“That’s the other reason I called. We got a quick ping from the girl’s laptop at a hospital in southern Oregon. Bert’s team is on the way.”
“Bertram and his men are a blunt instrument. You need a scalpel. Tell them to find a hotel and wait.”
“There’s a lot at stake here. This is looking more and more like the big one, the one we’ve been waiting for. The payoff will be, well, substantial.”
The salesman had always required some kind of external motivation, thought Shepard. In the old days it was recognition from his superiors, rationalized by some vague notion of national security. Now it was a desire for financial gain at the very highest level.
Shepard had always taken whatever money came along. He had enough already, but he knew that more money meant more choices in his next life. He also enjoyed managing it, the clarity of the financial markets. There was something pleasing in the purity of numbers that allowed him to set aside the complexities of the human world. But at the end it was just a form of play, like his work with the salesman. Once he’d crossed a certain threshold, money was incidental.
He’d always felt that the challenge of work was its own reward.
And this job was starting to look more challenging than any he’d seen since the desert. Not the girl, but her helper. Her protector.
A bow and arrow, of all things.
“You have my attention,” he told the salesman. “I’m on my way.”
His tomatoes would have to wait.
20
PETER
It was after midnight, and the highway ahead was lit only by their headlights. They were driving through the night, staying off the interstate, heading for Seattle.
June had the cruise control set only a few miles over the speed limit. It was Peter’s idea, to keep her from going ninety. His foot was up on the dash, the protective boot removed, a fat plastic bag of ice draped over the swollen spot. They were trading it back and forth, his leg to her lip. They’d each had some ibuprofen. Peter wouldn’t have minded a beer.
“Tell me again,” he said. “Your mom said the algorithm, this Tyg3r, would contact you.”
“Yeah, I don’t get it, either. Is it going to send me an email? Friend me on Facebook?” She took her hands off the wheel and waved them in the air. “Fucked if I know.”
Peter liked how much she swore. Just like the carpenters he’d worked with in high school. Nouns, verbs, and profanity. Hand me that fucking skilsaw, would you? The carpenters were worse than the Marines.
“How smart is this thing?”
“An algorithm isn’t a thing, it’s code designed to perform a task. And my mom said it was like a stupid cockroach. Which is pretty smart for software. It’s also designed to learn and improve its function. I’m not a coder, so I can’t really tell you more than that. I know a guy in Seattle who might be able to help. That is, if this algorithm ever writes me a letter. I’ll start on those names when you’re driving again. Nicolet the lawyer, and those guys, you know. From the mountains.”
The dead guys, thought Peter. They would have killed him if they could. They’d certainly done their best. It wasn’t like he’d had a choice.
“I can drive now, if you like,” he said.
June pulled the car to the shoulder, where the asphalt turned to gravel. Peter strapped on the medical boot and got out to stretch his stiff muscles in the cool wet breeze, looking out into the darkened trees as anonymous headlights flashed by behind them.
“You’re really okay?” she asked, not quite looking at him. “Pretty crazy day today.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Peter said, smiling into the dark. He was supposed to be taking care of her, but here she was, trying to take care of him. “Today seemed fairly normal to me. Maybe one major event.”
“Just one? You bullshit artist. Let’s see, which one?” She ticked off each item on her fingers. “You climbed a three-hundred-foot redwood. Got shot at, twice. Totaled my car. Saved my life, at least twice. Fractured your leg, cracked some ribs.” She paused for a moment, and Peter wondered how far she’d get into this. She took a breath. “You also killed at least one man, maybe more, depending on how you see things. You got stuck in the hospital, which made your post-traumatic stress flare up. And now we’re on the run in the middle of the night from whoever is hunting me.”
“That’s all true,” said Peter. “But not what made the day exceptional.” It was easier to talk like this in the dark, when he couldn’t really see her face. But he could feel the pressure of her attention like a physical thing.
“Oh, yeah?” she said. “What was it?”
“We should keep moving,” he said, and began to limp around the front of the minivan to the driver’s side. The headlights ruined his night vision, he could barely see her silhouette. He definitely couldn’t see her face.
“Hey,” she said. “What made the damn day exceptional?”
He smiled at her as he opened the door, the dome light illuminating his face.
“That’s easy,” he said. “I met you.”