Bloodshot (12 page)

I flipped the phone open and realized that my caller hadn’t left a voice-mail message, but rather had sent a follow-up text. It said, “Call BH ASAP re: HP and JR.” The sign-off was a callback number unrelated to the text’s origin.

I unpacked the message to read, “Call Bad Hatter as soon as possible about the Holtzer Point and Jordan Roe information.” But
I’d never actually spoken to Duncan in person before, and the prospect weirded me out. We’d exchanged emails, and a couple of text messages here and there, but never when it wasn’t of the utmost importance.

I cursed the other thief’s sense of timing, and when Ian returned to his seat with a fresh glass of wine, I said, “I’m awfully sorry. I mean, I’m even more sorry now than I was before, because I think I have to call this guy. It’s about your case, if that makes any difference.”

“My case? It makes all the difference in the world. Make yourself at home in the bedroom, there, if you’d like a bit of privacy.” I liked the sound of that—even though I knew I was only being dirty-minded and that anyway, he could probably hear every word without even trying. But I accepted his offer and closed myself behind the double doors, into a large space dominated by a frothily overstuffed king-sized bed. I dialed the number that was included at the end of the text message, and it was answered on the first ring by a man who sounded too old to be in this business.

“Cheshire,” he said.

“Yes,” I admitted. “And before you go all strange about it, I’m a woman.”

“I know.”

“You know?”

“I guessed. But that might not hide you.”

“What are you talking about?” I demanded.

“We have problems.”

I said, “
We
have problems?”

“That PDF I sent you was flagged.”

“Wait. What? You sent me a PDF?”

He said, “I didn’t know until after I sent it. There are …” I could almost hear the gears in his head turning, tumbling, trying to think of the easiest way to explain it to me. I’m tech-savvy for an
old lady, but I don’t know all the ins and outs of the Web. He went on, speaking very fast. “Uncle Sam’s keeping a lookout for keywords related to the info you wanted, presumably because it was a classified program—a
very
classified program. When the keywords are tripped—like when I nab a file that’s loaded with them—a quiet little note goes back to an administrator someplace, and then the tracing begins. I’m a lucky fucker; I know what to look for. Otherwise I would’ve never seen it coming. I figured it out in time to move, and now I’m telling you, because it’s my fault the thing’s been sent your way.”

“Sent my way…,” I repeated, only barely following what he was telling me.

“Yeah, like a hot potato. Someone’s going to follow it, you can bet on that. They’re already all over my IP and breathing down my network’s neck. I’m sure you’ve got your ass covered in all the usual ways, but this is not a usual situation. I don’t know how they found me so fast, but Jesus, they found me
fast.
”

“Found you—are you all right?”

“I got out in time. I may be old, but I’m not slow,” he said, reinforcing my impression that he sounded like someone’s grandfather. “Are you at home?” he asked. “That place of yours on Seventeenth Street in Seattle?”

“What? No. Why do you know that address?” I demanded.

“Same reason you probably know mine. Insurance.”

Damn him, he was right. I’d dug up a general location on him years ago. “Fine. But no, I’m not home.”

“Good. And if you want to play it one hundred percent safe, don’t
go
home. I had to leave without destroying everything I wanted destroyed, including some personal info on some of my fellow freelancers—I’m telling you, kid, they were on me like
lightning
. I can’t promise they won’t come after you, too. Don’t check anything, just check the fuck out. You’ve got safe places. Pick one
and camp there for a few weeks, lie low, and keep an eye on what happens.” It wasn’t a question. You didn’t get to our tier in the game without a backup plan.

“Yeah, I do,” I said, and the panic was coming back, right up into my throat. I chewed it back down and said, “Thanks for the warning.”

“You understand though, don’t you? This wasn’t deliberate. I wasn’t trying to junk you.” And now we were at the crux of the matter. His call wasn’t just a guilty heads-up; it was a double check that I wasn’t planning to rat him out as a traitor to the industry, via network gossip.

“I get it,” I said. I tried to make it cool, but I was shaking inside. “Duncan, what do I do?”

“Anyplace where you access those files from the Internet is a potential ground zero. If you think you can get them fast enough from some remote location, have them printed out and mailed to you, that’s your best bet. Carry them far away and as fast as you can. And destroy your phone. Don’t throw it away,
destroy it
. I had your number listed in some of the stuff those assholes seized.”

“Uh, okay. Okay. And I guess we’d both better run.”

“Damn right. I’ve got some more phone calls to make.”

“More warnings to hand out?”

“You got it,” he responded and the connection went dead.

I shoved the doors open. Ian was still sitting in the overstuffed brocade chair, looking confused. “Is something wrong?”

“Yes. I’ve got to run.”

“Is this anything to do with—”

“You? Yes. Quite a lot to do with you, actually.” I grabbed my purse. “I think someone is still looking for you. Someone’s keeping an eye out for your files, anyway. I have to run, and I might not be back.”

“But we haven’t even talked about—”

“I know. And we will one day, I promise. And the price is rising by the nanosecond, because I’m probably going to have to move away from here when all is said and done.”

“I don’t understand …”

“Me either. Get rid of your phone, get Cal, and get out of here. We need to treat this like an outbreak of a disease. Everything that’s had any contact with me, or with that PDF, has to
go.
”

He was standing, and then in the blink of an eye he was between me and the door—wearing an expression that was half earnest, half frustrated. “I don’t understand.”

I took him by the shoulders, gently—lest he think I was trying to play rough. I said, “I have some info about your situation, but I can’t get to it yet—and the man who sent it to me has been outed. Whoever else tries to get those files will be likewise chased, harried, and hounded, and the time frame for this event is absolutely unknown. I might have five minutes or I might have weeks, but if you want to know what I’ve got, you need to let me run, and run like hell. I need to get home, print your shit, and get out of Dodge before they descend on my place, and it might already be too late.”

I hoped to God that I was overstating the urgency, but my internal Panic O’Matic assured me that heavily armed commandos were already rifling through my underwear drawer.

I let go of him and he got out of my way. “You shouldn’t stay here,” I added as I reached for the door. “You could go, you could … I know. Go out to Ballard and get a boat. Stay out at the marina and I’ll find you when I can.”

He was on the verge of saying something but I was already out the door, and it was already shutting behind me.

I
fled the hotel and ran down to the parking garage, because—did I forget to mention this?—I’d driven down to see Ian. It was faster, and I knew that a temporary squatting place like a hotel would have some kind of parking available. Hallelujah for valet service.

As I got my car and got out of the covered garage area, my mind was doing a hamster-wheel of the damned trying to figure out exactly what the trouble was and exactly what I was going to do about it. So Duncan had sent me an email with some juicy gossip. I wished he’d been more specific about … well … about any of it.

Note to self: Cultivate more demanding interview persona. I need to learn how to get more details before letting people get away from me.

It wasn’t far back to my place, but Seattle traffic is
not to be believed sometimes—and oh,
fantastic
. One of the electric buses had blown a fuse, or busted a wire, or stopped in the middle of the road for some other equally aggravating reason.

The detours were killing me, but they were giving me time to think.

Flagged information had been sent to me. I hadn’t opened it. How could anyone possibly know where the Hatter had kicked it off to? In my wholly uneducated estimation, it wasn’t possible to pinpoint the info while it was in transit. Until I downloaded and moved the content, there’d be nowhere to trace it to. Right?

The thought didn’t calm me much, and the traffic was only fueling my horror. I’d been doing so much so
wrong
lately. Keeping that awful factory for storage, staying in my pretty little condo for too long, meeting up with vampires when I damn well ought to know better … I must’ve been getting sloppy in my old age, and if there’s one thing I couldn’t afford to be, it was sloppy.

What I needed to do was
think
.

So I sat at a red light for its third cycle (what were those people
doing
up there, knitting a sweater?) and I forced myself to breathe.

Okay. Duncan had said I shouldn’t go home, and he was the expert—so maybe I shouldn’t go home.

He’d also said I could print the information out somewhere and have it mailed to myself. But I didn’t know anyone I could trust with the task. Conversely, I didn’t know anyone I disliked enough to foist a federal smackdown upon him. Or her. And surely that’s what would follow.

The light turned green. Behind me, a car honked and I realized that I was sitting there, learning to knit or whatever, and on this occasion
I
was the asshole. I hit the gas and dragged my car up the hill, and then took it in circles around the block while I plotted my next move.

I passed an Internet café on my left.

I’d been there before. They had printers. I could download the files and print them on someone else’s public location—or better yet, I had a thumb drive in my purse, and it might be big enough to simply download the files and abscond with them to a computer without an Internet connection. But this one was within a few blocks of my own abode, and that wouldn’t do.

I racked my brain for somewhere farther away. I couldn’t think of anyplace, but hell, if there’s one thing other than traffic in Seattle, it’s coffee. You can’t swing a dead squirrel without hitting a Starbucks, or failing that particular evil empire, an indie establishment.

Upon completing my loop of the neighborhood, I got back onto the interstate with a very good idea—or it seemed like a very good idea at the time: I’d go out to the airport. It’s fifteen miles outside of town, and it’s a huge international hub. For all the feds might know, I could be someone who flew into town and then flew out again—poof! Just like that.

Once I made it to the interstate, the drive took less than half an hour.

I pulled over at a gas station and hauled an overnight case out of my trunk. In the filthy, dimly lit ladies’ room of the Chevron I donned a shaggy red wig (not too flashy, not too trashy) and changed into a bright red jacket and a black pencil skirt with fuck-me kitten pumps. Not how I usually dress, but that’s the point.

I didn’t have time to gussy up as a boy, though I’ve done it once or twice before. I don’t think I make a very convincing dude. I think I look more like a lumberjack lesbian with an eating disorder than a kick-ass drag king.

I emerged from the restroom and slipped straight into my car. I didn’t notice anyone noticing, which was good.

Down the street and around the block was a spot called Mean
Bean. It advertised gourmet coffee drinks and pay-to-play WiFi, plus printing services at a quarter a page. A quarter a page? Jesus. For that kind of money I could buy my own printer and throw it away when I was finished.

Well, I didn’t know that yet—not for sure. But if Duncan had sent me sensitive government property of the variety likely to get me exposed or killed if caught, I damn well expected that property to have some heft.

So screw it. I had that flash drive in my bag. I’d download it and scoot.

Inside the Mean Bean, a heavily tattooed forty-something worked behind the counter, wielding the barista wand like an orchestra conductor’s device. The line was short and moving none too fast, but that was okay because I didn’t want to look like I was in a hurry. Best-case scenario, I wouldn’t stand out in any way except for the “hey, hot redhead” kind of way, and that would be all right.

In the corner behind the cash register a camera was mounted near the ceiling and aiming my way. I’d anticipated as much, and I was prepared for it. I knew from the get-go that I was bound to pass at least one camera (and maybe more) on my way to get my goodies.

Thus my cunning disguise.

I waited patiently, using a recent edition of
The Stranger
as an excuse to duck my head at an inconspicuous angle, pretending to read the local free mag. They’d never get any good footage of me; I’d see to
that
.

When it was my turn I asked after a computer and got talked into a tall, sugary, chocolatey drink since they wouldn’t let me use anything without buying a beverage, which conflicted with my personal idea of “pay to play” with regards to the Internet, but whatever.
I paid for the drink and an hour of Internet time, took my receipt, and sat down at a terminal that backed up to a wall. It had no near neighbors, and there was no one to look over my shoulder. Behind me and to the left was an emergency exit. Hopefully, I wouldn’t need it. But I liked knowing it was there.

I set the frosty iced drink down beside the keyboard, gave the room one more suspicious overview, and then logged into my email account.

It took forever. Whatever the Hatter had sent me, it was reassuringly big and fat. It turned out to be a PDF with the file name Holtzer, which was promising. I thought about opening it on the spot, but then I figured that it might only make my chances of getting busted better. Every moment I sat in that chair connected to the Internet was a moment that the feds could be tracking me, pinpointing my location and preparing to deploy violent, armed maniacs with badges.