Russ smiled. "That's the commercial CD. The homemade CD-Rs use a slightly different technology. Instead of bumps and lands, they take a stronger laser and heat up a series of spots on a dye layer in the plastic. The heat changes the spots' reflectivity, creating virtual bumps."
"So where does that leave me?"
"Well, since you don't want anyone the wiser, that leaves out scratching or marking with a pen or dipping in acid. So I can see only two options. The first is to take some sort of X-Acto knife and use it to enlarge the central spindle hole—just a little. Won't take much. Just a small change in the diameter will cause a wobble in the disk as it's doing its 450 rpms, and that wobble will cause the tracking system to mess up, which will mean the laser's reading bumps and lands off multiple tracks—they're only a micron and a half apart—which will completely confuse the optical reader. The result will make Jabberwocky read like Dick and Jane"
He made a dramatic flourish with his free hand while he drained his beer bottle.
"But the data's still there, right?" Jack said. "So if someone could fix the spindle hole, they could get their data back."
"Tjfthey knew the hole had been tampered with, and if'they could make a perfect restoration. Both highly—highly—unlikely."
"But not impossible."
Russ sighed. "No, not impossible."
"What's the other option?"
"Bring along a hot plate and heat up the disk just enough to give it the slightest warp. A sixteenth of an inch, even less, will do it. The laser beam will reflect all over the place, hitting the optical pickup only by chance."
"But what about—?"
"Fixing the warp? Never happen."
He popped the top from another Sam and offered it to Jack who waved it off.
"You're sure?"
Russ gave a vigorous nod. "Once warped, that plastic will never be perfectly flat again, the tracks in the dye layer will never line up just right again."
Jack liked it. Just his thing: simple and low tech.
"You wouldn't happen to have a hot plate sitting around, would you?"
12
Maggie moaned with relief in the dark kitchen as she removed the red hot crucifix from her thigh. She'd thought the pain might become easier to take with successive burns, but this had been the worst. And the day-long anticipation of the coming agony had been almost as bad as the pain itself.
Five now. Only two more to go. Another on Friday, and then the final—fittingly—on Sunday, the Lord's Day.
A different kind of pain pushed a sob past her throat. She looked down at her blistered thighs and prayed.
I'm doing this penance, Lord, not just for myself, but for Fina and others like her. I can make a difference in their lives, Lord. So please guide Jack. Let him destroy those pictures so that I can remain in Your service, and in service to Your children.
That's all I ask, Lord: To sin no more and be allowed to go on giving in Your name.
13
Jack leaned against the brick divider between an Italian restaurant and a bodega. He pretended to watch the uptown crawl of the rush-hour traffic on Broadway, but his real interest was the subway exit to his left on the other side of Eighty-sixth Street.
He'd adopted his John Robertson identity and called Jamie Grant to arrange a meeting. He had some questions. When she said people were watching her, he figured she wasn't being paranoid. The last thing he needed was someone from the Dormentalist temple to see them together. He told her to hop any of the Broadway line trains to Eighty-sixth Street, and gave her some tips on how to lose a tail in the subway.
And here she came, dressed in a loose jacket and matching blue slacks, with her cell phone in her hand.
She hit the sidewalk and walked east as planned. Jack stayed where he was, watching the rest of the Morlocks climbing to the surface. Three of them—a lone woman and two men—followed Grant east. Jack trailed them through the twilight.
The woman stopped at a Chinese take-out place and the two men turned uptown on Amsterdam.
The plan had been for Jack to call her if he spotted a tail. He stuffed his phone into his jeans pocket and came up behind her.
"Looks like you lost them," he said.
She jumped and turned. "Oh, shit, Robertson! It's you!"
"You think I was a PS or something?"
"That's what we Dormentalists call a purse snatcher." She smiled. "Cute. Where'd you come from?"
"Been following you. But I'm the only one."
"At the moment maybe, but not earlier. There were two of them. They were on me from the minute I stepped out of The Light."
Jack gripped her arm and turned her west. "We want to go this way."
"It's the oddest thing. They don't hide what they're up to. Almost as if they want me to know I'm being followed."
"They do. Serves two purposes: They find out where you go and who you meet, and they put you on edge, keep you looking over your shoulder. Surveillance and harassment, all in one neat little package."
"But that move you told me—you know, stand by the doors and pop through just as they're closing? Worked like a charm. And so simple."
"The simpler, the better. Fewer things that can go wrong."
She grinned in the fading light. "After I ducked out I stood there on the platform and gave them the SD salute through the windows."
"Single digit?"
"You got it. They deserved no less. You should have seen their faces." She looked around. "Where's this bar you told me about. I need a GDD."
"A gin and…?"
"A goddamned drink."
14
A couple of blocks and a couple of turns later they were stepping into a place called Julio's.
It reminded Jamie a little of the Parthenon—not in looks but in ambiance. The same laughter, the chatter, the air of camaraderie. She liked the FREE BEER TOMORROW… sign over the bar, and the dead, desiccated plants hanging in the front window were a unique touch. Robertson was obviously a regular here. Half the people in the place waved, nodded, or called hello as he entered.
"So you're 'Jack' to your friends?"
He nodded. "You can call me that if you want."
"Maybe, if we become friends."
He smiled and pointed toward a rear table. "We can talk over there."
She noticed that he seemed more relaxed here than he'd been in her office. Almost a different person. He'd gone from somewhat uptight to loose and friendly. Maybe it was the clothes situation. He'd been wearing a shirt and tie and jacket before. Now he was more casual. And not bad looking. She liked the way his jeans and burgundy golf shirt fit, liked the way the sleek muscles of his forearms moved as he absently drummed his fingers on the table.
Soon after they were seated—he with his back against the wall, she with her back to the room—a muscular little Hispanic with a pencil-line mustache came over. Robertson introduced him as the eponymous proprietor. He left with an order for a pint of Rolling Rock and a Dewar's and soda.
"I like this place," she said. "It's got personality."
He nodded. "Yeah. But not too much. Julio's gone to some lengths to keep it from becoming a yuppie hang."
Jamie glanced around at the crowd—mostly working-class types with a sprinkling of yups.
"He hasn't been entirely successful, I see."
"Well, he can't bar them from wandering in, but he does nothing to attract them. Somehow he's managed to maintain the place's original flavor."
"What is it about places like this?" she wondered aloud. "You know, bars, taverns, pubs. Empires rise and fall, religions come and go, ideologies and political philosophies wax and wane, but the tavern remains a fixed star in the human social firmament. Even when pursed-lipped, tight-assed self-righteous ninnies try to eradicate them, taverns keep popping back up."