Blood Foam: A Lewis Cole Mystery (Lewis Cole series) (21 page)

A mud-splattered black Jeep Wrangler was parked to the side. It had two bumper stickers: one said
MY OTHER VEHICLE GOES AT WARP SPEED
, and the other said
I BRAKE FOR BYTES
.

I tugged my jacket open, just touched the handle of my Beretta. “Does this place look okay? That his Wrangler?”

“Yeah, that’s his Jeep.”

I scanned the yard and surrounding woods. Some time ago, the woods had been thinned out, and it looked almost pastoral, like this tumble-down group of buildings had been placed next to a Disney nature preserve. I didn’t spot any other vehicles, didn’t sense anybody out there lurking to do us harm.

“This guy is supposed to be high-tech, all the tools of the trade to go romping around the Internet?”

“That’s right.”

“Where are the power lines?” I looked up the road and back to the yard. “I don’t see any solar panels, or a fission reactor anyplace near. So where does he get his power?”

“Jack’s a smart one,” Mark said. “He paid to have the power lines to his house placed underground, narrow the chances of losing power in a snow storm or ice storm.”

“That’s pretty pricey.”

“He’s got the money.”

“Yeah, I see him splurging on his real estate. Come on, I’ll let you make the introductions.”

By climbing a creaking set of splintered stairs, we went up to the nearest door, which was on the side of the not-so-mobile home. Mark knocked on the door, yelled out “Hey, Jack! It’s Mark. You in there?”

It was crowded where we were, so I went back to one of the lower steps, leaving Mark between me and the door. Maybe I was just making room, or maybe I was using Mark as a shield in case someone large and mean showed up in the door.

Who knew?

As we waited, I started imagining who this Jack Baker was. I was thinking of a large, bulky guy, beard down to his waist, wearing patched jeans and a Star Trek T-shirt, with all the grooming and hygiene skills one would expect from living as a hermit in these deep woods.

The door opened up. A slim young man opened the door. He had on pressed khakis, brown penny loafers, a hand-knit blue and white turtleneck sweater, carrying a cup of tea with the tea bag still in it. He was about ten years or so younger than me, with short brown hair and bright cheery eyes behind horn-rimmed glasses. He looked like an accountant who was happy that his daily danger quotient only extended to the odd paper cut.

“Hey, Mark, come on in,” he said, opening the door. “Who’s your friend?”

I stepped inside the trailer, found a warm, comfortably laid-out interior, with ivory carpeting, contemporary couches and chairs, and not a single velvet painting of Elvis hanging off the wall. The Beretta at my side, beneath my coat, felt awkward, heavy, and out of place.

It was turning out to be a day of stupid assumptions on my part, and surprises on other people’s parts.

Once we were inside, Mark made the introductions and I shook Jack Baker’s outstretched hand. It was smooth and warm. It didn’t feel like he had spent much time chopping the wood that he used to heat his home.

“Come along,” he said. “Let’s see what I got for you.”

From the rebuilt and well-designed mobile home trailer, Jack led us into the yurt. In the center was a woodstove with a glass door, and inside were the hot orange coals of burning wood. The stove was on a round stone base, and the metal chimney ran up to the high-pitched roof of the yurt.
Curved couches hugged the walls of the yurt, save for one side, which had a curved wooden desk that looked handmade. On the desk were three large computer monitors, and before the desk was a high-tech-looking chair. There were bookshelves, comfortable chairs, and a very large television on the other side. Small porthole-type windows looked out at the surrounding scenery.

He sat down at his high-tech chair, turned it around to look out at us. Mark took one chair and I took another. A black-and-white cat emerged from behind the woodstove, came over and sniffed Mark’s feet, and then rubbed up against my left leg. I rubbed its head and saw it only had one eye.

“Bailey,” Jack said. “Don’t disturb our guests.”

The cat yawned and then trotted back to the warmth of the woodstove. “Can I get either of you gentlemen something to drink?”

I looked to Mark and shook my head, and he said, “No, we’re fine. Jack, look, how close are you to getting the information about my dad?”

Jack lazily crossed his legs. “It’s taking some time, Mark.” He gestured to the three monitors. “Like I told you before, it’s not like I’m trying to hack a department store or the local DMV. I’m diving deep into some very secure, very dark, very dangerous waters.”

“I know that, but—”

Jack talked over him and went on. “The names and addresses of people in the Witness Protection Program are kept in some of the more secure computer storage systems in the world, and you can’t go at it with a sledgehammer. You have to be gentle, quiet, seductive . . . and sometimes you have to hire allies, hackers from other parts of the world, to do a little nibbling from their locations so alarms don’t go off. It’s like seeing a series of fishing lines stretched across a corridor, and you have to step around them, through them, and underneath them without touching a single fiber.”

He took a sip from his tea cup. Mark said slowly, “I appreciate that, Jack. I really do. You’re the best I’ve ever heard of, but . . . please. I’ve come a long way.”

“I know you have,” Jack said, his voice chipper, then giving his attention to me. “Tell me, what do you think of my little rural paradise?”

“Seems rural, seems warm. Depends on your definition of paradise, I suppose.”

“True enough, but it works for me.” He gestured to the terminals with his tea cup. “I have this wonderful, private little homemade home. About fifty acres of land and forest that belong to me. Private well, plenty of firewood, backup generators and batteries for power. Extreme privacy, with not even the post office knowing what I do here. I’m connected to the world—and even the International Space Station, and I hope you can keep that a secret—and with cutouts and anonymous re-mailing services, only a trusted few get to know I’m here. A perfect arrangement.”

With a self-satisfied smile, he took another sip. I looked to Mark. His fists were clenched and it looked like he was about to cry.

Time for an intervention.

I said “Jack, that’s all delightful and such, but as Mark pointed out, he’s in quite the hurry, and so am I. So where is his dad living?”

“Mister Will Mallory?”

“That’s the name,” I said.

With a shrug of his shoulders, Jack said: “I don’t know.”

W
hat!” Mark exclaimed, leaning out of his chair. “You told me that you’d have that information today . . . that it was going to all come together.”

Jack didn’t look upset at all. “It is. I always keep my promises. But, Mark . . . it’ll be here in a few hours, but it’s going to cost more.”

“You didn’t say that.”

“That was then, this is now.” A slight, almost apologetic shrug. “As I said, this kind of work is very delicate. I needed to call in additional resources, additional allies. That means additional expenses. Sorry.”

Mark’s face was flushed. “You didn’t tell me it was going to cost any more. You promised the information for a flat rate. That’s what you promised.”

“Circumstances change,” Jack said. “The information is coming my way in . . .” and he checked the time on the nearest monitor “. . . two hours. Whether it goes to you or to my trash bin is up to you. And another five thousand dollars.”

“Jack . . . please . . . I’m tapped out,” Mark said. “I emptied my savings, did a cash advance on my Visa, and even cashed out my IRA. I don’t have anything more.”

Jack didn’t say a word, just kept on smiling. Mark put his hands together in his lap, folded them tight. Not a word was exchanged.

Enough.

I spoke up. “He’s squeezing you, Mark. He has you by the legendary short hairs and is going to strip you clean.”

Mark was really choking back tears now. “Is that true?”

Jack looked quite content, like a poker player keeping a tranquil face with four aces in his hand.

“I prefer to say it’s just business, that’s all,” Jack said. “No offense.”

“Would you take something from me?” I asked.

Both Mark and Jack seemed surprised, Mark most of all. Mark said “Lewis, please, I appreciate it, but—”

I held up my left hand. Mark quieted down. Jack still looked tranquil. I reached back, took out my wallet, removed something, and passed it over to Jack. He took the rectangular piece of cardboard and examined both sides.

“
Shoreline
?” he asked. “You’re a magazine columnist?”

Not really, but he didn’t need to know the ins and outs of my current employment situation. But remembering my Catholic school upbringing, I was going to do my very best.

“That’s what the card says, right?”

He looked at it again, like he was trying to puzzle out some sort of hidden secret. “Very cute. But anybody can go to a print shop and have business cards made up.” He flipped it back at me, and I let it fall on the floor.

I passed him something else from my wallet, and I said “A bit harder to fake this, don’t you think?” “This” was my official press pass from the N.H. Department of Safety, and it had my photo, stats, and my affiliation with
Shoreline
. Thankfully, the Department of Safety doesn’t do an active survey of the press passes it issues, so mine was still in effect.

I said, “Looks pretty official, doesn’t it? Not something a local Kinko’s can put together for you in an hour or so.”

That got his attention. Mark kept quiet. Bailey the cat wandered out and flopped himself on his side.

“The thing is,” I went on, “as a magazine writer, I’m always looking for story ideas. And lo and behold, here we are, with you, in this unique outpost
of an Internet genius that has connection to the world and is heated by a woodstove. Don’t you think that’d be a great story?”

I was thankful that Mark, for once, was keeping his mouth shut. The tranquil look on Jack’s face was beginning to fade. “I forbid it,” he said.

“Forbid what?” I said. “Doing a story about you? Good luck with that. Or didn’t you learn anything about the Constitution during all the time you were studying computers and the Internet and Java?”

“Then you’ll have no access to my property for purposes of photography.”

“Gee, already taken care of,” I said. “Or haven’t you been told that cell phones can take photos nowadays?”

My cell phone was currently in pieces and at the bottom of the pond where I’d tossed it a little while ago, but I decided not to pass on that little gem of information.

He put his teacup down on the edge of a nearby table, and it started to fall, and he lunged to keep it in place. Some of the tea slopped out onto the table. “You . . . you can’t do that,” he said. “My privacy . . . the way I work . . . the way I live. You can’t do that!”

“Watch me,” I said. “Of course, if you were to take care of Mark here without pressing him for any additional payment, then I’m sure we could reach an arrangement.”

I was hoping for a civilized, give-and-take conversation, and I was severely disappointed. The previous tranquil look on his face had faded like a summer day, and an impressive series of obscenities erupted, and I sat there and let the words just wash over me. When he paused to catch his breath, I took out a pen and small notebook in my jacket—making sure my holstered 9mm Beretta made an appearance—and said, “What do you say, let’s start the interview process. Jack, if you were a tree, what kind of tree would you be?”

He said, “You have no idea who you’re messing with.”

“Perhaps,” I said. “Why don’t you enlighten me?”

Jack took a deep breath. “I will crush you. I’ll go through the ’Net and destroy your credit, steal all your passwords, hack everything and anything you have, and drain your bank accounts and anything else. For starters.”

He stopped and gave me a hard gaze. I looked right back at him. The silence was thick and still.

“Oh,” I said. “My turn? Is that how this goes?”

“Whatever.”

“All right, Jack,” I said. “Take a gander at this. I’m currently living in my car. My bank account is fast approaching negative territory. My credit rating is somewhat better than Greece’s. Whatever weapons you possess will have no impact on me. None. Zilch. Zero.”

I displayed my notebook. “This is what I have. Who do you think will win?”

Oh, his face was very much the opposite of tranquil. “I know people,” he said. “I know people who can hurt you bad.”

“I know people too,” I said. “Mister Beretta. Mister Smith. Mister Wesson. Do you really want to go there?”

More silence. He slowly leaned back in his very expensive, and actually quite silly-looking, chair. “Do go on.”

“Oh, I will, but won’t be long. Here’s the set. When will you get the information that Mark was looking for?”

He took another look at the near monitor. “Two hours.”

“Outstanding,” I said. I got up, and Mark slowly joined me. “We’ll be back in two hours and five minutes, and we’ll be here to pick up Will Mallory’s address. In exchange, well, you get nothing more from Mark. And as for me, you’ll get no attention. Nothing. You can keep on playing in your little camp in the woods, and your secrets will be safe from the readers of
Shoreline
magazine. How does that sound for a deal?”

“It sounds fine,” Jack said. “I guess.”

“Glad to hear that. Mark? Feel like killing some time?”

“You know it.”

Outside Jack’s home, we strolled up the dirt driveway, and Mark said “Thanks for what you did back there.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I know what you think of me . . . so why did you do it?”

I stopped walking for a moment. “You don’t know enough about me to ask that.”

“Hunh?”

“I did it because it’ll help you get finished with your befuddled quest, which means I can get you back to Tyler, and will—though I
don’t know why—make Paula Quinn a happier woman. Are we done for now?”