Daemon

close-up, with his hands held in front of him, fingers interleaved in quiet repose – staring straight at Gragg as he approached the dais.
    As Gragg came into a circle set into the granite floor, the man nodded solemnly to him in greeting. Even if Gragg hadn’t seen the photos on the news, he would have known this man instantly. It was Matthew Sobol. Gragg buckled to his knees on the stone floor before him. For the first time in his life Gragg finally understood what a cathedral was – it was a psychological hack.
    Sobol was there, larger than life in perfect digital clarity. He extended his arms in a gesture of welcome.
    ‘Few have accomplished what you have. You’re a rare person. But then you know that.’ Sobol let the words sink in. ‘While I lived, I could not father a son. But in death I will. What things I could teach you, were you my son. What pride I would have had in you.’
    Gragg’s eyes welled with tears. He felt emotion from a place he’d long forgotten. Memories of his father and long years seeking approval never granted bubbled up from the depths of his mind.
    Sobol continued. ‘I wish I could have met you – you who will be my eyes, my ears, and my hands. My growing power will course through you. I will protect you. Like any father protects his beloved son.’
    Gragg saw in Sobol’s eyes the respect and compassion he had always sought. The acceptance for who and what he was. This was home. Gragg was finally home. He wept openly. Hewas filled with joy for the first time in his life. Nothing else mattered to him anymore.
    Sobol looked on. ‘There is so much I wish to teach you …’

Chapter 20:// Speaking with the Dead
    It was a perfect autumn dawn. The hills were shrouded in the mist that usually burned off by mid-morning, and the glowing orb of the sun silhouetted the columns of SUVs heading south on the 101. An earthy fragrance sent aloft by a hundred thousand lawn sprinklers filled the air and a constant airy rush, like the sound of falling water or wind in the trees, echoed across the valley from the freeway. Southern California was booting up for another day – as long as the power grid held.
    Jon Ross strode across the pavement of his hotel parking lot, dressed impeccably in a black pinstriped, four-button suit and a gray silk tie. His black leather laptop bag was slung over one shoulder.
    Ross preferred corporate residence suites like this. They usually had open parking lots and direct-access front doors. It was more like a regular apartment and less like a hotel. He almost felt like a resident of Woodland Hills. He breathed in deeply, appreciating the morning air. Was that the smell of jasmine?
    Ross stopped short.
    Detective Sebeck leaned on the hood of Ross’s silver Audi sedan and sipped takeout coffee while reading the
Ventura Star
. He didn’t even look up. ‘Morning, Jon.’
    Ross resumed walking toward his car, but more slowly. ‘Good morning, Sergeant. Do you normally get up this early?’
    ‘I could ask you the same thing.’ As Ross walked past, Sebeck folded the paper and threw it down on the car hood in front of him. The headline screamed
Second Massacre at Sobol Estate
in a font size normally reserved for advertisements or declarations of war.
    Ross didn’t pick it up. ‘I live in the western hemisphere; it would have been difficult to miss.’
    Sebeck stabbed a thick finger toward a sidebar story elsewhere on page one.
    Ross cocked his head to read
Sobol Funeral Today
. He looked back up at Sebeck.
    Sebeck flipped Ross’s lapel. ‘Dressed a little mournfully, aren’t you?’
    Ross was taken aback. The cop was perceptive. Ross dropped his formality and nodded in acknowledgment. ‘It seemed odd to me – his having a viewing. He doesn’t strike me as the religious type.’
    ‘No kidding. So why are you trying to shake me by ducking out early?’
    Ross looked down at the parking lot and squeezed his laptop bag’s shoulder strap rhythmically. ‘I don’t want my name to wind up in the news.’
    Sebeck considered this. ‘Is that what all this is about? You’re afraid of Sobol?’
    ‘As a computer consultant, the Daemon might consider me a threat.’
    Sebeck nodded. ‘All right. We’ll keep our collaboration secret, but if you’re going to pursue Sobol, anyway, remember: I can open doors for you – and you for me.’
    Ross breathed the morning air deeply again as he pondered the offer. He looked up. ‘What do you hope to accomplish that the FBI