No Man's Dog (13 page)

He decided to drive on through the night. It had been years since he’d done anything like this. He used to love driving through the night when he was a kid. This would be enjoyable, he felt.

It was a quiet night of small towns, few and far between at first, under the huge black sky. Usually, drifting through on the main street, his was the only vehicle. A gas station might be open, but little else. The one traffic light was a blinker. Joe liked, for some reason, the lighted clocks in the windows of closed gas stations—they looked nice and lonely, archaic.

Toward dawn, when he found himself edging down through the Minnesota north country, the towns began to pop up more frequently. Still, the rare traffic was usually a lone pickup dragging a fishing boat on a trailer, eager to be first on one of the many lakes—whether fishing or getting out to set the decoys for duck hunting, Joe didn’t know. The sun came hobbling over the pines and not long after he saw the first yellow school bus. Joe stopped for coffee and gas and studied his road maps.

Did he really want to go down to Chicago to look up Caspar? He didn’t feel like it. Caspar could wait. So now the choice was to either drive to Manitowoc, on Lake Michigan, and take the ferry across to Michigan, or head across the Upper Peninsula. Either way, he was sure, would be safe. If the Colonel was still looking for him he’d need a lot of resources to cover all the possible routes.

Another possibility occurred to him. He had a contact in Green Bay, a strange guy who spent a lot of time on the Internet. Brooker Moos was a conspiracy junkie, a poop dump, a place where information went to die. Joe had met him in a tavern, in Chicago, and they’d hit it off for some reason. They had played bumper pool, then some other machine games. Brooker was a whiz at games. But most of all he liked to get his teeth into a story, a myth, particularly a conspiracy theory, and run it down to the last shred of credibility.

Moos (he pronounced it “Mooz,” and said the unusual first name was an old family name—“generations of Brookers . . . we’re Dutch”) was a slender, handsome young man who wore photosensitive lenses mounted in genuine tortoiseshell frames. He was always meticulously shaven, with a fresh haircut, given to wearing neat slacks and a tattersall shirt, with a knit tie and a corduroy sport coat. He would have been an ordinary, nice-looking fellow, but there was something amiss, some vagueness in his expression, a shadow of weakness, or it might have been a half-obscured cruelty. It was that ambiguous face that had attracted Joe’s attention: the man could be your friendly dentist or a mass murderer . . . perhaps both. At first, he’d wondered if Brooker was gay, but he had yet to find any real sign of it. Still, something was a bit wrong. Joe liked him, though. He was bright, amusing, and even charming, in a way.

Brooker had moved from Chicago to Green Bay a while back. Joe wasn’t sure why, but Brooker had said that it was because there was “too much to do” in Chicago. It was distracting. It was much quieter in Green Bay, presumably. There may have been other reasons, Joe reckoned, possibly legal reasons.

Brooker didn’t seem to have a regular source of income, or if he did it wasn’t enough. And yet he kept up appearances. “People respect a man who is dressed nicely. They answer your questions, tell you just about anything, really, at least if you’re not too pressing or trying to throw your weight around. Why wouldn’t I wear a tie? Should I go out in baggy, dirty jeans and an old shirt with a sports logo on it?” Joe saw his point.

Moos had won a nice chunk of cash from Joe playing the games. That didn’t bother Joe, but he noticed that Brooker seemed truly delighted. Obviously, the money was sorely needed. Joe also noticed that Brooker was a guy who possessed unusual information, of a vaguely suspect nature, about people who didn’t care for information about them being made public.

They were watching a fellow on the television news being arraigned. The man had posted a bond for $250,000. “He can afford it,” Brooker had said. “He lives out in Briarwood, a million-dollar house. His income just from the limo companies runs a couple of hundred thou a year, and that’s only one of his businesses.”

Brooker had tossed this off with confidence. He’d noticed that Joe was interested. He smiled. “His wife is an ex-airline hostess. She runs the hair parlor biz. That’s worth a couple of million. You know how many hair parlors there are in Chicago? Close to two thousand. They all have to pay to stay in business.”

“How do you know?” Joe said skeptically.

“It’s based on their income,” Brooker said. “That runs to something like fifty million. It’s a matter of record.” He went on to outline it in terms of number of clients, the cost of a perm, a tint, a whole host of other services. Anyone could figure it out. “Plus, of course, I know a few people, who tell me things.”

Joe was impressed. Later, Brooker had provided him with some interesting information on a client. After that, Joe sent him money, from time to time, just to keep the connection alive.

Joe was still in Minnesota. He had just crossed the Mississippi River. It wasn’t far to the Wisconsin border. He figured he could make it to Green Bay in a few more hours. It was more or less on his way, regardless of what route he took from there to Detroit. He could go north, to the U.P., or take the ferry across the lake, or even go down to Chicago.

It was now full morning. Joe called Brooker. The phone rang four times and then Brooker’s recorded voice said, “I gotta sleep some time. Leave a message.” Joe left a message: he’d be in Green Bay around noon, he thought. In the meantime, Brooker might want to investigate what was available on the Net concerning the bombing in Detroit. Especially, Joe suggested, he should look for any
connection with Joe, any mention of his name. Joe would call when he got there.

“Don’t call here,” a voice broke in.

“I thought you were sleeping,” Joe said.

“I never actually sleep,” Brooker said. “But don’t call here. I’m pretty sure this line is bugged.”

“So where do I call?”

“I don’t know. I’ll think of something. And don’t come here. We’ll figure something out. I’ll get going on this stuff.” He hung up.

Now what? Joe shrugged and got into the truck. Wisconsin was a different place, all rolling hills, farms, trees still in their autumn colors. Very beautiful, but too crowded for a guy who had gotten used to Montana—you couldn’t even see to the next hill because the trees were in the way. Small towns, one after another, with odd new industries in the middle of nowhere, all with grandly landscaped grounds—the electronics industry, insurance companies. It was a strange countryside; silicon valley among the cheesemakers.

By the time he got to Green Bay Joe had a plan. He didn’t feel tired, but he knew he should rest. Brooker lived in a small house on the edge of the city, all but surrounded by industrial works of a generally maritime nature, structures for loading lake boats, huge parking lots for semitrailers, small manufacturers of maritime gear. There were only a couple of houses on the block. The paving of the street was broken up by the passage of heavy equipment. Joe cruised past.

The house was a little square clapboard affair with a four-sided roof, probably four rooms, at the most. It had a stout, industrial-strength mesh wire fence around it. The yard was bare of all but tufts of grass and weeds. An old Pontiac was parked in front, the tires a little low. Joe noticed a couple of satellite dishes mounted on the roof. He didn’t see any other vehicles around.

Joe drove out on a county road toward the lake. It was only a mile or so to the shore road. He turned south. From this road he could occasionally glimpse the lake through trees, cottages, and the sparsely grassed dunes, a narrow view, gray-blue and cold as the North Sea, but without significant surf. Eventually, he came to a small town and found a Bide-A-Wee motel with worn and shabby cottage units. He went to bed and slept for several hours, until well after dark.

After he’d showered and shaved he dressed in dark clothes and went out to eat. An hour later he slipped into the back door of Brooker’s house and found him hunched over one of his computers in the living room. There were three other computers, all displaying either Web sites or screen savers.

The house was as clean and spare as a barracks. In the kitchen, where Joe had entered, the linoleum floor was waxed, the empty chairs propped against an old Formica-topped red table with chrome legs. The counter was also red Formica and bare, the glass-fronted cabinets containing a few colorful Fiestaware plates, with matching cups and bowls, a collection of colored plastic glasses. One cupboard seemed filled with packages of food and cans of chili. There was an enameled white tin bread box next to the gleaming toaster, and a Mr. Coffee with an empty carafe nestled on the warmer. A microwave oven sat on the counter near the sink, which was an old-fashioned affair with a high, swivel faucet, everything scoured and smelling of Bon Ami. The kitchen exhaust fan was on, doing battle against a haze of cigarette smoke.

“Dr. Moos, I presume,” Joe said, leaning on the doorjamb. The reference was to Brooker’s clean white lab coat, in the pocket of which was a plastic “nerd pack” filled with pens.

Brooker looked up and jumped. “How did you get in? I thought I said—”

“I figured it was better to just come on,” Joe interrupted. “We could spend days screwing around. I didn’t see any sign of surveillance. So what’s up?”

“No, I mean it . . . how did you get in? I’ve got electronics . . . the gate, the porch . . .”

“Professional secret,” Joe quipped. “Sorry, I can’t tell you. Maybe later, if you’re good. So, what did you find out?”

“I think I’m tapped,” Brooker said. He pushed his castered chair back from the console. He was smoking a cigarette. A large ashtray was already overflowing with butts. Next to it was a can of Faygo orange soda.

“Why?” Joe asked.

Brooker shrugged. “It started a few weeks ago. Strange clicking noises, a kind of . . . hollow sound? Not that I use the phone that much, anyway, but I thought . . . just to be on the safe side.”

“You in any kind of trouble?”

“No. I’m clean. A few bills in arrears, that’s all.”

Joe took out a wad of money and tossed it on the table that Brooker used for a workplace. The table was actually an old door, resting on two small filing cabinets. There were two large-screen terminals, their accompanying computer towers next to them, but with gray or black boxes in between and other boxes under the table. Joe supposed they were copiers, or scanners, or something. The other computers were similarly disposed about the room on card tables. Cables ran everywhere, with cords plugged into heavy-duty multiple-jack connectors that had glowing red lights.

“You evidently pay your power bill,” Joe said.

“Got to,” Brooker said. He mashed out the cigarette and picked up the wad of money, fanned through it, and smiled. His teeth were a dull yellow. “Thanks, Joe. This will keep me online for a while.”

“Gotta keep the data flowing,” Joe said. “Well, did you . . .?”

“Oh, yeah. All kinds of stuff. Care for a pop?”

“Sure.” Joe went out to the kitchen and looked in the old round-shouldered reefer. It was full of Faygo and little else—a package of hot dogs, a jar of mustard, some relish, a block of cheese wrapped in a ziplock plastic bag, and the inevitable jar of peanut butter. He plucked a can of Faygo ginger ale from a plastic-ringed collar and opened it as he returned to the living room.

“Don’t you eat any veggies?” Joe asked. He was always interested in people like Brooker, how they lived, what they ate, how they kept it all together.

“Don’t have to,” Brooker said. “I take vitamins, and supplements. That’s all you really need, Joe. Doesn’t your wife make sure you take your vitamins?”

“My wife? What makes you think I’m married?”

“It’s all over the Internet, Joe. You’re married to Helen Sedlacek, the daughter of the late Sid. You live near Butte, Montana, under the name of Joe Humann.

“Here,” Brooker said. He pulled up to one of the computers and typed rapidly on an orthopedic-looking keyboard. A Web site soon appeared on the screen. The home page was a lovely photograph of a bucolic scene, with drooping willow trees, a red barn, an elegant old farmhouse. Bright letters welcomed the viewer to Lynn Park and out of the speakers on either side of the console poured the melodious strains of “My Old Kentucky Home,” played on banjo and mandolin.

“What the—” Joe said. He leaned over Brooker’s back, looking.

“Wait,” Brooker said. He typed some more, then manipulated his roller mouse, clicking away. A series of pages flickered past until the display stopped with a screenful of text. Brooker scanned down the screen, which rolled up quickly, until he paused and highlighted the name “Joe Service.”

“A good man to know,” the text read. “Now goes by Joe Humann. Retired. Married to Helen, nee Sedlacek . . .” A blue Web link referred the viewer to another site, or perhaps just another place on this site, Joe couldn’t tell. “Retired with a difference,” the commentary went on. “Joe is now employed by the U.S. government! Who’d have thought?”

“There’s a lot of other info scattered around, on this site and others,” Brooker said. He pushed back and looked triumphantly at Joe.

Joe did not attempt to conceal his shock. “What the hell is this? How can they do this? Where do they get their information?”

“It’s just gossip, Joe. The Internet is all about gossip. There are a million Web sites, maybe more. A lot of them are like this one. Family sites. This guy is John Lynn. Do you know him?”

“John Lynn?” Joe thought. “Big John Lynn? The Peter Man?”

“Peter Man?”

“Safecracker. The explosives guy,” Joe said.

“That’s him,” Brooker said. “He’s lamed up now. Maybe he blew himself up. Spent some time in the pen, which may be where he got onto the Web. Now he runs this site. There are several like this, but this is one of the better ones. He keeps track of all his old pals, passes on messages, et cetera.”

“But how can they do this? It’s crazy,” Joe said. He was not over his shock.

Brooker explained how it worked. The criminal world had gotten online, inevitably. It was the new grapevine. But in order to access the grapevine you had to be in the Life. It was very much an inside thing. Elaborate codes, which one knew if one were in the Life, opened it up. This site, for instance, appeared to be just one of the thousands of family sites spread all across the country, around the world. There were sites for Stewarts, complete with the plaid background; for Smiths, in their hundreds of different families and
first names; for Jacksons and Millers and Purdys and Pritchards and Baums. But if you knew the code you could find access to the “back pages.” Other kinds of sites existed, of course, as fronts for the “inside poop.”