Part 25 (1/2)

”Oh, never mind,” Lynch said. ”But I--”

”Look, Malone,” Lynch said, ”there's a guy who wants to talk to you.”

”One of the Silent Spooks?” Malone said hopefully.

Lynch shook his head and made a growling noise. ”Don't be silly,” he said. ”It's just that this guy might have some information, but he won't say anything to me about it. He's a social worker or something like that.”

”Social worker?” Malone said. ”He works with the kids, right?”

”I guess,” Lynch said. ”His name's Kettleman. Albert Kettleman.”

Malone nodded. ”Okay,” he said. ”I'll be right over.”

”Hey,” Lynch said, ”hold on. He's not here now. What do you think this is--my house or a reception center?”

”Sorry,” Malone said wearily. ”Where and when?”

”How about three o'clock at the precinct station?” Lynch said. ”I can have him there by then, and you can get together and talk.” He paused.

”n.o.body likes the cops,” he said. ”People hear the FBI's mixed up in this, and they figure the cops are all second-stringers or something.”

”Sorry to hear it,” Malone said.

”I'll bet you are,” Lynch told him bitterly.

Malone shrugged. ”Anyway,” he said, ”I'll see you at three, right?”

”Right,” Lynch said, and Malone flipped off.

He sat there for a few seconds, grinning quietly. His brain throbbed like an overheated motor, but he didn't really mind any more. His theory had been justified, and that was the most important thing.

The Silent Spooks were all teleports.

Eight of them--eight kids on the loose, stealing everything they could lay their hands on, and completely safe. How could you catch a boy who just disappeared when you started for him? No wonder their names hadn't appeared on the police blotter, Malone thought.

Spooks didn't get into trouble. They didn't have to.

They could get into any place big enough to hold them, take what they wanted and just disappear. They'd been doing it for about eight months, according to the figures Malone had received from Fernack; maybe teleportative ability didn't develop until you were around fourteen or fifteen.

But it had developed in these kids--and they were using it in the most obvious way. They had a sure method of getting away from the cops, and a sure method of taking anything they wanted. No wonder they had so much money.

Malone got up, feeling slightly dazed, and left the hotel room.

8

By three o'clock, he was again among the living. Maybe his occupations had had something to do with it; he'd spent about four hours supervising Operation Dismemberment, and then listening to the reports on the dismantled Cadillacs. It was nice, peaceful, unimportant work, but there just wasn't anything else to do. FBI work was ninety-five per cent marking time, anyway. Malone felt grateful that there was any action at all in what he was doing.

Dr. Leibowitz had found all sort of things in the commandeered Caddies--everything from guns and narcotics to p.o.r.nographic pictures in lots of three hundred, for s.h.i.+pment into New York City from the suburbs where the processing plant probably was. Of course, there had been personal effects, too--maps and lucky dolls and, just once, a single crutch.

Malone wondered about that for quite a while. Who'd just walk off and leave one crutch in a car? But people did things like that all the time, he finally told himself heavily. There wasn't any explanation for it, and there probably never would be.

But in spite of the majestic a.s.sortment of valuables found in the cars, there was no sign of anything remotely resembling an electro-psionic brain. Dr. Leibowitz had found just about everything-- except what he was looking for.