Russell smiled. "No, Upton," he said patiently. "If you want to see cruel and inhumane, I'd be happy to demonstrate the difference." He raised his arm, flipped his fingers. "Buck, please escort poor Mr. Barlow to the head."
Buck sauntered over at a leisurely pace.
"You doing okay, there, Hank?"
Bodine stared at him and didn't reply.
Russell grinned. "Upton, sounds to me like you've got an enlarged prostate gland. Guy your age ought to be taking saw palmetto extracts. Pumpkin seeds, too. It's the only body you got. You really should take care of it."
"For Christ's sake," Barlow said.
Buck grabbed Barlow roughly by the arm.
Cheryl said, "I'd like to use the restroom as well. I'm sure others do, too."
"Thank you for the suggestion, Cheryl," said Russell. "Anyone else needs to use the facilities, my team will be happy to assist you, one at a time. Now, Ronald, have we figured out how we're going to make this transaction work? Everything clear?"
Slattery swallowed hard, nodded.
"Look," Bross said, "let me tell you something that everyone else is afraid to tell you. We simply don't have the ability to make a bank transfer from here."
"No?" Russell said.
Bross nodded. "No. Online bank transfer requests can only originate from computers inside Hammond headquarters."
Russell looked at him curiously for a moment, tipped his head to one side. "Tell me your name again."
"Kevin Bross."
"Bross," repeated Russell. "Bross balls, huh? Well, Bross Balls, maybe you can explain that to me a little more." He was speaking in that fake-innocent way I'd begun to recognize. I waited for the sting in the tail. "Use small words, please."
"See, every computer has what's called an IP address," Bross said. "And the bank's computers won't talk to another computer unless it has the right IP address."
"Really?" Russell said. "Gosh, that's bad news."
Bross nodded. "I'm sorry to break it to you, but that's just the way it works. Believe me, if we could do it, we would. So if there's some other arrangement we can make-"
"This is interesting," Russell said. He reached into his pocket, and we all froze.
He pulled out a small gray plastic object a few inches long and held it up. At its round end was the bright green logo of our bank; at the narrow end was a digital LCD readout.
"Because when I called your bank about setting up a corporate account, they said I could initiate a wire transfer from anywhere in the world, no problem. Any of your corporate customers can do that, they said. Just a wild guess, Bross Balls, but I'm thinking this here might be an RSA SecurID authenticator."
Bross licked his lips. "Right, but Hammond Aerospace has a whole system of security protocols in place, Russell-"
"I thought you were just telling me how the bank's computers won't recognize an unauthorized IP address, Bross," Russell said softly. "We weren't talking about your internal security procedures, were we?"
Bross faltered for a few seconds. "I'm telling you everything I know, to the very best of my knowledge-"
"You know something, Bross? I'm disappointed in you. But I guess I should have expected you'd try to pull a fast one. Executive Vice President of Sales and all-you probably think you're good at the sell. So now we're gonna have a change in plans. I'm going to have a little talk with each one of you separately. One on one. You're each gonna tell me privately everything you know about how to transfer money out of Hammond. That way I'll know if anyone's trying to pull a fast one on me. See if there's any contradictions. Anyone lies to me, we're gonna have some immediate layoffs. A little downsizing, you might say. Oh, and one more thing. The price just went up. Teach you kids a lesson. It's five hundred million now. Half a billion."
I turned to look at Ali, but all at once the lights went out, and we were plunged into darkness.
39
A shaft of sunlight neatly bisected the office of the Assistant Clinical Director of the Glenview Residential Center, Dr. Jerome Marcus. Dust motes hung suspended in the air. The room was surprisingly small, not much larger than a broom closet, choked with stacks of paper. Something in Dr. Marcus's face hinted at a secret resentment that a man so important would occupy an office so small. The corners of his small oak desk-a child's desk, I thought-were splintered.
"This is highly unusual," he said. He had a gentle voice, a kindly expression. "It's not the standard grievance procedure."
I nodded, swallowed, told him about Pee Wee Farrentino.
Dr. Marcus was a tall, round-shouldered man with a large, prominent forehead, neatly parted gray hair, rimless glasses that sometimes seemed to disappear. His blue button-down shirt was heavily starched and perfectly pressed.
He listened with growing dismay, fingers steepled. He asked me a lot of questions, took notes for a report. He said it was an outrage, that behavior like that must never be tolerated.
As he spoke, I examined the books on the shelf behind him. Titles like Encyclopedia of Criminology and Deviant Behavior and Encyclopedia of Crime and Justice and the Physician's Desk Reference. Thin blue loose-leaf binders whose browned labels curled out from their spines.
The bad wolf was urging me to go after Glover, choke the life out of him. The good wolf kept reminding me that if I did, I'd be sent to the hole for months on end. Or worse: Though I couldn't imagine what could be worse.
"You've done a brave thing," he said. He thanked me for coming to see him. His bottom lip, I noticed, was chapped.
Late that night the door to my room opened, and Glover and two other guards came in with batons.
"I know what you're doing to Pee Wee," I said.
"Don't leave any marks," Glover told the others.
40
Where's the manager?" Russell called out.
"Over here." A voice from the other side of the fireplace.
The clear night sky was filled with stars, and the moon was full. The room was bathed in pale gray-blue light. My eyes quickly adjusted. Russell went to the other side of the fireplace.
"What the hell's wrong with your power?"
"I don't-I don't know," the manager said. "Must be the generator."
"Well, who does know? Who fixes stuff around here?"
"Peter Daut," the manager said. "He's my handyman."
"All right, Peter Daut," Russell said. "Identify yourself."
"Right here." A muffled voice.
"What's the problem?"
More muffled voices. The handyman seemed to be talking to the manager, but I couldn't make out what they were saying. Then I heard the manager say, "Yes, Peter, please."
"You want to cooperate, Peter," Russell said. "No power means the satellite modem won't work, which means I don't get what I want. Which means I start eliminating hostages one by one until I do."
"The generator blew."
Peter the handyman, I assumed.
"Water in the fuel filter. Happens a lot. The diesel's always absorbing water out here, and I can't drain the tanks, so I just keep changing out the filters. I was gonna do that in the middle of the night tonight, because I have to shut down the generator engines while I-"
"Where's the remote start switch?" Russell said. "I know there's one inside here."
"That won't do it," the handyman replied. "The fuel filter needs to be changed, out at the shed."
"Wayne?" Russell said.
From the far side of the room came Wayne's high-pitched voice. "Yo, Russell."
"Please take this gentleman outside so he can fix the generator."
While Wayne lumbered over, Russell returned to our group. "Ronald, you're my first interview. Come with me, please."
Slattery struggled to his feet. With his hands tied, it wasn't easy. "Would you mind if I use the restroom first?" he asked.
"When Upton gets back. One at a time. Okay, Travis, Ronald and I are going to have a talk in the screened porch down at that end." He pointed in the direction of the dining table. "Keep a watch on our guests, please."