Part 7 (1/2)

”You got it,” he responded and the connection went dead.

I shoved the doors open. Ian was still sitting in the overstuffed brocade chair, looking confused. ”Is something wrong?”

”Yes. I've got to run.”

”Is this anything to do with-”

”You? Yes. Quite a lot to do with you, actually.” I grabbed my purse. ”I think someone is still looking for you. Someone's keeping an eye out for your files, anyway. I have to run, and I might not be back.”

”But we haven't even talked about-”

”I know. And we will one day, I promise. And the price is rising by the nanosecond, because I'm probably going to have to move away from here when all is said and done.”

”I don't understand...”

”Me either. Get rid of your phone, get Cal, and get out of here. We need to treat this like an outbreak of a disease. Everything that's had any contact with me, or with that PDF, has to go. go.”

He was standing, and then in the blink of an eye he was between me and the door-wearing an expression that was half earnest, half frustrated. ”I don't understand.”

I took him by the shoulders, gently-lest he think I was trying to play rough. I said, ”I have some info about your situation, but I can't get to it yet-and the man who sent it to me has been outed. Whoever else tries to get those files will be likewise chased, harried, and hounded, and the time frame for this event is absolutely unknown. I might have five minutes or I might have weeks, but if you want to know what I've got, you need to let me run, and run like h.e.l.l. I need to get home, print your s.h.i.+t, and get out of Dodge before they descend on my place, and it might already be too late.”

I hoped to G.o.d that I was overstating the urgency, but my internal Panic O'Matic a.s.sured me that heavily armed commandos were already rifling through my underwear drawer.

I let go of him and he got out of my way. ”You shouldn't stay here,” I added as I reached for the door. ”You could go, you could...I know. Go out to Ballard and get a boat. Stay out at the marina and I'll find you when I can.”

He was on the verge of saying something but I was already out the door, and it was already shutting behind me.

4.

I fled the hotel and ran down to the parking garage, because-did I forget to mention this?-I'd driven down to see Ian. It was faster, and I knew that a temporary squatting place like a hotel would have some kind of parking available. Hallelujah for valet service. fled the hotel and ran down to the parking garage, because-did I forget to mention this?-I'd driven down to see Ian. It was faster, and I knew that a temporary squatting place like a hotel would have some kind of parking available. Hallelujah for valet service.

As I got my car and got out of the covered garage area, my mind was doing a hamster-wheel of the d.a.m.ned trying to figure out exactly what the trouble was and exactly what I was going to do about it. So Duncan had sent me an email with some juicy gossip. I wished he'd been more specific about...well...about any of it.

Note to self: Cultivate more demanding interview persona. I need to learn how to get more details before letting people get away from me.

It wasn't far back to my place, but Seattle traffic is not to be believed sometimes-and oh, fantastic fantastic. One of the electric buses had blown a fuse, or busted a wire, or stopped in the middle of the road for some other equally aggravating reason.

The detours were killing me, but they were giving me time to think.

Flagged information had been sent to me. I hadn't opened it. How could anyone possibly know where the Hatter had kicked it off to? In my wholly uneducated estimation, it wasn't possible to pinpoint the info while it was in transit. Until I downloaded and moved the content, there'd be nowhere to trace it to. Right?

The thought didn't calm me much, and the traffic was only fueling my horror. I'd been doing so much so wrong wrong lately. Keeping that awful factory for storage, staying in my pretty little condo for too long, meeting up with vampires when I d.a.m.n well ought to know better...I must've been getting sloppy in my old age, and if there's one thing I couldn't afford to be, it was sloppy. lately. Keeping that awful factory for storage, staying in my pretty little condo for too long, meeting up with vampires when I d.a.m.n well ought to know better...I must've been getting sloppy in my old age, and if there's one thing I couldn't afford to be, it was sloppy.

What I needed to do was think think.

So I sat at a red light for its third cycle (what were those people doing doing up there, knitting a sweater?) and I forced myself to breathe. up there, knitting a sweater?) and I forced myself to breathe.

Okay. Duncan had said I shouldn't go home, and he was the expert-so maybe I shouldn't go home.

He'd also said I could print the information out somewhere and have it mailed to myself. But I didn't know anyone I could trust with the task. Conversely, I didn't know anyone I disliked enough to foist a federal smackdown upon him. Or her. And surely that's what would follow.

The light turned green. Behind me, a car honked and I realized that I was sitting there, learning to knit or whatever, and on this occasion I I was the a.s.shole. I hit the gas and dragged my car up the hill, and then took it in circles around the block while I plotted my next move. was the a.s.shole. I hit the gas and dragged my car up the hill, and then took it in circles around the block while I plotted my next move.

I pa.s.sed an Internet cafe on my left.

I'd been there before. They had printers. I could download the files and print them on someone else's public location-or better yet, I had a thumb drive in my purse, and it might be big enough to simply download the files and abscond with them to a computer without an Internet connection. But this one was within a few blocks of my own abode, and that wouldn't do.

I racked my brain for somewhere farther away. I couldn't think of anyplace, but h.e.l.l, if there's one thing other than traffic in Seattle, it's coffee. You can't swing a dead squirrel without hitting a Starbucks, or failing that particular evil empire, an indie establishment.

Upon completing my loop of the neighborhood, I got back onto the interstate with a very good idea-or it seemed like a very good idea at the time: I'd go out to the airport. It's fifteen miles outside of town, and it's a huge international hub. For all the feds might know, I could be someone who flew into town and then flew out again-poof! Just like that.

Once I made it to the interstate, the drive took less than half an hour.

I pulled over at a gas station and hauled an overnight case out of my trunk. In the filthy, dimly lit ladies' room of the Chevron I donned a s.h.a.ggy red wig (not too flashy, not too trashy) and changed into a bright red jacket and a black pencil skirt with f.u.c.k-me kitten pumps. Not how I usually dress, but that's the point.

I didn't have time to gussy up as a boy, though I've done it once or twice before. I don't think I make a very convincing dude. I think I look more like a lumberjack lesbian with an eating disorder than a kick-a.s.s drag king.

I emerged from the restroom and slipped straight into my car. I didn't notice anyone noticing, which was good.

Down the street and around the block was a spot called Mean Bean. It advertised gourmet coffee drinks and pay-to-play WiFi, plus printing services at a quarter a page. A quarter a page? Jesus. For that kind of money I could buy my own printer and throw it away when I was finished.

Well, I didn't know that yet-not for sure. But if Duncan had sent me sensitive government property of the variety likely to get me exposed or killed if caught, I d.a.m.n well expected that property to have some heft.

So screw it. I had that flash drive in my bag. I'd download it and scoot.

Inside the Mean Bean, a heavily tattooed forty-something worked behind the counter, wielding the barista wand like an orchestra conductor's device. The line was short and moving none too fast, but that was okay because I didn't want to look like I was in a hurry. Best-case scenario, I wouldn't stand out in any way except for the ”hey, hot redhead” kind of way, and that would be all right.

In the corner behind the cash register a camera was mounted near the ceiling and aiming my way. I'd antic.i.p.ated as much, and I was prepared for it. I knew from the get-go that I was bound to pa.s.s at least one camera (and maybe more) on my way to get my goodies.

Thus my cunning disguise.

I waited patiently, using a recent edition of The Stranger The Stranger as an excuse to duck my head at an inconspicuous angle, pretending to read the local free mag. They'd never get any good footage of me; I'd see to as an excuse to duck my head at an inconspicuous angle, pretending to read the local free mag. They'd never get any good footage of me; I'd see to that that.

When it was my turn I asked after a computer and got talked into a tall, sugary, chocolatey drink since they wouldn't let me use anything without buying a beverage, which conflicted with my personal idea of ”pay to play” with regards to the Internet, but whatever. I paid for the drink and an hour of Internet time, took my receipt, and sat down at a terminal that backed up to a wall. It had no near neighbors, and there was no one to look over my shoulder. Behind me and to the left was an emergency exit. Hopefully, I wouldn't need it. But I liked knowing it was there.

I set the frosty iced drink down beside the keyboard, gave the room one more suspicious overview, and then logged into my email account.

It took forever. Whatever the Hatter had sent me, it was rea.s.suringly big and fat. It turned out to be a PDF with the file name Holtzer, which was promising. I thought about opening it on the spot, but then I figured that it might only make my chances of getting busted better. Every moment I sat in that chair connected to the Internet was a moment that the feds could be tracking me, pinpointing my location and preparing to deploy violent, armed maniacs with badges.

I dug out my thumb drive and shoved it into the USB port, then ordered the system to shoot the doc.u.ment my way. I waited while the little task bar filled up (oh, so slowly). When it finally chimed ”Done!” I whipped that drive out, snapped its little lid on top, and retrieved a small spray can of nonstick cooking spray from the depths of my purse. Making sure no one was looking, I lightly spritzed the keyboard. Generally speaking, I don't leave fingerprints. My body doesn't make much oil anymore, but I'd fed recently.

A fresh influx of blood always makes my body a little more human. I'm not sure what that says about me, or my undead condition, or the state of the universe, but there you go. Filling up with blood is a surefire way to make sure I start oozing and stinking again.

Once I was satisfied that I'd left no identifying trace, I bolted-or, well, I bolted as smoothly and nonchalantly as I could manage. I slipped my arm up under my purse strap, pushed my chair up under the table, and made my way to the door.

My car was right where I'd left it, and not boxed in by cops or feds, thank heaven. I crawled inside, dropped my purse on the pa.s.senger seat, and did my best not to peel out of the parking lot. It's great, feeling like you've gotten away with something.