Silken Prey

disappeared around the bend and rolled off to the Gulf of Mexico. “Yeah, you’re right. I’ve been looking at places.”
    “I was afraid of that,” Kidd said.
    “I’ve never been caught,” Lauren said, turning back. “I’ve never been printed.”
    “You didn’t have that much riding on it before,” Kidd said.
    “You’re right. I didn’t.”
    “I quit,” Kidd said. “As much as I could, anyway.”
    “You could quit because you never wanted to do it that much—industrial espionage, sneaking around in factories . . . it all seemed so weird,” Lauren said. “You didn’t need it, because you’re basically a painter, not a thief. But I’m basically a thief. That’s what I do. That’s my painting. I’m not basically a housewife.”
    “But nobody’s going to put me in jail for painting . . .”
    “That
Times
critic might,” Lauren said. “He said you were a throwback to a bygone era and that your prices were absurd for something as old-fashioned as paintings.”
    “I’m trying to be serious,” Kidd said. “About everything. That’s why I showed you the video. I want you to think about your life.”
    She turned away from him and bobbed her head. “All right. I’ll do that. I
will
do that, Kidd.”
    •   •   •
    T HEY TALKED for two hours. Lauren was mostly right—Kidd was basically a painter, but there was one spot in his heart that would never go away, reserved for the beauty of computers and their languages.
    Much later that night, Kidd was back in the studio when a computer chirped at him. He went over and looked at it. Military records depository. He touched a key and the computer on the other end hesitated. “Open sesame,” Kidd said, feeling the rush.
    The army’s computer opened up.

CHAPTER 15
    L ucas was lying on a couch reading the Steve Jobs biography, which he’d been meaning to do for a long time, when his cell phone rang. He looked at the screen, which said it was two minutes after eleven o’clock, and “Caller Unknown.”
    “Hello?”
    “Don’t say anything. This is a wrong number. Look at your e-mail. Don’t call me back before tomorrow night.”
    Click.
Kidd was gone; the call had lasted six seconds.
    •   •   •
    L UCAS GOT OFF the couch and padded back to his study, sat down at the computer, and brought up his e-mail. He had incoming mail from the military records depository.
    He clicked on it, and found two PDF documents. He clicked on the first and found a thirty-page document on Ronald L. Carver, Sgt. E-8 U.S. Army, marked “Secret.” Lucas had never been in the army, and thought E-8 was a rank, but wasn’t sure. He went out on Google to check: E-8 was a master sergeant.
    The document was a mass of acronyms and it took him an hour to work through the thirty pages, going back and forth to Google, searching for definitions, making notes on a yellow legal pad.
    Weather stuck her head in and said, “You’re not coming to bed?”
    “Not for a while.” She was up late; not working in the morning. “Something came up.”
    “Don’t drink any more Diet Coke or you’ll be up all night.”
    She went away and Lucas went back to Carver. Scanning the document, he’d figured that Carver had spent three years in Iraq and two more in Afghanistan. He had a Silver Star and a Bronze Star for bravery under fire, and had been wounded at least twice, with two Purple Hearts. Neither wound had been serious. Both had been treated in-country, and he’d returned to active duty in less than a month, in each case.
    Then something happened, but Lucas couldn’t tell what it was. Carver had been reprimanded—exact circumstances unspecified—and very shortly afterward had been honorably discharged.
    Reading through the document a second time, he determined that Carver had been through a number of high-level training courses: he was a Ranger, he was parachute qualified, he’d taken a half-dozen courses in anti-insurgency warfare, and had spent a lot of time on “detached duty” in both Iraq and Afghanistan.
    Working through military sites he found through Google, he determined that Carver had made the master sergeant rank about as quickly as was possible. Then he was out.
    Lucas leaned back in his chair and processed it. He thought Carver had probably been some sort of enlisted-ranks combat specialist, what the Internet military sites called an “operator.” Lucas suspected that he’d killed a lot of people—his training all pointed in