The Starving Years (37 page)

The twitchy guard nudged him into place alongside Marianne, and said, “Come on, Spartacus. Join the party.”

The stretcher plug guy grabbed Tim as he was being herded into place, and said, “What happened to my—” but then he thought better of retrieving his netbook, and mumbled, “never mind.” The guards both looked at him, and he said, “I’m
not
Tim Foster.”

They didn’t let him walk away until they’d checked his identification. “Anyone else?” the nervous guard called out. Javier met Tim’s eyes, and Tim shook his head, telling him not to hop on the Tim Foster bandwagon. Not again. Nelson, holding on to Bobby for dear life beside Javier, might need him. Tim would be okay. He had Randy. And Marianne…who was still pitching a fit even as they led her back up the marble stairs and through a handicap entrance back into the lobby.

“D’you think we need to separate them?” the nervous guard asked his partner. He seemed a lot calmer now that he was inside, and no longer surrounded by a mob of potential problems.

“Where else are we gonna put ’em? If we use any of the dressing rooms, we’ll get our asses handed to us.”

“Good point.”

“Wherever you’re taking me,” Marianne said, “there’d better be a bathroom…or else someone here will have a really nasty job ahead of them.”

“It’s a green room,” the not-so-nervous guard said wearily. “Yeah, there’s a toilet. And coffee and soda and manna, and a bunch of TVs. It’s practically a luxury spa.”

As they approached, the hallway didn’t look particularly threatening. The lighting was pleasantly subdued and walls were a cheerful sunny gold. Promotional photos of the anchors lined both sides of the hall, interspersed with framed awards and clippings. But the muffled, high-pitched shrieking coming from behind the closed door was a bit daunting.

“The cops should be here any minute,” the older guard said. He opened the door, and the volume of the yelling peaked, then went silent.

“You find him?” said a woman with a thick accent. “You bring him?”

“Still looking,” the guard said. “But we did bring you some company.”

They ushered Tim, Randy and Marianne into the green room, which also wasn’t particularly threatening—and once Tim got a look at the source of the commotion, neither was she. The young Asian woman was tiny. The collar hung in shreds from her lavender jacket. Her hair hung in long tangles, and she had a mascara track running down the center of each cheek.

Marianne, in her green hat and leopard coat, marched right up to the girl, stroked her arm, and said, “Are you okay?”

“They think I crazy.” She gave a venomous look to the guards, who were already out in the hallway and closing the door. “They not listen.”

“Watch out,” the guard said. “She kicks.”

The door shut, then locked. The Asian woman tossed her hair, and said distinctly, though the L sounded a bit like an R, “Asshole.”

“They didn’t hurt you,” Marianne said, “did they?”

The Asian lady shook her head. “My son’s father is here. On TV. They no listen.” And while Tim hated to think that all Asians looked the same to him, he was particularly struck by the way her annoyed pout looked a hell of a lot like Bobby’s.

And then his heart did a joyous little lurch.
 

“Are you looking for Nelson?”

The woman’s face lit up at the sound of Nelson’s name. “Yes—Nelson.” That L sounded a bit like an R, too. “He here. On TV.”

Inside Tim, something shifted, in the way it did when he was trying to hack a particularly daunting software issue, and no matter what he tweaked, nothing seemed to come together—until he saw it, that tiny string of code, sometimes as minor as a single character, where the smallest change made all the difference in the world.
 

“What’s your name?”

“Pham Thi Tuyet.”

Asian names—first name last. Tuyet. Tim’s heart was pounding now. Hard. “You live with Nelson?”

“You know Nelson?”

“Yeah. I know Nelson.” And like a routine that had been stuck but was now running smoothly, Tim felt a rush of excitement course through him like results scrolling up a window too quickly to read. “He’s here, he’s okay…he’s right outside.”
 

And her son was okay, too—she must be worried sick, what with the riot, and then the explosion. But her mother was definitely not okay. The image of her mother’s body laid out on the tarp among all the other bodies flashed past his mind’s eye. As he struggled to sort out what to say (or not say), the door banged open, just moments after it had been shut, and a pair of grim-looking white guys in suits strode in. The one with a touch of gray at his temple looked at Tim and said, “Tim Foster? Please come with us.”

Although it was prefaced with the word
please
, it sounded a lot more like an order than a request. “He’s not Tim Foster,” Marianne said, but they were so focused on Tim, it was obvious they knew exactly who he was.

Head spinning with horrific images of The Tombs, Tim followed the suited men into a small conference room. “Agent Collins, FBI,” said the second agent, a younger man with glasses, and hard blue eyes behind them. He indicated the first agent and said, “this is Agent Donahue. Have a seat.”

Tim would have preferred to remain standing, but his knees were so rubbery he didn’t think his legs would hold him. The FBI? That was serious. That was beyond serious. That was Federal Penitentiary-level serious. They knew he’d hacked into Canaan Products…they knew he was the Voice of Reason…hell, they probably knew he’d shoplifted a comic book from the corner gas station when he was twelve, and even though he’d felt so guilty he left a five-dollar bill on the counter once he’d gotten his allowance, the damage had already been done.

“I’m not saying anything without my lawyer,” he said. His voice was rusty, and it broke on the last word.

Agent Donahue said, “Mr. Foster, you’re not being charged with anything.”

Tim was on his feet before he even realized what he was doing. Between listening to the bragging of the LGBT activists who were on a first-name basis with the local police, and the nightly reports of Phil’s tedious days at the law firm, he knew damn well that if he wasn’t being charged with something….

“Then I’m free to leave.”

Collins and Donahue didn’t seem prone to exaggerated eye-rolling or melodramatic sighs—but both of their expressions shifted slightly, in a way that indicated that perhaps they wished they were. “Mr. Foster,” Collins said, “please, sit down.”

That, at least, did sound more like a request than a demand. Tim perched on the edge of his chair, not because he wanted to comply, but because he was so flooded with adrenaline that he wasn’t even sure he could still feel his feet.

The younger agent, Collins, seated himself across from Tim. “What we were hoping was that you could provide some additional information about Canaan Products.”

“Why would I know anything about Canaan—”

“Could we cut the crap?” Collins said. Tim had assumed, probably because he wore glasses, that Collins would be more intellectual. Apparently Tim had been harboring all sorts of really stupid presumptions he’d never been aware of. “You’re a longtime member of several activist groups, you publish the site Voice of Reason, and we picked up your license plate right outside the Pamoda Building shitstorm.”

No, not very intellectual at all.

“I had nothing to do with the riot.”

“No one’s saying you did,” Donahue said, more calmly than Collins, as if his additional years in the Bureau had resulted in a bit more patience.

“Except the police,” Tim muttered.

“We went through a lot of effort to track you down once you left your apartment,” Collins said, “During a time when resources were stretched tight with looting and accidents and what have you. Don’t you owe it to your fellow New Yorkers to tell us what you know?”

“How long have you been following…?” escaped before Tim could help it. So much for keeping his mouth shut.

“Your site’s been on our radar. That can’t be news to you.” As if he hadn’t just well and truly blown Tim’s mind, Collins went on. “Now, this guy they just interviewed had some interesting things to say about ‘manna starvation’….”

Donahue, who was poking a PDA with a stylus, said, “Is that what they’re calling it now?”

“Apparently so.” Collins turned back to Tim. “But what we’re looking to do is link it to Canaan Products specifically. Because who’s to say the chemical change didn’t start in the fertilizer, or the water.”

Donahue strolled to a window and looked out over the street, scanning all the people gathered in front of the building. “Who’s to say they weren’t testing out a way to make it cheaper, and the changes caused some kind of freak side-effect?”

Collins said, “Who’s to say management had no idea—and it was one of their science guys trying to sabotage the company?”

Tim stared hard at Collins’ eyes. Even through the twin rectangles of reflected sunlight on the surface his glasses, Tim saw the sharpness of his gaze, and the confidence with which he maintained eye contact. He knew Tim knew.

But was he going after Canaan, really? Or was he just trying to get Tim to incriminate himself?
 

Are you going to take your most precious possession—your anonymity—and throw it all away? Why? To make a couple of strangers like you?

“You’re right,” Tim said. “Who’s to say?”

The agents didn’t stop him as he stood to leave, but their expressions did another subtle shift. Weariness. Disappointment. It was too bad, really…but since when did anyone think it was a fine idea to expose every last secret to complete strangers? It wasn’t as if Tim could really trust anyb—

Wait, that’s not true.

Joni hadn’t given him up. She could have. But she didn’t. And she and Tim weren’t all that close—in fact, they didn’t even particularly like each other.

Someone had reported Tim, though. Not for hacking into Canaan Products’ mainframe, and thank God for that, but for authoring the Voice of Reason. Who? Who even knew the site was his? Javier? Nelson? (And, judging by their outburst in front of the Manhattan Minute guards, Randy and Marianne.) While it might be profoundly naive to trust his new friends, Tim found that he did. He felt safe with them, and connected, and yes, even loved, in a way he never had before. Not even with….

What’s with that picture on your site? What are you trying to prove?

Phil.

Tim paused at the edge of the table and gripped the back of a chair, hard.

The problem wasn’t that humanity in general couldn’t be trusted, as Javier seemed to think. The problem, in a nutshell, was that Phil was a creep.

Collins said dryly, “Did you decide you have something to say, Mr. Foster?”

Tim took a few deep breaths. Did he ever.
 

He turned and looked at Agent Donahue, by the window. Donahue had never sat down, but not in that threatening way a person might do if they were trying to pull some kind of power play. He rolled his shoulders to re-settle his suit coat, then hitched his thumbs in his belt and shifted the waistband of his pants. He looked awkward, like maybe he would have liked to sit down, but he couldn’t, because his suit no longer fit him quite right.

Because he’d recently put on so much weight.

“Tell me something,” Tim said, and both agents went subtly still. “Did Canaan Products have my friend’s house blown up?”

Collins and Donahue glanced at each other. “Is there a reason they might?” Donahue asked.

Tim didn’t allow himself to be provoked into talking before he was damn well ready. He looked at Collins hard, until the younger agent shook his head and said, “As far as we can tell, no. Just a domino effect of emergency services being tied up and things spinning out of control.”

Maybe that was for the best. Bobby’s grandmother was still dead. But it made the thing Tim had decided to do less about revenge, and more about simply doing what was right. He steeled himself, and he said, “It’s possible I might have a printout or two that I just happened to…find. Lying around. Somewhere.”

“As far as we’re concerned,” Collins said, “anything you
found
that will expedite our investigation fell off the back of a truck.”

Right. A truck that used to be a moving truck, parked down the block between a couple of SUVs. Tim guesstimated the number of reams he’d printed out in the DLR construction trailer. They should fit in the trunk of a mid-sized sedan…if the agents shifted any other gear they kept there to the back seat.

Chapter 34

Nelson adjusted the knot in his tie and backed up a few paces to check himself out in Tim’s bathroom mirror. He’d gone with Javier’s loaner blazer and he’d grudgingly strapped on the tie—but he’d opted for jeans, as he just couldn’t bring himself to wear “trousers.” The resulting image? Early-MTV rock legend, or douchebag professor? Maybe a little of each.

The door opened and Tuyet poked her head in. Nelson hadn’t bothered to lock it, and personal space had never been her strong suit. “Ready?” she said.

“Yeah, just about.”

“Hurry up. You make late.” With that pronouncement, she closed the door again.

Nelson scrutinized the knot, then loosened it so it didn’t look quite so perfect, ran his fingers through his hair, and gave himself another once-over.

Douchebag professor. For sure.

While Nelson had never had much use for “centering” himself, the bathroom of Tim’s apartment was the only place other than the rusty fire escape where any of them could have a moment of solitude, so he allowed himself an extra few seconds of peace and a couple of deep breaths before he opened the door and launched himself back into the joyful chaos that was his life.

Tuyet was telling Bao something Nelson didn’t quite catch in Vietnamese, mostly vowels. Though Bobby happened to be the world’s best kid, since
bà ngoai
was no longer there to keep him on the straight and narrow, Tuyet had stepped into the disciplinarian role. It took her about five minutes of nagging to achieve what her mother had accomplished in a single disapproving glance. But she was learning.

Bobby said, “Uh-huh,” and slid a card across the kitchen counter to Tim, who tucked it into his hand with the utmost graveness. A fork sat between them, equidistant from each of their right hands, tines up. Most people played the game with spoons…but Bobby had been tickled when Tim suggested living dangerously. At least there weren’t any sharp knives in Tim’s bachelor pad, since a mean cup of coffee was the extent of his culinary skills.