“Yeah. What is it? The car’s easy to drive, it’s a compact.” Her face didn’t clear, so he added, “It’s automatic, if you don’t know how to drive stick.”
“It would help if I even knew what that meant,” Angel said.
Chapel sat down on the arm of the couch. “You don’t know how to drive at all, do you?”
“Never got my license,” she admitted.
“Oh, boy,” he said.
Cars clogged the Holland Tunnel, creeping along through the stench of exhaust as they inched their way under the river and into New Jersey. Tempers flared and the sound of honking horns reverberated until the claustrophobic space became a resonating chamber, a crescendo of shrill noise that never stopped.
At the far end motorists breathed deep for the first time in hours as they crawled back up to the surface. As they emerged from the brightly lit tunnel into the dark of night, the lights of greasy spoon diners and countless gas stations dazzled their eyes. Only after they’d adjusted to the changing light could they see what lay ahead of them.
Between the tunnel and the turnpike, New Jersey had turned into an armed camp. Police vehicles were everywhere, blocking access and feeder streets, while hulking black riot tanks formed a bottleneck on the main road. Men with machine guns cradled in their arms waved down every car, while hastily erected signs warned motorists that their usual rights had been suspended. Every car was subject to search, every driver to processing.
Anyone even vaguely suspicious, anyone matching the subject’s description to the slightest degree, got hauled over to a big tent on one side of the road for further questioning, their cars towed out of the way and sequestered in an already-packed lot half a mile away just in case they were full of bombs.
The drivers had no chance to protest — and no possible way to back up or turn away from the roadblock. Men in the heavy black armor of Hercules units watched with stern faces as one by one the cars were squeezed through the cordon.
It was a cold night and the breath of the cops steamed in the air and got caught in all the whirling, flashing light. Dogs paced up and down the line of cars, sniffing at wheels, jumping in their harnesses. Cops used mirrors on the ends of long poles to look under every car, as if terrorists might be down there, clutching the undercarriage, trying to stay out of view.
One cop jogged over and tapped on the window of Julia’s car. “Just gotta take a look,” he said. “Roll down your windows, please. Driver’s license for the operator, and everybody in the car has to show me their hands. We’ll get you through this as soon as possible.”
The window rolled down and the driver peered out with a weak smile. The cop barely registered her features.
Female, shoulder-length red hair. Not the guy they were looking for. He leaned down to peer across her at the passenger. Younger female, short brown hair, her hands up as if she were being arrested. Cute. A kid like that was no terrorist.
The driver’s license came out.
Julia Taggart, resident of Brooklyn. The picture matched. The cop passed the license under an ultraviolet light and the seal of the State of New York lit up. Legit.
“You’ve got a bag in the backseat. Heading somewhere?”
“My sister and I are going to visit our parents in Atlantic City. We didn’t know if maybe we should stay there until this is over. Do you think there are going to be more bombs?” the driver asked.
“No information at this time, ma’am.” The cop glanced around the backseat again. Looked at the trunk.
A driver three cars back leaned on his horn, breaking the cop’s train of thought.
Whatever. This car was clean. “Okay, you’re good,” the cop said, and he slapped the roof of the car. “Enjoy your trip.”
The car’s window rolled back up, and it nosed its way onto the open road, headed for the New Jersey turnpike without any further ado.
For a long time they drove in silence. Angel kept looking back over her shoulder, though there was no sign of any cops back there. Maybe they were being followed, but Julia had no idea how you could tell.
This wasn’t exactly her line of work. If your schnauzer had kennel cough, she was definitely ready for that. She even knew how to properly shoe a horse. But when it came to running from the law, she was definitely a novice.
Not that she imagined Angel had much experience in it, either — at least not firsthand. “Anything to worry about?” she asked.
“No,” Angel said and sat down hard in her seat. She looked straight forward through the windshield. “I don’t think so. I think we’re clear.”
Very few cars were headed into New York, but Julia noticed how Angel kept squinting every time a car passed them headed the other direction. “You okay? Your eyes hurt when those high beams get you?”
“I guess I’m not used to this,” Angel confessed.
“There are a lot of things you’re not used to, huh?” Julia turned on the cruise control and eased her foot off the accelerator. “I couldn’t help but noticing, you’re kind of pale. And you said you hadn’t been out of your trailer in six months. I know I’m not supposed to ask questions, but—”
“It’s my job. I’m on call pretty much twenty-four seven,” Angel said. “So I don’t go out much. It’s not as bad as it sounds.”
“Really? I can’t imagine being cooped up in a little space like that for so long.”
“I had the Internet,” Angel replied, as if that explained everything.
Julia knew very little about Angel. When the hacker came to her door begging for help, she’d had plenty of reason to take her in, but honestly — they were almost strangers. She did know how Angel had gotten her unusual job. Once, in Julia’s hearing, she’d told the story to Chapel — how she had gotten into computers when she was a kid and then how she’d hacked into the wrong database, one belonging to the Pentagon. She’d been caught, but the military had been so impressed with her skills they’d given her a choice. She could go to jail for decades or she could come work for them.
It sounded like it wasn’t that much of a choice, after all. Being stuck in a trailer waiting for secret agents to call you asking for advice couldn’t be that much better than prison. But Angel had also said she loved her work.
“Do you have… trouble with being out in the open like this?” Julia said.
“Are you asking if I’m an agoraphobic?” Angel replied. She laughed. “Not exactly. But I was a weird kid. I didn’t like to play with dolls, and I didn’t care about clothes at all. But I wasn’t good at sports, so I couldn’t even be a proper tomboy. I didn’t have any friends, so I spent all my time in my room. That’s why I got into computers.”
“I’m sorry. That sounds tough.”
“I guess, but—” Angel shrugged. “Being online — it was so much better than high school. There people only cared about how you were dressed, what you looked like. And if you weren’t friends with the right people, then you were a loser and you were just screwed for life. But online … you could go anywhere, and what mattered was how smart you were. If you were funny or clever, or you figured out how to do something nobody else could do, then you were awesome. You were cool. I could never have had that in the real world. I was never alone after I got my computer. Any time, day or night, somebody was out there, wanting to talk or share files or whatever.”
And now she fulfilled that role for others, Julia thought. Playing the constant companion to field agents who relied on her brains to keep them alive. Julia knew what it meant to feel useful, to feel like you could help people. The animals she treated needed her — sometimes she was the difference between them living and dying. Angel must feel that way all the time.