The Devil's Code

up and scanned the area with the night glasses, then picked up the equipment, including the AK, and headed down the road. Halfway down, a truck came banging up the gravel. I stepped well off the road to let it pass, and watched until it had passed the car’s hiding place. When it was out of sight, I listened again, then moved on.
    Moving this slowly, it was nearly midnight before I crossed the fence line and started down toward the dish. When I was directly above it, I scanned it with the glasses for ten minutes, then moved down. I could hear the electric hum; and waited again, but only a minute or two this time, before taping up the package and extending the little antennas. Then I taped up the plastic bands, so I’d be able to measure the azimuth. That done, I moved ten yards off, into the pasture, laid down, and alternately listened and scanned the fields.
    An hour passed, and then another. Halfway into the third hour, the electric hum changed pitch. At first I thought I might be hallucinating the change, because I’d been waiting so long. I scrambled over, listened again: no doubt about it.
    I put my hand on the dish and at the first vibration, flipped the switch on our package. The dish was moving, and I began taking measurements; a half-hour later, I was crossing the fence with the package in my pack.
    What Bobby could do with it, I wasn’t sure. Bobby would take care of that. I’d put it in the mail as soon as I got back to Dallas—there must be an all-night post office out by DFW, I thought—and then I’d make my own run.
    T he killing of Lane Ward had put the idea in my mind: the anger and frustration growing as these people hit at us, for reasons we didn’t know about, and—aside from Jack’s death—barely cared about. The cynicism of the people who were supposed to help—the FBI and other agencies—was nearly as bad.
    That night, on the way back to Dallas, I saw a Wal-Mart, and stopped to buy a box. I finally found one large enough: it contained the side boards and shelves for a do-it-yourself book case. I bought it, and threw it in the car.
    At the same time, I called and got directions to the all-night post office, and mailed the package to John in Memphis. That done, I cruised the North Dallas house belonging to William Hart. There was the faintest glow of light behind a window, as though he had a night light; but never a sign of life. It was not a street where you could loiter. I made a few passes, checking out the neighborhood, and called it a night.
    B ut I was back the next morning, at six-thirty, eyes grainy after only four hours of sleep. There were only a couple of logical, quick routes from Hart’s house to the downtown offices. I couldn’t hang out on his street, but I could sit in a McDonald’s parking lot, eat an egg-and-sausage McMuffin and watch the street he’d probably come out of. I sat for a little more than an hour, and saw the Buick turn out of his street.
    I fell in, but kept six or seven cars between us. He headed for an Interstate ramp, and I followed him up and toward town. Halfway down, he got off the highway, and began threading through local streets. I stayed with him, pulled off once, then got in behind before he disappeared. He stopped in front of an apartment house, waited. A moment later, a man hobbled out. Short hair, six feet, barrel-chested. Benson, I thought. The onewe’d ID’d in San Jose. He got in the car, carefully. I waited until they were gone, and started scouting the neighborhood.
    This neighborhood was different than Hart’s. Lots of apartments, lots of older houses, commercial lots elbowing in on the residences: corner stores and hairdressing salons, video-rental places, like that. After half an hour of careful scouting, I found a spot. There were drawbacks. Too many windows looking down on it, but I’d have to risk it, if it turned out to be the best I could do. After scouting it, I headed down to the historic district, hoping to find a better setup.
    A mMath was a block from the end of the historic district. The district ended with a parking lot, and beyond that a jumble of freeway ramps. I intended to cruise the district for a while, hoping to spot their car. I cruised for about two minutes, and spotted it in a slot on the side of the building: if the guy with the limp was hurt badly, they’d probably kept looking for a space until they got one close to the building entrance.
    All right: I had the car. When I rolled past it, I could