything, so eventually I said, "I'm not sure you really need to stay around. From here on out, it's gonna be mostly computer stuff."
"Oh, shit, Kidd. You know I'm not going anyplace," she said irritably.
"Maybe if you."
"Shut up."
So I shut up: I wanted her around.
We stayed the night in Dallas. Given the time the shooting took place, it was too late to make the regular television news. If the papers bothered with it, they wouldn't get more than a few basic facts from the cops. We decided to stay over, and to leave at the peak checkout time in the morning. That's what we did: there'd been nothing on the late-night news and nothing in the morning papers. At eight o'clock, we were headed down 1-35 to Austin.
"Hope Bobby got somebody to Green," LuEllen said, partway down. Neither of us was talking much. The images from the motel were too clear, the kind of images that push you back into your own head.
"He said he would, and he's got good contacts," I said.
"I hope."
Austin used to be a small-town pretty place. Take away the heat, and it's more like Minnesota than the rest of Texas. Twenty years ago, I could have imagined living there, except that the landscape colors weren't mine. Now, there're too many people, and the city has gone from a Great Place to a Pain in the Ass.
Somebody else's problem. We checked into a Holiday Inn and started making phone calls.
what happened?
attorney talked to green this morning. green's in intensive care / wounded legs/thighs / will be okay. green knows felony law, tells cops he didn't know what was going on except client had been attacked several times, had been burglarized, brother shot. he was hired to do bodyguard work. green says he was in bathroom when door knock came, she said they're back and he said stay away but she opened door and shooting started. he says he hit one, cops find blood trail.
he did good. must play dumb.
he does that. cops push him hard but all he has is hiring on recommendation of friendfriend will cover, tells cops he doesn't know lw, doesn't know computers, saw no trouble until shooting started.
ok.
you still working?
yes. irs attack continues?
continues, but closing down now. rumors: feds hunting firewall names, make some busts; nothing in papers. wash post: fbi, nsa in conflict over firewall. rumors: german called copernix does it.
ok. you monitor, we will call daily.
yes. one more thing. the five data strings with the pictures include various 125-200 (approx.) byte files followed by distinct 512-byte/4096-bit files followed by various 350-600 byte files. 4096-bit files are likely ultrastrong keys, but don't know lock. possible photos encrypted/decrypted with keys?
will look.
good. bye.
"What?" LuEllen wanted to know.
"Those goddamned files. As soon as we got them, we should have gone to Mexico or someplace and hid out, and figured them out. If they're killing for them, there's got to be a reason; they must think we can figure them out."
"Why don't you just mail them to the NSA and let them figure them out?"
"Not until I know what they are. If they're important enough to kill for, then they might be important enough that the NSA or the CIA or somebody else would just keep coming after them. Anyway, I've got a new theory."
"Lane had a theory."
"But I have another one. The theory is that AmMath screwed something up so badly that they figured they had to cover it, and the whole thing got out of control when Jack was killed. Now they're killing to cover up the killing."
"Sounds like a bad movie."
"That's what I got," I said.
That afternoon, we got something else. After looking gloomily through the filesI saw how Bobby isolated the 4096-bit file, and there wasn't any question that it was distinct from the garbage before and after, and it did look like a keyI noticed the OMS tab again. The Old Man and the Sea. No, that wasn't right: everyplace I'd seen the whole name, it was Old Man of the Sea: either a mistake, or not Hemingway.
"Let's go," I said.
"Where?"
"Down to the university library. See if I can get somebody to tell me about this Old Man of the Sea."
"Kidd. this is the University of Texas."
"And a damn fine university it is," I said.
"Really?"
"Yup. It is."
"But then if it turns out to be something important, whoever you talk to will probably remember you."
"I think it's a chance we've got to take."
"Couldn't you just look it up on the Internet or something?"
"Well." I scratched my head. I could try, of course, but I'd become so accustomed to thinking of the Net as a large sewer clogged with crap, that it hadn't occurred to me. "We can try."