Thin Line (28 page)

"Jesus," she said. "What happened to him? Drop a load of gravel on his head?"

"Something like that, babe," Jeremy said. "You bring it?"

She set an orange and gray backpack on the table, kissed her husband on the cheek, cringed at the sight of Bear's wounds, then left. Stepping into the
hallway, she said, "Don't be late for dinner tonight. I hate when you're late."

We remained silent for a few minutes while Jeremy threaded the stitches through the gash on Bear's forehead. The big man kept his eyes closed and his
breath steady. The muscles on his arms stood out. He hated needles almost as much as he hated flying. The cotton stuffed in his nose turned from white to
solid red, and the flow of blood from his lip slowed to a trickle, wire holding the split together.

"So," Jeremy said, applying the final stitch. "You got anyone who can do it?"

"The audio?" I said. "Yeah, I got a guy."

BEAR PULLED THE soaked cotton from his nostrils and tossed them out the open window. They twisted in the air before riding the currents on their way to the
ground. He leaned back in the seat with his eyes closed.

"If they ever find a dead body near there, you're screwed. They'll have your DNA."

He laughed, winced. I noticed him press his thumb against his upper teeth.

"They loose?" I asked.

He shrugged. "Maybe a bit."

"Your buddy good with dentistry, too? We can go back."

Another laugh. Another wince. The frigid wind rushed in through the gaping hole. It made him comfortable, so I didn't complain. He kept his eyes shut, left
his mouth partly open. Blood began pooling on his upper lip.

"Dammit," Bear said. He reached for fresh cotton and shoved a strip in each nostril. Then he shifted in his seat and stared at me for a moment.

"What?"

"Where we going?"

"An old friend."

"You don't have any friends."

"Acquaintance, then."

"This acquaintance got a name?"

"Brandon."

"He really exists?"

"Partly."

Bear smiled. No wince. He must've been satisfied with the answer. He shifted again, stared out the front windshield, then closed his eyes and leaned his
head back. In a day or two it'd be as though nothing had happened. His body had amazing regenerative capabilities. I'd seen him banged up worse than this
and then back on his feet within seventy two hours.

I turned my thoughts to the guy we were going to visit. Few people knew Brandon, much less where he lived. I'd been there once, at his request. Brandon had
pissed off the wrong guy. Someone with access to as much, if not more, access and information than he had. The other guy had one advantage over Brandon.
But once I got involved, he backed down.

We took I-95 north to Baltimore, then 83 to Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. Not the first place you'd look for a guy with ties to several undisclosed agencies,
but it was where he felt most comfortable. The downside was the travel time. Every minute we were on the road was a minute less Brett had to live. But I
couldn't mail the device, and uploading it was tricky. Brandon insisted that we bring it to him personally.

During the drive, as Bear slept, I debated calling McSweeney. I figured she was a wreck by this point. If things had gone well, we would have updated her
three hours ago. The danger with telling her what had happened was that she might push it internally. Or worse, pull some FBI agent's card out of her desk
drawer and place a call to them. Hell, maybe Dunne had contacted her, too, since she worked the case. She tells him, he brings someone else in on it. Too
many names I didn't know would be a bad thing. If the wrong person got involved, we were all screwed.

Brandon's house was close. We were still in the sticks when we exited the highway about ten miles before city limits. The roads hadn't been cleared. Packed
snow had turned to ice. I navigated the treacherous stretch slowly until I found the turnoff to Brandon's place.

The driveway snaked through a hundred-foot-thick cropping of trees. Cameras were mounted throughout the woods. They swiveled and tracked us as we drove
past.

Brandon called to verify we were the ones on his property. I answered affirmatively. We kept the line open.

As we reached the clearing, one of the four garage doors rose. The rattling and banging penetrated the closed windows of the car. I flipped on the high
beams and came to a stop at an angle. Light flooded the empty garage, illuminating the three visible corners.

"Go in, Jack," Brandon said. "No one in there."

After confirming it for myself, I switched to regular headlights and eased into the garage. Bear kept watch over the darkened corner of the garage.

The heavy door closed with more rattling and banging. I lowered my window, then cut the ignition.

"All right," Brandon said. "Up the ramp, and through the door. I'll meet you in the kitchen. That'll be the first room you come to off the hall."

"The fridge and stove wouldn't give it away, would it?" I said.

"Just get in here, man."

I ended the call by flipping the phone shut. We exited the car. Entered the house. It smelled like my grandmother lived there. Potpourri and cookies. It
left me feeling calm for all of three seconds. Then reality set in again.

Brandon waited at the end of the hallway. He'd been confined to a wheelchair for the better part of twenty-five years. His slight frame provided evidence
to the fact. The stubble on his head represented a week or so of growth, much like my beard. He wore silver-rimmed glasses with lenses thicker than Coke
bottles. He had enough strength to manually maneuver the wheelchair, but he preferred to use the electronic controls.

"Quit staring," Brandon said. "It makes me uncomfortable."

I hit Bear across the chest. "Yeah, quit staring."

Brandon laughed. Bear shifted on his feet and looked for a wall to back into.

"Just messing, man," Brandon said. "Come on, we got work to do."

The kitchen was part utilitarian, part computer lab. He'd hung a television on the wall, tuned to CNN. Dishes piled up next to and in the sink. A clothes
basket was stuffed with shirts. Half were folded, the other half discarded. It was obvious Brandon spent the majority of his time in the room.

"Sorry about the mess," he said. "Hard to find good help who won't snitch to the authorities once they find out you're hacking into government databases."
His smile had a way of making me forget about his condition. "Anyway, hand over this contraption you were telling me about."

I nodded at Bear. The big man reached into his pocket and pulled out the small black box. He set it on the table in front of Brandon.

"You look like a ravaged side of meat, by the way," Brandon said. "How's the truck that hit you doing? Still standing?"

Bear smiled, looked at me, said, "I like him."

"Yeah, he's a keeper."

Brandon ignored the banter. He focused on the device, connecting it to his laptop with a USB cable. A button press scooted him forward a couple inches. His
toothpick legs disappeared under the table and he began tapping on his keyboard. A moment later, the laptop's speakers emitted a hissing sound.

"That's all we heard," Bear said.

"Just a minute," Brandon said. "Gotta rewind a bit." He paused. "OK, there."

A car door opened. I muttered something, slammed the door shut. Wind. The ambient sounds of the diner. The wait staff, kitchen, others eating, silverware
attacking food and clattering against plates. The device picked up on all of it, even my knuckles rapping on the table.

Then there was static. Solid static for the rest of the recording.

"Neither device was physically altered, right?" Brandon asked.

We both said no.

"So, basically, then," Brandon said slowly, "what they did was add another layer to the channel." He tapped away at his keyboard. I leaned over and saw
what appeared to be an audio editing program. Lines and waves mirrored the sounds coming through the speakers. "And there we go. Let's just rewind back to
the point where we picked up the interference."

And from that point on, we heard every second of audio crystal clear.

"You computer hacking genius," I said. "Can you make copies of that and put them on disc?"

"Yup."

"Multiple discs?"

"How many you want?"

"Five."

"Five?" Bear said.

"One for each of us. McSweeney. Safe deposit. Feds."

"So I guess this stuff is important?" Brandon said.

I laughed. "Quit pretending like you don't know. In fact, why don't you tell me everything you do know?"

Brandon ignored me, focusing instead on creating the discs I requested. After he finished, he looked at me. "You wouldn't be able to handle everything I
know. But I did manage to hone in on a download that took place at a diner located conspicuously close to Langley, Virginia. A place I hear is popular with
the Agency's employees."

I nodded, said nothing.

"You might find it interesting to know that the originating server is located on a farm on Capitol Hill." The printer next to him roared to life and spit
out a piece of paper. Brandon leaned over and snatched it. He folded the paper, then grabbed a pen and scrawled something on the back. "You want additional
answers, this guy might be able to help. But I'd only use it as a last resort."

I took the paper, unfolded it. Staring at the string of random letters and slashes, I asked, "What's this?"

"The directory path of where that document is stored. That's why I said last resort. Tell the wrong person, that entire path and all its contents might
disappear. If so, this guy can find it. He has the access, clearance, and knowledge. Likewise, he would also be the guy to make it disappear. For all we
know, he has a standing order to do so should anyone mention it."

"Can't thank you enough," I said.

"Keeping my name out of this is thanks enough," Brandon said.

"So this does everything but tell us where Brett is right now."

Brandon's expression changed. "Hey, you said you used a chip with the phone to communicate with the recorder, right?"

"Yeah, but we were told it wasn't long-range."

He bit his lip for a moment. Then, as he excitedly wagged a finger, he said, "So all they did from that van was a full-spectrum disruption."

"What?" Bear and I had the same reaction.

"I bet everything within a couple miles was affected. Static on the radio, CB radios, that sort of thing. That's why I was able to peel it away from your
recording. They didn't jam that frequency, they just overlaid it. But for these devices, the phone and this box, to talk, they had to be programmed to do
so."

I watched Brandon reconnect the device to his computer. He entered a series of commands and muttered something to himself.

"Hell yes," he said. "There you go. They didn't go far, man. Look." He pointed at a dot on a map located about eighty miles south of his house.

"Can you drill down to a specific address?"

"Sure can. In fact, look at this." He changed a setting, and it went from a traditional map overlay to a satellite image. He zoomed in, revealing a small
house tucked away in the woods. "They're holding him there."

I started toward the garage. "Bear, let's go. Brandon, call me with the exact address and directions."

IT TOOK EVERYTHING I had to resist the urge to pin the gas pedal to the floor and ride the shoulder. Any time wasted was time we couldn't afford, and
getting pulled over could result in a long delay. So I settled into the left lane and followed the fastest car. I figured we'd cover the distance in about
an hour. Too soon for them to put an end to Brett.

Assuming they hadn't yet.

And that was my assumption. If they wanted him dead, they would have killed Brett and Bear. And waited for me.

I believed Frank. He planned to turn Brett over and then distance himself from the mess the op had become. But first, he wanted information from the man.

With the windows down, I choked down as much exhaust as oxygen. The cold air kept us sharp, alert. Perhaps a bit frostbitten, too. Bear adjusted the side
mirror so he could watch behind us. He also kept an eye on the shoulder and lanes ahead.

About thirty minutes in, my phone rang. I rolled up the windows while Bear answered and put the phone on speaker.

"They're moving," Brandon said.

"Can you confirm that visually?"

"Not without someone noticing I'm hijacking a top-secret satellite."

The phone was on the move; that didn't mean Brett was. We could always track the phone. Hell, we could split up and one of us would follow it. But if we
were wrong, and Brett remained behind at the house, he could die because we didn't check.

"Brandon," I said. "Keep tracking that phone. We're going to the initial location. If the signal comes to a stop, let me know."

"You sure about this?" Bear asked after we'd ended the call.

"I'd rather be wrong about this than about Brett being with the phone."

Twenty minutes later, we were off the interstate and speeding down a country road. Bear followed along with a map and GPS unit that Brandon had provided.

"We should pull over here."

"How close?"

"A mile through the woods."

It was twenty after three. That gave us less than two hours of light to work with.

I pulled the car to the side of the road. Inside the glove box was a white hand towel. I wedged it between the rear window and door frame. Made the car
look legit, as though it had broken down or run out of gas and its driver had bailed.

We slipped into the thick woods and walked northeast. Bear corrected our path as necessary. The cropping of trees stopped, forming a ring around a cabin
and expanse of uncut lawn. The place wasn't big, could maybe accommodate a small family for a weekend or a pair of couples on a retreat. The driveway was
packed dirt. A black sedan with government tags was parked in front of the house. Looked like the ones we'd seen on I-95. And a thousand others.