The Blue Nowhere

bothered,” she pointed out. “He was pretty confident that nobody’d get into his machine. And if they did then the encryption bomb would stop them.”
    She ran the Restore8 program and, in a moment, data that Phate had erased over the past few weeks appeared on the screen. She read through it. “Nothing on the school. Nothing about any attacks. All I can find are bits of receipts for some of the computer parts he sold. Most of the data’re corrupted. But here’s one you can kind of make out.”
    Ma%%%ch 27***200!!!++
    55eerrx3^^shipped to:
    San Jose Com434312 Produuu234aawe%%
    2335 Winch4ster 00u46lke^
    San Jo^^44^^^^9^^^$$###
    Attn: 97J**seph McGona%%gle
    Bishop and Gillette read the screen.
    The hacker said, “But that doesn’t do us any good. That’s a company that bought some of his parts. We need Phate’s address, where they were shipped from. ”
    Gillette took over for Nolan and scanned through the rest of the recovered files. They were just digital garbage. “Nothing.”
    But Bishop shook his head. “Wait a minute.” He pointed to the screen. “Go back up.”
    Gillette scrolled back to the semilegible text of the receipt.
    Bishop tapped the screen and said, “This company—San Jose Computer Products—they’d have to have some record of who sold them the parts and where they were shipped from.”
    “Unless they knew they were stolen,” Patricia Nolan said. “Then they’d deny knowing anything about Phate.”
    Gillette said, “I’ll bet when they find out Phate’s been killing people they’ll be a little more cooperative.”
    “Or less,” Nolan said skeptically.
    Bishop added, “Receiving stolen goods is a felony. Avoiding San Quentin’s a pretty good reason to be cooperative.”
    The detective touched his sprayed hair as he leaned forward and picked up the phone. He called the CCU office, praying that one of the team—not Backle or one of the feds—would pick up. He was relieved when Tony Mott answered. The detective said, “Tony, it’s Frank. Can you talk? . . . How bad is it there? . . . They have any leads? . . . No, I mean, leads to us  . . . Okay, good. Listen, do me a favor, run San Jose Computer Products, 2335 Winchester in San Jose. . . . No. I’ll hold on.”
    A moment later Bishop cocked his head. He nodded slowly. “Okay, got it. Thanks. We think Phate’s been selling computer parts to them. We’re going to have a talk with somebody there. I’ll let you know if we find anything. Listen, call the chancellor and the head of security at Northern California U and tell them the killer might be on his way to the school now. And get more troopers over there.”
    He hung up and said to Nolan and Gillette, “The company’s clean. It’s been around for fifteen years, never any trouble with the IRS, EPA or state taxation department. Paid up on all its business licenses. If they’ve been buying anything from Phate they probably don’t know it’s hot. Let’s go over there and have a talk with this McGonagle or somebody.”
    Gillette joined the detective. Nolan, though, said, “You go on. I’ll keep looking through his machine for any other leads.”
    Pausing at the door, Wyatt Gillette glanced back and saw her sit down at the keyboard. She gave him a faint smile of encouragement. But it seemed to him that it was slightly wistful and that there might be another meaning in her expression—perhaps the inevitable recognition that there was little hope of a relationship blossoming between them.
    But then, as had happened so often with the hacker himself, her smile vanished and Nolan turned back to the glowing monitor and began to key furiously. Instantly, with a look of utter concentration on her face, she slipped out of the Real World and into the Blue Nowhere.
    T he game was no longer fun.
    Sweating, furious, desperate, Phate slouched at his desk and looked absently around him—at all of his precious computer antiquities. He knew that Gillette and the police were close on his trail and it was no longer possible to keep playing his game here in lush Santa Clara County.
    This was a particularly painful admission because he considered this week—Univac Week—a very special version of his game. It was like the famous MUD game, the Crusades; Silicon Valley was the new holy land and he’d wanted to win big on every level.
    But the police—and Valleyman—had proved to be a lot better than he’d expected.
    So: no options. He now had yet another