The Hanged Man's Song

wouldn’t hear it, and said—shouted—something like this at us:
    “I don’t know what the three of you could have been thinking of. What the fuck could you have been thinking of? You already got shot at once. You already got your asses shot at in the trailer. Why did you think he wouldn’t shoot you again? You knew the crazy motherfucker had a gun, because he already shot at you. Why didn’t you call the cops? Fuck this laptop. What was going on in your stupid heads? Is there anything in there at all? Look at this silly motherfucker sitting at the kitchen table with a big bandage on him and that shit-eating grin on his face like some watermelon-eatin’ coon in a goddamned travelin’ show. Oh, Lord, why does Thy servant have to put up with this shit? Why is that . . .”
    You get the idea.
    >>> JOHN was okay. He was going to be okay, though George was right: he hurt like hell. And Rachel was okay. She and Marvel had come to an understanding, and she sat at the kitchen table with John, pounding down the Cream of Wheat, enjoying the Marvel show. After we got Marvel calmed down—calmed down wasn’t exactly the idea, but quieted down, anyway—I went back to the motel and continued mining Carp’s laptop, going online to look for names, places, dates. LuEllen went visiting, out to see a farmerfriend who lived across the river. She came back in the early afternoon and told me that the Norwalk attack was getting more and more play, and that there was virtually nothing else on television.
    “It’s like the days after nine-eleven,” she said. “It’s really brutal.”
    >>> I KEPT working, since I couldn’t think of anything else to do.
    Two-thirds of the names in the PalmPilot sync list were identifiable through Google: I’d stick the name in and the information would pop up. Most of the names were associated with the Intelligence Committee and belonged to minor political onions in the Washington stew. Others belonged to computer people, and only a few seemed to be personal.
    The personal names were the hardest to get information on. Of the dozen names in the file, I struck out on four of them, and while I found the other eight, I couldn’t determine any particular connection between Carp and the person named, except in the case of his dentist.
    The DDC Working Group—Bobby remained a mystery.
    >>> “WE’RE coming to a blank wall,” I said. We were back at John’s, the three of us together. Marvel was down at city hall, perpetrating some commie plot. Rachel had gone with her, and the two kids were taking a nap.
    “Could we hack into CNN and when he attacks, figure out where it’s coming from?” John asked.
    I shook my head. “Not unless we had the phone line, right when he was on it. We’d have to monitor thousands of calls.”
    “You can’t tell just from his address.”
    “Naw. He can just grab a wi-fi system like we did and ship it from some one-time e-mail address. I’m sure that’s what he’s doing, or the feds would have grabbed him by now. He’s like Bobby—he’s coming out of nowhere.”
    LuEllen asked the key question: “What do you think about him?”
    I said, “He might be nuts. He probably killed Bobby, he lost his job and he has no money and he’s way deep in debt, he doesn’t seem to have any friends, women don’t like him, his mother just died, he feels like he’s been ripped off by this lawyer.”
    “Anything in there about his dog?” John asked.
    >>> AFTER more talk, I decided to get in touch with Lemon, Bobby’s successor. Among other things, I needed to tell him that Bobby was dead, in case he didn’t know for sure, and to set up a routine we could use to communicate with each other. I also wanted to check again on the FBI investigation.
    That evening LuEllen and I drove down to Greenville and located another warehouse with a friendly wi-fi. I called into the FBI first, went straight to the guy’s folder, and found some snappy memos back and forth from Jackson, the essence of which was that they were getting nowhere. I signed off and went looking for Lemon.
Lemon from 118normalgorgeousredhead:
    I am a friend of Bobby’s and a member of the ring. Went to Bobby’s house with another member of ring, found Bobby murdered and his laptop gone. His true name was Robert Fields ofJackson, Mississippi; see news stories on cross-burning in Jackson. We have informed National Security Agency of his identity in effort to close attacks on hack community. We have