Divine Fury (21 page)

Lee could feel his jaw drop two yards.

“What?” he said.

“We get married,” Chu repeated.
 
“Don’t know when.
 
Soon.”

“But…but…why?” said Lee.
 
“I mean.
 
You’re both…uh…getting along…in years, you know.
 
I mean…what’s the point exactly?”

Chu looked hurt.

“You think old people don’t get married?” he said.
 
“Don’t want to be together?
 
Don’t want a husband…a wife?
 
Don’t be in love?”

Lee looked away for a couple of seconds as his mind raced to get around this news.
 
As the shock wore off, he couldn’t help but smile.
 
It all made sense.
 
His grandmother’s newly darken hair.
 
Chu’s concern for her and his mild scolding of Lee for not visiting her more often.
 
A budding romance right under his nose.

Then he thought also about having Chu become formally a part of what he viewed as his tiny family.
 
A family of two blossoming into three.
 
That would be a good thing.

“I’m sorry,” he said, turning back to Chu.
 
“Actually, I think it’s great.
 
It’s about time.
 
I’m pretty tired of you two running around behind my back…going off in the bushes.”

Chu looked equal parts confused and angry.

“I’m kidding,” Lee continued.
 
“It was just a surprise.
 
I think it’s great.
 
I will enjoy calling you, ‘Uncle.’”

Lee put his hand on the old man’s bony shoulder and gripped it lightly.
 
He wouldn’t let go until Chu finally smiled back and nodded at him.
 
They chatted a little longer.
 
After he said goodbye to Chu, Lee headed back to his North Beach flat several blocks away.
 
He was grinning every step of the way.
    

Chapter 26

IT ONLY TOOK two calls to his contacts in Silicon Valley before Harry Blount had three names of reformed hackers who had gone legit and now sold their services to companies wanting to block or catch cyberspace intruders.
 
He had them check the computers and networks of all four of the senior campaign staffers who had received the bogus email.
 
And he started with his own Thinkpad just so he could show that no one was exempt from the review.

Blount was shocked when the rogue keystroke capturing program in his own computer turned up as the only problem.
 
He convinced the higher-ups at the medical center to sever outside access to its entire network for two hours while he had one of the former hackers reconstruct as much of the computer spying operation as he could.
 
The ex-hacker was afraid his work would tip off whomever controlled the spyware and enable them to either cover their tracks or cause more damage as a sick “goodbye” present.

As he waited for the preliminary report, Blount thought about how it all made sense.
 
His compulsive note taking and email habit made him the perfect place to have a window into the campaign.
 
Everything passed through him.
 
The Jefferson River case all made sense as well.
 
The timing mistake had come from him but the correction had been sent out by someone else.
 
That’s why the attempt to interfere with it by releasing the flow of water that inundated the press conference site had come hours too late.
 

When Blount received the first findings of the security investigation, there were two facts that stood out.
 

First, it appeared likely the medical center’s state-of-the-art computer security measures had forced the culprits to physically access the network rather than hacking their way in from outside using the Internet.
 
They could have done it by inserting the spyware into someone’s laptop – or even a thumb drive – that was later plugged back into the network.
 
But they could also have come on site.

Second, the evidence so far pointed to an intrusion on a Sunday morning five weeks earlier,
 
not long after the young health analyst Scott Truman was shot to death in the predawn hours inside the center’s parking garage.

Within minutes, Blount was on the phone to the San Francisco detective he had known for two decades as a fellow activist in local gay and lesbian politics.

“Bobbie,” he said.
 
“You are not going to believe this.”
   

* * *

Enzo Lee had returned from an informal gathering at his grandmother’s apartment.
 
It had just been his grandmother, Master Chu and him.
 
They poured hot tea into her nicest tea cups and toasted the still unscheduled upcoming nuptials of the two octogenarians.
 
They both blushed and beamed like 18-year-olds.

It was early evening when he walked the few blocks to the intersection of Grant Avenue and Columbus. He stopped on the way to pick up one order of sliced lamb sautéed with mushrooms and scallions and another of prawns in a spicy Kung Pao sauce with peanuts, chili peppers and garlic.

He walked up the stairs to his North Beach flat, nudged his cat Max back in the door and set the food in the kitchen.
 
From the window above the sink he could see the signs starting to turn on along Grant.
 

Lee fed Max and gave her a long-overdue scratch behind the ears while she simultaneously took her first crunchy bites and purred her delight of these two high points of her day.
 
Then, he piled his plate with the sautéed lamb, the spicy prawns and steamed white rice.
 
He sat back on the sofa, and started navigating the cable channels with the Samsung remote control.

It took a couple of minutes to find the station that carried Soldiers of Christ Ministry.
 
It was showing a replay of a Rev. Jimmy Burgess program that had first aired some time earlier.
 
He was perspiring and seemed to be on a roll.

“We see now, playing out in the state of California, a war between good and evil,” said
 
Burgess.
 
 
“We have on one side, those who uphold the traditional family, traditional family values and the observance of God’s rules as set forth in the Holy Bible.”
 
He held the omnipresent Bible in his left hand toward the camera.

“On the other side, we have those who not only forgive the daily sins in the world around us – the drugs, the killing of the unborn, the
deviance
from traditional marriage and traditional families.
 
They
practice
these things.
 
They do it without excuse or shame.
 
By their example they
justify
these sins.
 
If the highest leader in the land can openly wear his sins, then why can’t you?

“It is not enough to observe this war,” continued Burgess.
 
“Sides must be chosen.
 
You must either put your weight behind His
terrible
swift sword or join with the sinners.
 
Do we let this sin in our midst
grow?
 
Or, do we eliminate it?

“Is it better to let the whole body
rot
?
 
Or, do we
cut out
the
sick
and
diseased?
 
Even a surgeon will
remove
the
cancer
so the
rest
can be
saved.
”

Chapter 27

Wednesday, May 26, 2004
776 miles to San Francisco

THE SNIPER RIFLE was a Knights SR-25 with a Leupold
Mil-dot telescope sight
and a QD sound suppressor that Walberg had snapped into place.
 
He had bought the SR-25 slightly used for $2400 from a dealer in a Helena gun show using the last of the inheritance from his parents.

It was similar to the one he had used in the army, popular for its versatility.
 
Other sniper rifles used a bolt action so you could only fire single rounds.
 
The SR-25 was semi-automatic and weighed only 15 pounds.
 
With a 20-round magazine, you could take out an entire platoon coming at you as well as put a round in someone’s head from half a mile away if you knew what you were doing.

He pulled it out of its camouflage rifle case and set up on a rock overlooking the two-lane road 200 yards away.
 
Resting the rifle on its attached bipod, he could comfortably wait on his knees leaning forward against the rock.

He’d been minding his own business eating a slice of pizza outside of Logan, Utah when the harassment started.
 
A fat guy with long greasy hair, a John Deere cap and a bad case of acne started ragging him about his haircut and the still-healing cuts in his scalp.

“Hey,” he said.
 
“What did you use to cut your hair?
 
A lawn mower?”
 
His two skinny friends laughed and clapped their hands.

“Maybe a weed whacker, man,” said one of the friends.
 

“Or a machete,” said the other.
  

“I don’t know,” said the fat one.
 
“Looks like he stuck his head in a damned…what do they call those things?
 
Oh yeah!
 
A Cuisinart.”
 
More uproarious laughter.
               

Outwardly, Walberg ignored the haranguing but he was seething inside.
 
If they knew what was in his head, how unmoored he felt…how angry, they would have stayed far away from him.
 
The dream was coming every night now, where he imagined he was Ron.
 
It was so vivid.
 
He could hear the shooting…the explosions.
 
Sometimes he saw Ron between his legs trying to stop the bleeding.
 
When he was awake…driving…killing the days before San Francisco, he found himself talking aloud in the Blazer.
 
Sometimes, he talked to Ron next to him.
 
But Ron never said a thing.

When he finished his pizza, Walberg left the restaurant without looking at the trio.
 
They nudged each other, pointed and started laughing again as he pushed open the glass door.
 
He paid close attention to their truck outside – a red Ford with a double cab.
 
He guessed they’d take the route west out of town.
 
It was the direction toward larger towns and cities.
 
There was very little the other way.
 
Just mountains for the next 40 miles.

When he saw the red Ford in the distance heading toward him, he knew he was right.
 
It took another two minutes before they were where he wanted them – right in front of his position completely exposed on the mountain side.

The first shot took out the left front tire and brought the Ford to a halt.
 
The second shattered the windshield.
 
When he took out the rear left window, they finally realized someone was shooting at them and they ducked down.
 
Two more shots took out all the glass on the left side.