The Blue Nowhere

That’s all. I’m curious about it.”
    “Curious? You happen to forget a little matter like he’s killing people with it.”
    “I—”
    “You asshole. . . . It’s a game to you too, isn’t it? Just like him.” He stalked out of CCU, calling to Bishop, “Let’s get the hell out of here and find that witness. That’s how we’re going to nail this prick. Not with this computer shit.” He stormed off.
    No one moved for a moment. The team looked awkwardly at the white-board or computer terminals or the floor.
    Bishop nodded for Gillette to follow him into the pantry, where the detective poured some coffee into a Styrofoam cup.
    “Jennie, that’s my wife, keeps me rationed,” Bishop said, glancing at the dark brew. “Love the stuff but I’ve got gut problems. Pre-ulcer, the doctor says. Is that a crazy way to put it, or what? Sounds like I’m in training.”
    “I’ve got reflux,” Gillette said. He touched his upper chest. “Lot of hackers do. From all the coffee and soda.”
    “Look, about Bob Shelton . . . He had a thing happen a few years ago.” The detective sipped the coffee, glanced down at his blossoming shirt. He tucked it in yet again. “I read those letters in your court file—the e-mails your father sent to the judge as part of the sentencing hearing. It sounds like you two have a good relationship.”
    “Real good, yeah,” Gillette said, nodding. “Especially after my mom passed away.”
    “Well, then I think you’ll understand this. Bob had a son.”
    Had?
    “He loved the kid a lot—like your dad loves you, sounds like. Only the kid was killed in a car accident a few years ago. He was sixteen. Bob hasn’t been the same since then. I know it’s a lot to ask but try to cut him some slack.”
    “I’m sorry about that.” Gillette thought suddenly about his own ex-wife. How he’d spent hours and hours in prison wishing he were still married, wishing that he and Ellie had had a son or daughter, wondering how the hell he’d screwed up so badly and ruined his chances for a family. “I’ll try.”
    “Appreciate that.”
    They walked back to the main room. Gillette returned to his workstation. Bishop nodded toward the parking lot. “Bob and I’ll be checking out that witness at Vesta’s Grill.”
    “Detective,” Tony Mott said, standing up. “How ’bout if I come along with you?”
    “Why?” Bishop asked, frowning.
    “Thought I could help—you’ve got the computer side covered here, with Wyatt and Patricia and Stephen. I could help canvassing witnesses maybe.”
    “You ever do any canvassing?”
    “Sure.” After a few seconds he grinned. “Well, not post-crime on the street exactly. But I’ve interviewed plenty of people online.”
    “Well, maybe later, Tony. I think Bob and I’ll run this one alone.” He left the office.
    The young cop returned to his workstation, clearly disappointed. Gillette wondered if he was upset that he’d been left to report to a civilian or if he really wanted to get a chance to use that very large pistol of his, the butt of which kept nicking the office furniture.
    In five minutes he’d finished hacking together his bot.
    “It’s ready,” he announced. He went online and typed the commands to send his creation out into the Blue Nowhere.
    Patricia Nolan leaned forward, staring at the screen. “Good luck,” she whispered. “Godspeed.” Like a ship captain’s wife bidding her husband farewell as his vessel pulled out of port on a treacherous voyage to uncharted waters.
    A nother beep on his machine.
    Phate looked up from the architectural diagram he’d downloaded—St. Francis Academy and the grounds surrounding it—and saw another message from Shawn. He opened the mail and read it. More bad news. The police had learned his real name. He was momentarily concerned but then decided this wasn’t critical; Jon Patrick Holloway was hidden beneath so many layers of fake personas and addressesthat there were no links to him as Phate. Still, the police could get their hands on a picture of him (some parts of our past can’t be erased with a delete command) and they’d undoubtedly distribute it throughout Silicon Valley. But at least he was now forewarned. He’d use more disguises.
    Anyway, what was the point of playing a MUD game if it wasn’t challenging?
    He glanced at the clock on his computer: 4:15. Time to get to St. Francis Academy for tonight’s game. He had over two hours but he’d have to stake out the