26
It was close to midnight when Wyman Ford turned the rental car in at the gate of the Broadbent ranch. They had been driving on washboard dirt roads for hours, and he was thoroughly shaken up and coated with dust. He had been unable to call Broadbent to warn them that he was coming—neither he nor Melissa had a cell phone. He hoped he would find his friend at home. As he pulled up before the ranch house, automatic motion-sensor lights went on, illuminating the outside.
“This really is the middle of nowhere,” said Melissa. “Dorothy knew what she was doing.”
“You wait here.”
Ford stepped out of the car, into the pool of light. An unannounced, midnight arrival at an isolated ranch might not be greeted with open arms. Broadbent appeared at the door, his tall frame stooped. Sure enough, he was sporting a 12-gauge.
Ford stood in the light. “Tom!”
“Wyman!” Broadbent propped the gun up and came down the steps, striding over and shaking Ford’s hand, slapping him on the back. “What the hell? Don’t you believe in phones?”
“We’re in a little fix,” said Ford.
Broadbent squinted at the car. “Who’s that? Girlfriend?”
“No. And I’m going to frustrate the hell out of you by telling you, up front, that you’ve just learned all you’re going to learn about her or what we’re doing. We need to hide our car in your barn and get to work.”
“What kind of work?”
“Computer work.”
“Is it illegal?”
“That’s one of the questions you don’t want to ask.”
“Okay, I get it. But instead of putting that car in the barn—first place they’ll look—I’ll drive it up the arroyo and park it behind the butte. Your friend, does she have a name?”
“Melissa.”
“You and Melissa, come on in.”
On cue, Melissa emerged from the car, slapping off the dust, still dirty from the mountains. After two hundred miles on dirt roads, their rental car, once blue, was so caked with dust it had turned brown. She reached into the back and pulled out Ford’s laptop, wrapped in plastic.
“Hungry? Thirsty?” Broadbent glanced at Melissa. “Shower?”
“Later. How’s your Internet connection?”
“We set up our own high-speed T1 line. I needed it for my vet practice—e-mailing X-rays and so forth.”
“How fast?” Melissa asked.
“Supposed to be a hundred megabits per second, up and down.”
“Take me to an Ethernet jack. I need to get to work.”
For a guy who had money, thought Ford, Tom Broadbent lived like a monk. The ranch house was small and sparsely furnished. The bullet holes in the living room wall, which Ford recalled from an unpleasant incident a few years ago, had been spackled and painted, leaving shiny spots. Tom hadn’t bothered to repaint the entire room.
“How’s Sally?” Ford asked, referring to Broadbent’s wife.
“She’s sleeping the sleep of the just. Nothing wakes her up, not even scoundrels arriving unannounced at midnight.”
He brought them into a tiny study and showed Shepherd the Ethernet jack. “There’s also Wi-Fi,” he said.
“I’m afraid I’m going to have to disable your Wi-Fi and use an Ethernet cable. Better control that way.” She set down the laptop. “I’m going to need some small Phillips and flat-head screwdrivers, an X-Acto knife, needle-nosed pliers, some rubber-tipped tweezers, small surgical forceps, and, um, an empty pill bottle and canned air.”
“Coming right up,” said Broadbent, and he left.
“What’s all that for?”
“You can bet the FBI and NASA have their best IT guys looking for Dorothy. And for us. I need to modify this laptop to create an environment where Dorothy will be safe and where I can fix her. I’ve also got to set up a web of proxy servers so we can’t be traced.”
“You can do all this on an ordinary laptop?”
“Yes. I keep all my programming tools online.”
“So how will she know you’re online?”
“She’ll know. But even if she doesn’t, I can find her. Dorothy carries a unique ID. It acts as a tracer. When Dorothy moves from computer to computer through the Internet, her ID leaves a digital bread crumb trail.”
Broadbent returned with the tools. “You’re lucky I’m a vet.”
“Thanks.” Melissa laid them out on the table and turned to Ford. “This is going to take awhile. Leave me alone.”
Ford followed Broadbent out into the living room.
“Charming friend you’ve got there,” Broadbent said. “Are you sure you and she aren’t…?”
“I’m sure.”
“You can’t be celibate forever.”
“We’re just partners. I only met her two days ago. We’re not compatible.”
“Okay, okay. I have a nice, old single malt here, in case you need medicating while you wait.”
“God, yes.”
Broadbent poured out two small glasses and gave one to Ford. They settled on an old sofa in the living room. Broadbent threw one lanky leg over the other and gazed at Ford for a moment, then shook his head. “Look at you. Always in trouble.”
“I’m easily bored. How’s the vet practice?”
“Shane does most of the real work around here. I made him a partner two years ago.”
“Sally?”
“Teaching over at Ghost Ranch. All is good. Quiet. Not much has happened since that prospector was murdered up in the Maze.”
“Better give Shane tomorrow off. We don’t want him asking questions.”
“No problem. I’ll think of some excuse.”
“Tom, I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this.”
Broadbent waved his hand. “You helped me out big-time when I needed it.”
Melissa’s voice came from the office: “She’s here.”