"All I'm saying is that I just don't think you should count this case as closed just yet, Deidre."
Over Michael's shoulder, the billboard image of Letourneau caught my eye again, and I watched the angel drift around the board like a ghost. "I'd rather let the dead stay buried. I'm out of the force, and whatever stones they leave unturned are no longer my business."
Michael shook his head. "You might feel at the end, but there is still a lot to lose, Deidre. What if I told you I had proof that the Second Coming was a fraud?"
My eyes sought his. He met my gaze steadily. Could he be telling the truth? Excited, but cautious, I said, "I'd wonder why you hadn't gone to the media."
"The media haven't exactly been open to opponents of Letourneau."
"I see what you mean," I said, remembering the Times. "What do you plan to do then? And what's my part?"
"You have connections that I don't. I need to break into the LINK to expose the angels' fallacy."
"You'd have better luck hiring some crackerjack surfer, like the Mouse, or getting one of your pals in the Malachim to freelance. I'm not even LINKed anymore."
"If you'd take the job, I'd make the connection. You're a crack surfer in your own right."
My head itched. I ran my hands along the rough plastic of the steering wheel to keep from fondling the implant. He gave me a tight smile; I dismissed his sideways compliment by looking out the window. "It's not possible."
"The hardware is still there, Deidre," he said softly. "They couldn't take that away from you."
"Hmmmmm." I couldn't trust myself to speak. I had a white-knuckle grip on the wheel.
"My offer still stands. I can arrange to have your access reestablished."
His words hung in the air. I was acutely aware of the emptiness of my head and the silence in the car. There was no sound but my harsh, shallow breathing. The dead receiver near my temple felt heavy and cold. The itch had become a dull throb.
"Yeah?" I managed to scratch out of my dry throat. There was no lady in my voice, only junkie.
"Yeah." He sounded confident, and I so desperately wanted to believe in his ability to get me what I needed. "What I want to know is – will you help me?"
"You get me the connection," I told his reflection in the window, "and I'll do anything."
New Jersey State Penitentiary Jan. 7, 2076
Dear Deidre,
Must have started this letter a hundred times. Had to give up on anything but voice-activated text, because I couldn't bear my pick-pecking on the keyboard.
(Not that they'd let me have access to anything with a motherboard. Shit, they've sure got me figured wrong.) Anyway, I'm finding it easier to talk. Lessens the urge to re-write, you know?
Still don't know quite what to say. "Wish you were here" would get me a quick visit by the Morality Officer for a little attitude readjustment, and I've already been through that wringer once – thanks to a friendly round of fisticuffs that the wardens mistook for hostility. By the way, Oscar says "hi." You remember him, Dee. His page was called "Weasel." (What is it with rodents and those damned LINK-hackers anyway?) You know I wouldn't mean "the wish you were here" bit in THAT way, don't you? I know things got ugly there at the end, but we were partners for how long? Five years. You know me better than that. I just mean I wish to hell we could talk face-to-face, like the old days. I miss that. I miss you.
There's some things we need to talk about. Important stuff. Before we can get to that, I figure I got to clear some air. I know you were just doing what you thought was right, okay? I forgive you. All you said was that you didn't know what was happening to me and that I'd left early that night... Ah. [PAUSE] Listen, about that night. I'm sorry. I should never have come on to you like that. Shit, that's part of it. Part of this whole thing. I'm trying to say that I can see now that you were telling the truth on the witness stand. I'm not even sure I know what happened to me ... what changed me. It's all seems different here. The whole thing seems clearer. Before ... those things I said ... I was angry. That wasn't me talking.
I forgive you, but I realize now there's nothing to forgive. It was your duty to tell the truth and you did it. I'm sure the guys on the force are hassling you over it, but don't let them. What do they know about it?
These assholes and their Moral Office know nothing about the complicated mess that real people have to deal with every day. It's easy for them. They've never faced a tough decision their whole life. You came through it, Dee. You're still on the right side. You just got to hang in there. Got to cut this off, but I'm going to write again. I hope you can find it in your heart to write back.
Chapter 4
Ghosts. I frowned at the screen. There was no current LINK site listed for the company, Jordan River Health Institute, that had been so insistent that Daniel and I crack their tech-theft case. I keyed in a search of business archives for any listing of a merger, claim for bankruptcy, anything.
The processors started to whir, and I settled back in my chair to wait. I reached into the bottom drawer of my desk and pulled out my battered romance.
Even before I was cut off from the LINK, I had a yen for the luxury of a printed page. The smell of fresh ink on newsprint always sent a shiver down my spine. Though most people got their entertainment from the LINK, there were enough of us sensualists left to keep a few small presses in business. I flipped open the book and held it to my nose. As I breathed in the odor, I consciously tried to relax. I picked up the thread of the story easily, but my mind wandered.
Less than ten minutes ago, Michael took off to make arrangements with a contact. He said if things went well, he'd be back at the office by ten-thirty. Then, we'd go to this tech friend of his to get me rehooked. Just like that. I rubbed my head; the ache was back. My fingers traced the outline of the receiver. The flesh it raised was almond-shaped and about that size. From that hub, microscopic threads spun out deep into my brain. Though it was impossible, I swore I felt the throbbing pain begin to creep deeper, following that internal web.
Laying the book down, I rummaged around in my desk until I found some aspirin. I swallowed them dry, but they went down easily. More junkie mannerisms, I thought ruefully. Daniel would be horrified to see me now; there didn't seem to be much difference between me and the wireheads we used to bust.
I thought I'd get used to the emptiness in my head, but I didn't. I think that's part of why I loved this office. With the squeaky chair, the creaking hardwood, rattling windows, clanking of the radiator, and all the other tenants' muffled noises, it was never truly quiet here.
Sometime in the last hour it started raining. I strolled over to the window, my stocking feet sliding across the hardwood. The office was dark except for the clip-on desk lamp that hung precariously over the monitor.
After I'd been disconnected, it had been difficult even to find a desktop version of the computer. I'd had to construct much of it from scraps in the junkyard, rummage sales, and antique shops. I'd say I was lucky that the building my office occupied still had a hardwired data jack, but, the truth was, this place was so old it still had the remnants of the gas fixtures and a coal bin in the basement.
Human beings were funny that way: exceedingly inventive and lazy as hell. Old things remained – built over, built around. Living literally in the shadow and underneath the shiny new skyscrapers in Manhattan, ancient crotchety buildings like my office still stood, mostly unchanged since the nineteenth century.