The Blue Nowhere

directly toward him.
    “Got it,” Bishop called calmly.
    Maybe it was instinct or maybe it was his police tactical driving instruction but the detective chose not to brake. He jammed the accelerator to the floor and skidded the Crown Victoria toward the oncoming car. The maneuver worked. The vehicles missed by inches and the Volvo slammed into the front fender of the Porsche behind the police car with a huge bang. Bishop controlled his skid and braked to a stop.
    “Idiot ran the light,” Bishop muttered, pulling his radio off the dash to report the accident.
    “No, he didn’t,” Gillette said, looking back. “Look, both lights’re green.”
    A block ahead of them two more cars sat in the middle of the intersection, sideways, smoke pouring from their hoods.
    The radio crackled, jammed with reports of accidents and traffic-light malfunctions. They listened for a moment.
    “The lights’re all green,” the detective said. “All over the county. It’s Phate, right? He did it.”
    Gillette gave a sour laugh. “He cracked public works. It’s a smokescreen so he and Miller can get away.”
    Bishop started forward again but, because of the traffic, they’d slowed to a few miles an hour. The flashing light on the dash had no effect and Bishop shut it off. He shouted over the sound of the horns, “What can they do at public works to fix it?”
    “He probably froze the system or put in an unbreakable passcode. They’ll have to reload everything from the backup tapes. That’ll take hours.” The hacker shook his head. “But the traffic’s going to keep him trapped too. What’s the point?”
    Bishop said, “No, his place’ll be right on the freeway. Probably next to an entrance ramp. Northern California University is too. He’ll kill the next victim, jump back on the freeway and head who knows where, smooth sailing.”
    Gillette nodded and added, “At least nobody at San Jose Computer Products is going anywhere either.”
    A quarter mile from their destination traffic was at a complete standstill and Bishop and Gillette had to abandon the car. They leapt out and began jogging, prodded forward by a sense of desperate urgency. Phate wouldn’t have created the traffic jam until just before he was ready for his assault on the school. At best—even if someone at San Jose Computer could find the shipper’s address—they might not get to Phate’s place until after the victim was dead and Phate and Miller were gone.
    They came to the building that housed the company and paused, leaning against a chain-link fence, gasping for breath.
    The air was filled with a cacophony of horns and the whump, whump, whump of a helicopter that hovered nearby, a local news station recording the evidence of Phate’s prowess—and Santa Clara County’s vulnerability—for the rest of the country to witness.
    The men started forward again, hurrying toward an open doorway next to the company’s loading dock. They climbed the steps to the dock and walked inside. A chubby, gray-haired worker stacking cartons on a pallet glanced up.
    “Excuse me, sir. Police,” Bishop said, and showed his badge. “We need to ask you a few questions.”
    The man squinted through thick-rimmed glasses as he examined Bishop’s ID. “Yessir, can I help you?”
    “We’re looking for Joe McGonagle.”
    “That’s me,” he said. “Is this about an accident or something? What’s with all the horns?”
    “Traffic lights’re out.”
    “That’s a mess. Near rush hour too.”
    Bishop asked, “You own the company?”
    “With my brother-in-law. What exactly’s the problem, Officer?”
    “Last week you took delivery of some supercomputer parts.”
    “We do that every week. That’s our business.”
    “We have reason to believe that somebody may’ve sold you some stolen parts.”
    “Stolen?”
    “You’re not under investigation, sir. But it’s important that we find the man who sold them to you. Would you mind if we looked through your receiving records?”
    “I swear I didn’t know anything was stolen. Jim, he’s my brother, wouldn’t do that either. He’s a good Christian.”
    “All we want is to find this man who sold them. We need the address or phone number of the company the parts were shipped from.”
    “All the shipping files’re in here.” He started down the hallway.“But if I needed a lawyer or anything ’fore I talk to you, you’d tell me.”
    “Yessir, I would,” Bishop said sincerely. “We’re only