The officer took me to the far side of the parking lot, away from the melee. I realized we were heading toward a cluster of four trucks. They were lined up a few feet apart, with their rear doors facing the building. The trucks’ cabs looked standard, but the bodywork was tall, square, and utilitarian, like the kind the network engineers from AmeriTel use. Except that instead of a corporate logo painted on the side, these had DEPARTMENT OF CORRECTIONS PRISONER TRANSPORT stenciled in harsh, black letters.
The officer gestured to the truck at the end of the line.
“Where are you taking me?”
“Nowhere.” The officer opened the rear door and shoved me toward the little step below it. “This is just to keep you out of harm’s way till we get the all clear from the fire chief. Then you go back in the station house.”
Inside the truck there was an empty space about three feet wide, then a wall made of metal mesh, which formed the mobile cell itself. The officer reached past me and pushed open a small door in its center, then jabbed me with his nightstick to encourage me to go through. He didn’t release the handcuffs, but if he had, I bet I could have touched both sides of the vehicle without moving. I had the choice of a narrow metal bench on each side to sit on. There were no windows, and once the outer door was closed it looked like the only light I was going to get would have to find its way through a rectangle of opaque Plexiglas in the roof.
“I thought it was, out of the frying pan, into the fire,” I said. “Not the other way around. Look at this place. How long will I have to stay in here?”
“Till I get the green light on your regular cell.”
“When will that be?”
“How should I know?” He stepped back and locked the mesh door. “Do I look like a firefighter to you?”
The outer door banged shut, and after standing in the semi-darkness for ten or fifteen seconds I sank down onto the right-hand bench, resolving to make the best of the situation. I was still wondering exactly how to do that when I heard a door slam ahead of me, in the truck’s cab. Almost simultaneously the other cab door slammed, a little harder. Then the whole truck shook for a moment before settling back into an uneasy, coarse rumble. Someone had started the engine. I figured they must need it to power some kind of equipment. A heater would be nice. Or a light. But I was out of luck.
Instead, the truck started to move.
We reversed, turning in a wide, lazy arc, then lurched forward abruptly enough to tip me off my perch. The farther we got from the station house the faster we went, and I was beginning to feel seriously sorry for myself—pitching and rolling on the hard metal floor—when all of a sudden the truck swung hard to the right and braked to a halt. Nothing happened for a few moments, then my enclosure was flooded with light as the rear door swung open. The officer who’d led me to the truck appeared at the top of the step, leaned in to unlock the mesh door, and gestured for me to slide over to him.
“Turn around.” He took a smaller key from a pouch on his belt. “Cuffs.”
“Where are we?” I massaged my wrists. “Why did we leave the station house?”
“Ask the other guy.” The officer squeezed past me and sat on the right-hand bench. “Go on. Get out.”
I climbed down from the truck, struggling to believe what had just happened. And when I saw who was waiting for me at the base of the ladder, the situation didn’t make any more sense.
It was Agent McKenna.
Thursday. Late afternoon.
MCKENNA EASED THE TRUCK BACK OUT ONTO THE ROAD AND was surprisingly gentle with the gas until we were safely around the next bend.
“What’s going on?” I asked, as we began to pick up a little speed. “Why did we leave the station house?”
“You were in danger. It wasn’t safe for you there.”
“Why not? What kind of danger?”
“I’ll explain later. There’s something I need to show you.” McKenna winced as the truck’s front wheel hit a huge pothole. “Thanks for getting me into that car last night, by the way. You’ve still got credit in the bank for that, no question. I’m just sorry we had to leave you behind. That wasn’t part of the plan. Where did you go?”
“I found a place to crash.” It struck me that I liked McKenna, in a strange kind of way. I wanted him to respect me, so I was in no hurry to confess how dismally my scheme to clear my name had worked out. “How’s your head? If I’d hit the ground like you did, I’d still be out cold.”
“It’s fine. It looked worse than it was.”
“Agent Brooking said you were still in the hospital.”
“Agent Brooking has a habit of exaggerating.” He winked at me. “Anything that woman tells you, take with a pinch of salt.”
“And the accusations she throws around. Does the same go for them?”
“Definitely. First sign of trouble she starts slinging mud, and watches who it sticks to. Not scientific, but gets her results, I suppose. She’s tossed a little in your direction?”
“The virus they found on my computer? She accused me of creating it. And using it to attack the White House.”
McKenna let out a long, low whistle.
“Wow. She’s really trying to lay the whole nine yards on you. Well, Marc, don’t worry. We know you’re not behind that virus, whatever it’s supposed to do.”
“Thanks. And the virus? It got onto my computer while I was working at AmeriTel, right? I can’t figure out any other way it could have happened.”
“Yes.” He paused for a moment. “I’m sure it spread to your computer from there.”
“Thank you.” I felt my grip on reality grow a little tighter. And with that, I suddenly saw how another piece of the puzzle might fit into place. “The memory stick. The one that was stolen. That’s why you pressed me on it, isn’t it? You knew about the virus, even then. That’s why you wanted the stick, or anything else that could have AmeriTel data on it.”
“We knew about the virus,” he admitted. “But we didn’t know for sure it had spread. We needed to find out.”
“Is that why someone broke into my house? To check if the virus was on my home computer?”
“I don’t think so.” McKenna reached out and adjusted his door mirror.
“But, maybe why the computer was stolen from the police?”
McKenna grunted, but I couldn’t tell if he meant yes or no.
“How come you knew these things days ago, but Brooking and Peever were still in the dark?”
McKenna didn’t respond right away, and for a moment I thought he’d clammed up for good. Then he raised his right hand, like he wanted to stop me from saying anything else.
“I shouldn’t be doing this, Marc. You’re a civilian. But you’re up to your ass in this thing, and I think you’ve proved I can trust you. Just don’t make me live to regret it.”
“I won’t. I promise.”
“You better not. Because the picture I’m going to paint—it doesn’t show the department in the best possible light.”
“I understand. What you say in this truck stays in this truck.”
“Good. Because the truth is, there’s a helluva lot we just don’t know. And part of that’s my fault. Look at Peever. He’s probably dirty. I should have twigged to that earlier. But Homeland Security’s like any other agency, anywhere in the world. You’re never quick to suspect your own.”