The Blue Nowhere

head. “He did this as a diversion, to get us to focus on Jennie and this wing. Which means he’s targeting a different patient.”
    “Or patient s, ” Bob Shelton said.
    Mott added, “Or somebody on the staff.”
    Bishop said, “This suspect likes challenges. What would be the hardest place in the hospital to break into?”
    Dr. Williston and Les Allen considered this. “What do you think, Doctor? The operating suites? They all have controlled-access doors.”
    “That’d be my guess.”
    “And where are they?”
    “In a separate building—you get to them through a tunnel from this wing.”
    “And a lot of doctors and nurses there would be masked and gowned, right?” Linda Sanchez asked.
    “Yes.”
    So Phate could roam his killing grounds freely. Bishop then asked, “Is there anyone being operated on right now?”
    Dr. Williston laughed. “Any one? We’ve got probably twenty procedures going on, I’d say.” He turned to Jennie. “I’ll be back in ten minutes. We’ll get those tests over with and get you home.” He left the room.
    “Let’s go hunting,” Bishop said to Mott, Sanchez and Shelton. Hehugged Jennie again. As he left, the young security guard pulled his chair closer to the bedside. Once they were in the corridor the guard swung the door shut. Bishop heard it latch.
    They walked down the hall quickly, Mott keeping his hand near his automatic, looking around, as if he were about to draw and shoot anybody who bore the least resemblance to Phate.
    Bishop too felt unnerved, recalling that the killer was a chameleon and, with his disguises, could be walking past them right now and they might never know it.
    They were at the elevator when something occurred to Bishop. Alarmed, he looked back toward the closed door of Jennie’s room. He didn’t go into the details of Phate’s social engineering skills but said to Allen, “The thing about our suspect is that we’re never quite sure what he’ll look like next. I didn’t pay much attention to that guard in my wife’s room. He’s about the perp’s age and build. You’re sure he works for your department?”
    “Who? Dick Hellman back there?” Allen answered, nodding slowly. “Well, what I can tell you for sure is that he’s my daughter’s husband and I’ve known him for eight years. As far as the ‘work’ part of your question goes—if putting in a four-hour day during an eight-hour shift is work then I guess the answer’s yes.”
    I n the tiny canteen at the Computer Crimes Unit, Agent Art Backle rummaged futilely through the refrigerator for milk or half-and-half. Since Starbucks had arrived in the Bay area Backle hadn’t drunk any other kind of coffee and he knew that the boiled-down burnt-smelling brew here would taste vile without something to take the edge off. With some disgust he poured a large dose of Coffee-mate into the cup. The liquid turned gray.
    He took a bagel from the plate and bit down into it hungrily. Goddamn. . . . He flung the rubber fake across the room, realizing of course that Gillette had sent him back here as a practical fucking joke. He decided that when the hacker went back to prison he’d—
    What was that noise?
    He started to turn toward the doorway.
    But by the time he identified the sound as sprinting footsteps his attacker was already on top of him. He slammed into the slim agent’s back, pitching him into the wall and knocking the wind out of his lungs.
    The attacker flicked the lights out. The windowless room went completely black. Then the man grabbed Backle by the collar and flung him facedown to the floor. His head slammed into the concrete with a quiet thud.
    Gasping for breath, the agent groped for his pistol.
    But another hand got there first and lifted it away.
    W ho do you want to be?
    Phate walked slowly down the main corridor of the state police’s Computer Crimes Unit offices. He was wearing a worn, stained Pacific Gas and Electric uniform and a hard hat. Hidden just inside the coveralls was his Ka-bar knife and a large automatic pistol—a Glock—with three clips of ammunition. He carried another weapon as well but it was one that might not be recognized as such, not in the hands of a repairman: a large monkey wrench.
    Who do you want to be?
    Someone the cops here would trust, someone they wouldn’t think twice about seeing in their midst. That’s who.
    Phate looked around, surprised that the CCU had picked a dinosaur pen for their headquarters. Had it been a