Jury of Peers (24 page)

“It’s on the way, thanks.  Yeah… it’ll be good.  You aren’t going to believe it.”  Finn hung up, and looked at Ravish Ramadeep.  "Well you work for us now Ray.  You good with that?”

“Better than working for Hack.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Please do,” Ray said.  “And… thanks.”

“There’s no thanks in baseball Ray,” Tonic said.  “Sandy is gonna to blow a gasket when she figures all of this out, and the I’d bet a nut that the Post will run it hardcore just as soon as they can call everyone in.  There are going to editors all over the country who wished they didn’t hit the snooze that last time.  You, my friend, just broke something big.”

“Thanks,” Ray repeated.

Tonic waggled a finger.

“Well, I owe you then,” Ray conceded.

“Oh yes, yes you do,” Tonic agreed.  “That’s the whole point Ray.  You’re a pretty fucking nice guy.  You can take a hit from a tweaker, and you’re crazy smart, but in the end my dot–not–feather friend, you owe us.  Now get to work on your next story.  Try to call him at a low point."

Ray fished the queen out of her bath and dropped her back in the middle of the table.

Chapter Thirty–Nine

Tempo

             
The Federal Bureau of Investigation's stomping grounds covered over three and a half
million
square miles.  And, because of the FBI's public resolve to protect the population within those borders, they were generally looking over their shoulders at not only the domestic threats, but the remainder of the Earth's population as well.  If the 'new' world of global terrorism weren't enough, the Bureau was also tapped to protect the United States against espionage, cyber attacks, organized crime, violent crime, white collar crime, public corruption, and protecting the civil rights of its three hundred and fifteen million residents.  It was, all in all, a rather daunting task for a roster of just under thirty thousand folks.

             
By in large they were a quietly efficient group with families and friends and neighbors who knew very little of what they did after they pulled out of their driveways in the morning.  That the majority of their work was from behind a desk might have come as a surprise to a populace all too familiar with the notion of agents in sunglasses speaking to their sleeves, but the intricate nature of the crimes with which they were confronted required thinkers, not simple gun slingers.  Thinking was something that they were very, very good at indeed.

             
So tonight, two techs were skipping their yard mowing so that they could stay in the office, sift through some stir fry, and take a look at a broadcast that they'd been tipped on. 

             
"Well that's interesting," she said after a full two minutes of silence and blank screens.

             
"Think we can finger it back to him from here?" the other tech asked as she abandoned her chopsticks and pulled up a keyboard.

             
"Try a traceroute and just see… but I doubt that it's going to be that easy."

             
She was already shaking her head.  "Nothing. Redirect."  She tapped again, still shaking her head.  "Yeah, we'd better call in and get more food.  This isn't … whoa."

             
"What?"

             
She pushed up her glasses, running a finger down the screen, "It didn't just redirect, it totally disappeared."

             
"It can't.  Configure it for more hops."

             
"Yeah, okay… it must be broken…" she punched a key and watched, the data flickering across her glasses.  Her companion leaned in to watch as well, squinting.

             
"Poof.  There's zero ping here… right there the route just times out."

             
"It's unreachable.  No host.  Well, no surprise there but … it's everywhere and ends nowhere.  How's he doing that?"

             
"No idea," she scanned a list of IP addresses on another screen, "but the last IP dumps in Maryland."

             
This earned a smirk.  "Lovely."

Chapter Forty

Tumid

“Irving?”

“Who’s this?” Hack slowly opened one eye to see if the throbbing in his temples would return if light were added to the fragile equation.

“It’s Ray.”

“You little sonofabitch!” both eyes came open, ignoring the ache.

“I’m sorry.”

“And by sorry you mean that….that you figured out that….that you couldn’t do this on your….own….
right
?”  Hack took a drink and looked around for his vile of cocaine.  He found it in his drawer and proceeded to scrape out some lines as he continued to curse.

“Right.  I should have called.  It was a mistake.”

“You’re fucking right you should’ve called,” he inhaled sharply.  Again.

“Listen, I have some stuff for you.  I don’t know what to do with it, but it’s important.  I thought you might be able to use it somehow.”

“Let’s hear it.”  Hack fumbled for a pencil.

Ray explained just as efficiently as ever, repeating back the parts that Hack couldn’t at first believe.  “You’re serious?  Suuure about this?” he slurred.

“I was
there
Irving.  They were from the NSA, and they were serious as a fucking heart attack man.  I dunno, maybe we shouldn’t use it… I mean, this is a big deal right?  Faking?  Jesus.  It’s scary shit.”

Hack had him repeat it all again and then hung up with a threat. 
Call back with more or be fired.

The story was done in twenty minutes, and added to the fact sheet for the column–he'd have to try to confirm some of the facts of course, but this was about as inside as he could get without being found out.  In his bleary state it all sort of made sense, even with the blatant typos, and there was the impulse to simply go with it because pretty soon someone would scoop him on this fucking thing.  Time ticked, but he would wait… wait until morning.

… until two days ago.  It has been discovered   that these killings were, in fact,, exceedingly well–planned fakes.  An unnamed and high=ranking ssource within the investigation itself, confirms that while teh initial findinggs of the case were assumed to be routine and accurate, a more thorough investigation has led law enforcement officials to the belief that Seth and Jennifer Meek orchestrated their family's violent 'demise' as part of a plot to evade increasing media scrutiny concerning their media scrutiny concerning their connections to online gambling…

*              *              *

              It was the drool in his eyelashes that finally woke him.  Hack sat up straight, whipping a trail of spit up across his desk and streaking his computer screen.  He’d been dreaming about Ray again, feeling the kid’s nose gristle under another punch.

             
He groaned, wiped his face, and looked for something to drink.  The fifth he’d been holding when he’d passed out lay on the carpet under his chair, a fallen soldier bleeding into the shag.  He picked it up and drained the last quarter ounce. 

             
The two front windows were dark, the blinds tight, and the two plants on his desk long since dead; and as Hack stumbled out of his office and into the toilet, he realized that this was his life in a nutshell.  The light and life were nearly gone, blotted out, dying – scrubbed away like so much gunk in a skillet.  It wasn’t fair.  Tomorrow though... tomorrow could be different.  This story, what was it again?  Would break it all open and he’d be Irving Hack once again, on the covers, on the air, and on top.

             
He stepped into the bathroom and flipped on the light.  The radio by the sink came on as well, but it was another commercial, not the news station that he relied on to coax a bowel movement on the rare occasions that he’d actually ingested something solid
.
The clock on the radio said 1:40.  He’d only slept a few hours.  Good. 

He just managed to get the toilet seat up before he began draining away a long day's drinking.  He leaned into the wall and sighed.  The commercial ended but it took a few seconds before he had a reason to listen.

…an unbelievable and unprecedented new chapter in the Seth Meek story that we’ve been covering all week.  Details are still sketchy, but our sources at the Post told us to expect the story in its entirety with the morning edition…

Two minutes later Hack realized that he was standing in a puddle of his own piss.

“Son of a
bitch,
” he said, already backing out of the room.  Hack pulled on a pair of pants, struggled to button them, gave up, and grabbed a shirt, foregoing his customary bow tie.  Cell phone, fifth of something, wallet… he gathered his things and was looking for his car keys in the kitchenette inside of ten minutes. 
Son of a bitch!
  The bigger the story got, the more his anger toward Ray boiled.  It was
perfect.
  He’d finally been in position to reel in the big catch, the one fish that would have made him famous for the right reasons and now …
now that goddam kid is going to take it all away from me.  He duped me.

He raced down the stairs, his head still swimming in anger and booze – the combination served to mute any danger and drive him out unto the street.

It was dark, not the bright afternoon he’d expected.

“What the fuck?”

1:55…
at night.
  He’d been drooling on his desk since that morning.  In a rage he kicked at a trash can that turned out to be the newspaper vendor.  It didn’t yield to his foot, but it did–ever so graciously–pop open to provide him with the last paper of the day.  He cursed all the way to his car while coming up to speed on the Seth Meek saga. 

The fifth was gone by the time he got to the office, but he had another there for emergencies.  He’d need it before he drove over to Ray’s house and hauled the little motherfucker out into his yard for an ass kicking that he would never, ever forget.

It was just too much to take.  Far too much.

Chapter Forty–One

Tableau

             
Ray groped for the telephone in the dark, found it and brought it to his ear only to hear a dial tone.  He sat up in bed, blinking away the dream he’d been enjoying, and searched for his cell phone. 
Private Caller.  At least Hack had stopped calling.

             
“Yeah?” he said, then cleared his throat and tried again.

             
“Where are you Ray?”

             
“Jesus Spencer, it’s late man,” he whispered as his wife stirred beside him.  If she woke up he’d never get back into his dream… worse yet, if he woke up one of the twins, they’d be up and then his morning would begin before night could officially take hold.  It was about to begin anyway.

             
“This is Seth Meek, where are you Ray?”

             
“In bed,” he heard himself say before he could orient himself further.

             
“You have two minutes to get to the car in front of your house if you want in on this.”

             
“In?” Ray was already out of bed, ignoring his wife’s snorts of protest. 

             
“I want you to be a witness to the trial, you have one minute and forty seconds before the car leaves.  I’m not kidding.”

             
“What’s going on?” his wife complained from the pillow.

             
“Alright, I’ll be there.”

             
“Don’t bring anything but your clothes Ray.  No phone, nothing.  Just you.  Hurry.”

             
His wife was sitting up now, “
Ray
!  What’s going on, get back in bed it’s three-thirty in the morning.”  Across the hall a baby cried.  Then in stereo.

             
“Damnit Ray!” she cursed, threw back the covers, and stomped out.

             
He hopped toward the door, pulling on pants, still talking into the phone.  “I’ll be there, I’ll be there…”

             
“Fifty seconds,” the line went dead.

             
Ray grabbed at a shirt on the dresser, spun off of the doorframe, and called to his wife, “Sorry, sorry… I have to go in.  I'll make it up to you…”

             
He sprinted for the door, struggled with the lock as the seconds ticked by, and wrenched it open.  A well traveled yellow cab sat across the street, a tail of exhaust wrapping back around it in the wind.  It took less than ten seconds for him to reach the rear door.  The lock popped and he slid into the back seat, barefooted and just then pulling his shirt over his head. 

             
There was a greasy, translucent plastic partition between himself and the driver.  “No phones,” came a voice from the front.  Ray glanced to the rearview mirror for a glimpse of the driver, only to find that it had been removed, leaving a scar in the sun tint where it had resided.

             
“Oh shit, yeah…” he was still clutching his cell phone.

             
His window came down halfway unbidden, and after a quick glance, Ray tossed it back toward his yard.  It skipped off of the pavement and disappeared.  The window rolled back up.