The Blue Nowhere

It had taken time to break in because once someone had root control of this particular network he could cause a great deal of harm to many, many people.
    He now scrolled through the menu.
    Stanford-Packard Medical Center
Palo Alto, California
    MAIN MENU
    1. Administration
    2. Personnel
    3. Patient Admissions
    4. Patient Records
    5. Departments by Specialty
    6. CMS
    7. Facilities management
    8. Tyler-Kresge Rehabilitation Center
    9. Emergency Services
    10. Critical Care Unit
    He spent some time exploring and finally chose number 6. A new menu appeared.
    Computerized Medical Services
    1. Surgical Scheduling
    2. Medicine Dosage and Administration Scheduling
    3. Oxygen Replenishment
    4. Oncological Chemo/Radiation Scheduling
    5. Patient Dietary Menus and Scheduling
    He typed 2 and hit ENTER.
    I n the parking lot of the Computer Crimes Unit Frank Bishop, on his way to fetch the Identikit, sensed the threat before he actually looked directly at the man.
    Bishop knew the intruder—fifty feet away, half hidden through the early-morning mist and fog—was dangerous the way you know somebody is carrying a weapon just because of the way he steps off the curb. The way you know that a threat awaits you behind the door, down the alley, in the front seat of the stopped car.
    Bishop hesitated for only a moment. But then he continued on his way as if he suspected nothing. He couldn’t see the intruder’s face clearly but he knew it had to be Pittman—well, Shawn. He’d been staking out the place yesterday when Tony Mott had seen him and he was staking it out again now.
    Only the detective had a sense that today Shawn might be doing more than surveillance; maybe he was hunting.
    And Frank Bishop, veteran of the trenches, guessed that if this man was here then he’d know what kind of car Bishop drove and he was going to cut Bishop off on the way to his vehicle, that he’d already checked angles and shooting zones and backgrounds.
    So the detective continued on his way toward the car, patting his pockets as if looking for the cigarettes that he’d given up smoking years ago and gazing up at the rain with a perplexed frown on his face, trying to fathom the weather.
    Nothing makes perps more skittish and likely to flee—or attack—than unpredictability and sudden motion by cops.
    He knew he could sprint back inside CCU to safety. But if he did that Shawn would vanish and they might never get this chance again. No, Bishop would no more miss this opportunity to nail the killer’s partner than he’d ignore his son’s tears.
    Keep walking, keep walking.
    It all comes down to this. . . .
    A bit of dark motion ahead, as Shawn, now hiding beside a large Winnebago camper, peeked out to gauge Bishop’s position and then ducked back again. The detective continued strolling over the asphalt, pretending that he hadn’t seen.
    When he was nearly to the Winnebago, the detective ducked to the right, pulling his well-worn gun from his holster, and sprinted as fast as he could around the corner of the camper. He raised his weapon.
    But he stopped fast.
    Shawn was gone. In the few seconds that it had taken him to circle behind the vehicle Phate’s partner had vanished.
    To his right, across the parking lot, a car door slammed. Bishop spun toward the sound, crouching and raising his weapon. But he saw that the noise had come from a delivery van. A heavyset black man was carrying a box from the vehicle to a nearby factory.
    Well, where could Shawn have gotten to?
    He found out a moment later, when behind him the door to the camper flew open and, before he could turn, Bishop felt a pistol barrel nestle itself against the back of his head.
    The detective had a fast glimpse of the slight man’s mustachioed face as Shawn leaned forward and his hand shot out like a snake to rip Bishop’s weapon away.
    Bishop thought of Brandon and then of Jennie.
    He sighed.
    It all comes down to this. . . .
    Frank Bishop closed his eyes.

CHAPTER 00011110 / THIRTY
    T he chime on the CCU computer was merely an off-the-shelf .wav sound but to the team it blared like a siren.
    Wyatt Gillette ran to the workstation. “Yes!” he whispered. “Phate’s looked at the picture. The virus is in his machine.”
    On the screen flashed these words:
    Config.sys modified
    “That’s it. But we don’t have much time—all he has to do is check his system once and he’s going to see that we’re inside.”
    Gillette sat down at the computer. Lifted