The Blue Nowhere

hacker’s brother, Rick, a government employee in Montana, had come to his sibling’s aid with several faxed letters to the court, also urging leniency. Rick Gillette even touchingly suggested that his brother could come live with him and his wife “in a rugged and pristine mountain setting,” as if clean air and physical labor could cure the hacker of his criminal ways.
    Anderson was touched by this but surprised as well; most of the hackers that Anderson had arrested came from dysfunctional families.
    He closed the file and handed it to Bishop, who read through it absently,seemingly bewildered by the technical references to machines. The detective muttered, “The Blue Nowhere?” A moment later he gave up and passed the folder to his partner.
    “What’s the timetable for release?” Shelton asked, flipping through the file.
    Anderson replied, “We’ve got the paperwork waiting at the courthouse now. As soon as we can get a federal magistrate to sign it Gillette’s ours.”
    “I’m just giving you fair warning,” the warden said ominously. He nodded at the homemade computer. “If you want to go ahead with a release, be my guest. Only you gotta pretend he’s a junkie who’s been off the needle for two years.”
    Shelton said, “I think we ought to call the FBI. We could use some feds anyway on this one. And there’d be more bodies to keep an eye on him.”
    But Anderson shook his head. “If we tell them then the DoD’ll hear about it and have a stroke about us releasing the man who cracked their Standard 12. Gillette’ll be back inside in a half hour. No, we’ve got to keep it quiet. The release order’ll be under a John Doe.”
    Anderson looked toward Bishop, caught in the act of checking out his silent cell phone once again. “What do you think, Frank?”
    The lean detective tucked in his shirt again and finally put together several complete sentences. “Well, sir, I think we should get him out and the sooner the better. That killer probably isn’t sitting around talking. Like us.”

CHAPTER 00000100 / FOUR
    F or a terrible half hour Wyatt Gillette had sat in the cold, medieval dungeon, refusing to speculate if it would really happen—if he’d be released. He wouldn’t allow himself even a wisp of hope; in prison, expectations are the first to die.
    Then, with a nearly silent click, the door opened and the cops returned.
    Gillette looked up and happened to notice in Anderson’s left lobe a tiny brown dot of an earring hole that had closed up long ago. The cop said, “A magistrate’s signed a temporary release order.”
    Gillette realized that he’d been sitting with his teeth clenched and shoulders drawn into a fierce knot. With this news he exhaled in relief. Thank you, thank you. . . .
    “Now, you have a choice. Either you’ll be shackled the whole time you’re out or you wear an electronic tracking anklet.”
    The prisoner considered this. “Anklet.”
    “It’s a new variety,” Anderson said. “Titanium. You can only get it on and off with a special key. Nobody’s ever slipped out of one.”
    “Well, one guy did,” Bob Shelton said cheerfully. “But he had to cut his foot off to do it. He only got a mile before he bled to death.”
    Gillette by now disliked Shelton as much as the burly cop seemed to hate him.
    “It tracks you for sixty miles and broadcasts through metal,” Anderson continued.
    “You made your point,” Gillette said. To the warden he said, “I need some things from my cell.”
    “What things?” the man grumbled. “You aren’t gonna be away that long, Gillette. You don’t need to pack.”
    Gillette said to Anderson, “I need some of my books and notebooks. And I’ve got a lot of printouts that’ll be helpful—from things like Wired and 2600. ”
    The CCU cop said to the warden, “It’s okay.”
    A loud electronic braying came from nearby. Gillette jumped at the noise. It took a minute to recognize the sound, one that he’d never heard in San Ho. Frank Bishop answered his cell phone. The gaunt cop took the call, listened for a moment, flicking at a sideburn, then answered, “Yessir, Captain. . . . And?” There was a long pause, during which the corner of his mouth tightened very slightly. “You can’t do anything? . . . Okay, sir.”
    He hung up.
    Anderson cocked an eyebrow at him. The homicide detective said evenly, “That was Captain Bernstein. There was another report on the wire about the MARINKILL case. The perps were