The Blue Nowhere

coming with me.”
    Patricia Nolan’s head swiveled toward the hacker when she heard this. She said casually, “I’ve got plenty of room at my hotel. My company’s paying for a suite. You’re welcome to stay there if you want. Got a great minibar.”
    But the detective chuckled and said, “I’m running toward unemploymentfast enough with this case. Think it’d be better if he came with me. Prisoner in custody, you know.”
    Nolan took the defeat well—Bishop supposed she was beginning to give up on Gillette as romantic material. She gathered up her purse, a pile of floppy disks and her laptop, and left.
    As Bishop and Gillette walked out the door the hacker asked, “You mind if we make a stop on the way?”
    “A stop?”
    “There’s something I want to pick up,” Gillette said. “Oh, and speaking of which—can I borrow a couple of dollars?”

CHAPTER 00011100 / TWENTY-EIGHT
    “H ere we are,” Bishop said.
    They pulled up in front of a ranch house, small but situated in a verdant yard that looked to be about a half acre, a huge lot for this part of Silicon Valley.
    Gillette asked what town this was and Bishop told him Mountain View. Then he added, “Of course, I can’t exactly see any mountains. The only view’s my next-door neighbor’s Dodge up on blocks and, on a clear day, that big hangar at Moffett Field.” He pointed north, across the lights of traffic streaming along Highway 101.
    They walked along a winding sidewalk, which was badly cracked and buckled. Bishop said, “Watch your step there. I’ve been meaning to get around to fixing that. You have the San Andreas fault to thank. Which is all of about three miles thataway. Say, wipe your feet if you don’t mind.”
    He unlocked the door and ushered the hacker inside.
    Frank Bishop’s wife, Jennie, was a petite woman in her late thirties. Her pug face wasn’t beautiful but was appealing in a wholesome way. While Bishop—with his sprayed hair, sideburns and short-sleeved white shirts—was a time traveler from the 1950s, his wife was very much an up-to-date housewife. Long hair in a French braid, jeans, a designer work shirt. She was trim and athletic-looking, though to Gillette, now out of prison and surrounded by tanned Californians, she seemed very pale.
    She didn’t appear the least put out—or even surprised—that herhusband had brought a felon home to spend the night and Gillette supposed she’d received a phone call earlier about their houseguest.
    “Have you eaten?” she asked.
    “No,” Bishop said.
    But Gillette held up the paper bag containing what they’d stopped for on the way here from CCU. “I’m fine with these.”
    Jennie unabashedly took the bag from him, looked inside. She laughed. “You’re not having Pop-Tarts for dinner. You need real food.”
    “No, really—” With a smile on his face and sorrow in his heart Gillette watched the pastry disappear into the kitchen.
    So near, yet so far . . .
    Bishop unlaced his shoes, pulled them off and put on moccasin slippers. The hacker also took his shoes off and, in stocking feet, stepped into the living room, looking around.
    The place reminded Gillette of his own childhood homes. White wall-to-wall carpet in need of replacing. Furniture from JCPenney or Sears. An expensive TV and a cheap stereo. The chipped dining room table doubled tonight as a desk; this seemed to be bill-paying day. A dozen envelopes were carefully laid out to be mailed. Pacific Bell, Mervyn’s, MasterCard, Visa.
    Gillette looked over some of the many framed pictures on the mantelpiece. There were four or five dozen of them. More on the walls, tables and bookshelves. The couple’s wedding picture revealed a young Frank Bishop identical to today’s, sideburns and sprayed hair included (though the white shirt under the tuxedo jacket was held firmly in place by a cummerbund).
    Bishop saw Gillette studying them. “Jennie calls us World O’ Frames. We’ve got more pictures than any two families on our block combined.” He nodded toward the back of the house. “Plenty more in the bedroom and bathroom too. That one you’re looking at—that’s my father and mother.”
    “Was he a cop? Wait, do you mind being called a cop?”
    “Do you mind being called a hacker?”
    Gillette shrugged. “Nope. It fits.”
    “Same with ‘cop.’ But, no, Dad owned a printing company in Oakland. Bishop and Sons. The ‘sons’ part isn’t exactly accurate since two of my sisters run it now, along