Part 6 (1/2)

”What?” his mother screamed from right behind him. ”What is going on? What are you doing? What...” There were quite a lot of ”what's,” in fact.

None of which fazed the men in black at all.

Since then, he had been here. Wherever here here was. It was somewhere near Was.h.i.+ngton, D.C.; that much he knew. A collection of old-looking buildings surrounded by tall trees and a high razor-wire fence, a mile or two from the nearest town. was. It was somewhere near Was.h.i.+ngton, D.C.; that much he knew. A collection of old-looking buildings surrounded by tall trees and a high razor-wire fence, a mile or two from the nearest town.

He had seen it when they had flown over in the black Learjet emblazoned with Homeland Security logos, and again, up close, through the wire-mesh windows of the black Chevy van that had brought him from the small airfield to his new home.

As prisons went, it could have been worse, he thought. The floors were a polished dark wood, and the walls were timber panels, although he suspected they covered a more solid, concrete construction. There was a toilet in a cupboard on the left side of the bedroom and a communal shower block at the end of the hallway.

It wasn't a prison for adults. It was some kind of remand center or juvie hall for youth offenders. n.o.body he saw through the mesh on the window looked older than eighteen.

There was a beep from the electronic lock on his door and it opened. It was one of the wardens, a hard-faced man named Brewer with a gut that hung low over his belt.

Brewer looked around the cell before placing a large cardboard box on the floor. It bore a red label with the word ”inspected.”

He scowled at Sam and left.

Sam got up off the bunk and opened the carton.

On the inside flap, he found a huge heart drawn with a thick marker pen and I love you, Sam I love you, Sam written in his mother's neat hand. written in his mother's neat hand.

That was the only communication from his mother in three days.

The carton was full of clothes: s.h.i.+rts, shorts, and socks.

Under the first layer of clothes was his model of Thunderbird 2, carefully wrapped in a couple of T-s.h.i.+rts. He took it out and placed it on the windowsill.

Below that were some sweaters, although it was too warm for those just yet.

He started to lift them out, then stopped, his fingers nerveless. He let the sweaters slip back into the box. In his mind, an image of his mother, sitting by herself at the small round dining table of their apartment, eating meals by herself.

Another image. This one of him sitting in this same cell as the fall leaves drifted off their branches. As the cold winter winds began to howl across the state and the first tiny soft snowflakes turned into flurries of white ice.

He had been so sure of himself, so confident of his own cleverness, that he hadn't ever really stopped to consider the consequences of his actions. He had charged around the country's networks as if he was playing a computer game. But it wasn't a game. It was real.

He'd thought he couldn't be caught, and yet the whole time they had been watching him, just waiting to pounce. That uncomfortable feeling he had had inside the Telecomerica network. That had been more than just a case of nerves or indigestion. Thinking he could fool them with a C-3PO mask at the hackers' conference. What a joke that was.

But the joke was on him.

And there were consequences. And at the moment, the consequence was a cell, a ”bedroom,” in an unnamed security facility somewhere near the nation's capital.

He turned back to the window, picked up the Thunderbird model, and hurled it against the far wall.

It shattered and fell.

He lay back down on the bed and cried.

That afternoon, he was allowed out for exercise in the courtyard for the first time. It did not meet his expectations of a prison courtyard at all. It had pleasant, gra.s.sy, parklike grounds, bushy trees, and a small pond.

There were about seventy or eighty other inmates, all boys, wandering around the courtyard in groups or pairs or playing soccer on a flat patch of ground in the center, using shoes to mark out goalposts.

Others played basketball on a concrete court over by the administration block.

Sam kept to himself in an empty area of the park. He had heard too many horror stories about life in prison to want to get on the wrong side of the wrong people. Right now he didn't even know who the wrong people were.

The sky was that kind of indecisive overcast that could fade away to suns.h.i.+ne or intensify to showers just as quickly.

He sat on the gra.s.s, keeping his eyes low, careful not to make eye contact with the other inmates, and contemplated his own stupidity.

”G'day, mate,” a voice intruded, and he looked up. He hadn't heard the boy approach.

He was about seventeen, in Sam's best guess, and wore a pair of thin, wire-framed gla.s.ses. His hair was wild. His mouth was open in a goofy grin that made him look a little soft in the head. Sam wondered if he was.

”Um, hi, I guess,” Sam responded. ”Australian?”

”Nyew Zilder,” the boy said, which Sam took to mean ”New Zealander.” That was a small island off the coast of Australia, he thought, or was that Tasmania?

The boy stuck out his hand. Sam took it and shook it. He seemed harmless enough.

”Jase,” the boy said. ”They call me Kiwi.”

He p.r.o.nounced it koy-wee koy-wee.

”Kiwi, like the fruit?” Sam queried.

”Like the bird,” the boy, Jase-Kiwi-said.

”Sorry, no offense,” Sam said.

”No worries,” Kiwi said.

”I'm Sam,” Sam said.

”What are you in for?” Kiwi asked.

”Stuff,” Sam said, not wanting to give away too much. ”What about you?”

”Armed robbery,” Kiwi said.

Sam blinked. With his casual appearance and goofy grin, Kiwi didn't look like a typical armed robber. ”Really?” he asked.

”True as a fart in a suitcase,” Kiwi said, although Sam had no idea what he meant. ”I robbed a bank in Nebraska, armed with a computer.”

Sam laughed. ”Computer fraud?”

Kiwi hushed him. ”Don't tell any of them.” He nodded at the rest of the inmates. ”They keep away from me. Think I'm dangerous.”