The Last Day (12 page)

The TV was on and Watcher was treated to a live report of the havoc wrought by the pornography virus. Watcher and Bert took a moment to watch and admire. Bert laughed out loud when a mother being interviewed started sobbing as she described the trauma to her young daughter the e-mail had caused. The report went from the woman to a minister who called
for the arrest of the guilty party who'd perpetrated the unspeakable assault on human decency. The red-faced, gravel-voiced parson called further for the government to control the smut that was destroying the innocence of children and thousands of wholesome God- fearing families. “This is a war with Satan himself,” the sanctimonious minister bellowed. Before his segment ended, he managed to name his ministry and his dot- com address so Christians could send their dollars to help fund his antipornogra-phy campaign.

“Man, oh, man, I've never been a general in Satan's army before,” Bert said, barely able to contain his glee.

The damning evidence was purposefully circumstantial in nature. Watcher still knew that it was possible, though unlikely, that Ward would be arrested. Public outcry was too great. The authorities were under too much pressure. Watcher imagined the pressure on the McCartys and smiled back grimly at Bert.

A table made from a sheet of heavy plywood and set on sawhorses dominated the living room/kitchen. Five computer terminals lined the table. An expensive armchair on rollers was
pushed up to one like a captain's chair. The screen of one computer held hundreds of lines of program coding, as undecipherable to Watcher as sheet music. The young man opened the re frigerator and took out a chilled bottle of beer. Except for a six- pack of Budweiser, a pizza box, and ketchup, the unit's interior was empty.

“Want one?” he asked.

“Too early for me,” Watcher said. “I brought you something,” he said, putting a glass vial on the table. He had taken it from his jacket pocket, using his fingertips on the edges to avoid leaving prints.

“What's this?”

“A
reward for your amazing work.”

Bert lifted the vial and opened it, peering in at the white powder.

“Meth? I have plenty of meth. I like meth. You want some?”

“It's Peruvian flake, Bert. Ninety- eight percent pure, so be careful.”

“No shit?” Bert poured the powder on a plastic CD case. “Cool. I haven't had any coke in months. So, we're rock stars, man! We made a humongous splash with the naughty porno
thing.” He laughed and held his clammy hand up for a high- five slap.

Watcher slapped the young man's open hand and smiled.

“You keep any of the kiddie pictures to look at later?” Watcher asked.

“Well, I've got the virus copies like you said to keep for you, the code and all that, but I'm not stupid enough to keep it around longer than necessary, even if it's a thing of beauty, virusly speaking. Not the porn, though. That's really creepy stuff, man.”

Watcher took a number-ten envelope from his pocket, again by the edges, and handed it to the programmer. “Five thousand dollars,” Watcher said.

“You already paid me,” Bert said. “Why the bump? Oh, because I'm such a rock star and because it was so effective for your guy?”

“Yep. It's a bonus. You earned it, man,” Watcher said, handing Bert a business card without his prints on it, but those of its owner. “Cut it with this.”

“Cool,” Bert said. He took the business card from Watcher—putting his own prints on it in the process—chopped at the pile of cocaine, and
deftly split it into wide two- inch- long rails. Rolling up one of the bills from the stack inside the envelope, he bent down and snorted each rail, one, then the other. He straightened, pinched his nose like a child about to jump into a swimming pool, and sucked in air abruptly as he released his nostrils.

“Far out!” he said, spinning his chair in circles, using his filthy bare feet for propulsion. “We've been all that's on the jazzing news.” He stopped spinning, sighed. “Wish I could use this in my portfolio. I mean, I wouldn't, because I'd end up in jail … again. But I sure wish I could just tell some of my hacker buds. They'd go ape shit, man!”

“Are you sure the FBI can't trace this job to you?”

“No way, man. No frigging way. I put in so much bullshit code around the meat—excuse my pun—that they will never work through all of it. Then I piled the covering shit on shit, so deep that I'm never going to have anybody within ten miles of me. You hired the best, man. The absolute best.”

Watcher shrugged. He knew Bert's confidence was horseshit. The cops knew all about
people like Bert, and given time they'd brace him and he'd end up rolling over like a dachshund puppy approached by a pack of ravenous wolves.

When Bert bent over the table to put the envelope into a wire bin, Watcher slipped the stiletto from his pocket, pressed the button releasing the long, thin blade, pressed the tip against the base of Bert's skull, and pulled back on his ponytail, shoving the blade in to the hilt. Watcher pulled it out, closed the weapon, and, after wiping off his prints, dropped it into a plastic bag, which he then put into his pants pocket.

He looked at the disposable cell phone on the table that he'd given Bert. Using his fingertips, Watcher took the envelope of cash and put it under the computer's keyboard. Satis fied, he took one of Bert's business cards and pocketed it for later use. Now, he thought, the circular evidence trail was exactly half laid.

TWENTY-EIGHT

While Ward was relieved that he wasn't leaving his building in handcuffs, Gene Duncan had told him that being arrested by the FBI in the near future was possible. Just being accused of anything related to child pornography would leave a permanent stain. As he walked out of the building with Gene and Mark, Ward saw that all of the cameras in the parking lot turned on the trio. Ward realized the mistake they'd made in agreeing to join Gene when he made a statement. The cameras were pasting human faces to the scandal.

Ward fought the urge to turn and bolt for the building. He walked out in front to stand behind Gene, facing the waiting cameras like a politician. Firman and his partner, Mayes, left the building after them. They strolled to a stone gray sedan and drove off, watching Ward the whole time.

“All we can tell you at this point,” Gene was saying when Ward focused on him, “is that RGI called in the FBI as soon as they were aware of
what had happened. It appears obvious that someone intentionally infected RGI's computers with this despicable virus, and we are hopeful that the FBI will find the culprit or culprits and bring them to justice. Raceway's owners and all of its employees are cooperating with the FBI and hope to see this resolved in the very near future. My clients, I am certain, will be exonerated. Thank you.”

Ward felt certain that not one of the people in the lot or out there in the free world would believe for a second that he was innocent.

After Gene's statement, the three men went to their respective cars and drove away. Ward drove straight home, with Gene following him. Twenty minutes later, they had to slow to pass through a sheriff's department roadblock at the entrance of his driveway He couldn't believe the number of cars and trucks parked on the side of the road, the milling curious, and the reporters shouting questions at his car as he rolled by. Even though he knew the FBI was planning to search his house, Ward hadn't expected them to be at it so soon.

Gene and Ward parked in the grass beside the Crown Victoria driven by Firman and Mayes. Ward walked with Gene to the open front door.
Natasha stood in the foyer, crying. Her trembling right hand held the FBI search warrant, which she handed to Gene.

“They're searching Barney's room,” she told them between her sobs. There were no words for what Ward was feeling as Gene took the warrant and started reading it. Ward tried to put his arms around his wife to comfort her, but she pulled away, crossed her arms, and went outside into the sweltering heat. Firman and Mayes both walked in and out of view, directing traffic. A tech wearing surgical gloves who was carrying Ward's personal laptop computer walked around him, heading out to the closest van.

An hour later, while Ward sat on the couch in black- cloud thought, the last of the FBI search party left the house, leaving a mess behind. Gene had a list of everything they had taken, and, seated beside Ward, studied it carefully. Ward got up and went to the door leading into the dining room where Natasha sat at the table in silence, sipping a glass of orange juice.

“I'll clean up,” Ward told her.

“I work with children,” she said. “Can you imagine what my patients’ parents think?”

“Someone did this to us,” he said angrily.
Ward wasn't so much angry as he felt like he wanted to lie down on the floor and die in place so this would end.

She looked up at him, and in all the years he'd known her, and except for the ordeal they'd gone through with Barney's death and its aftermath, he'd never seen her so utterly devastated.

“Who? Why?” she asked.

“He's right,” Gene said.

“Can you prove it?” she asked.

“We will,” Gene said positively.

She shook her head slowly.

Ward wanted to believe him but wasn't any more convinced than his wife seemed to be.

“You can't believe I had anything to do with this?” Ward asked her.

“How does what I think matter here?” she demanded. “My husband's company sent child pornography out to the world. The press has already told everyone he's a pedophile. The FBI questioned me like I was a criminal, destroyed our home, and carted off our computers. My office phone hasn't stopped ringing all morning because our computers sent the trash out to hundreds of people, my patients chief among them. The majority of my new patients have
asked for a transfer to one of my partners. I'm out of business, probably for good here. My partners have suggested that I stay out of the office until this is resolved. Do I believe my husband is guilty? What the hell does that matter?”

“It matters to me,” Ward told her. And he had never spoken truer words. “If you don't believe me, who will?” He tried to look at her eyes but couldn't, so he looked down.

“Your hands …” he said, noticing that her fingers were trembling.

He knew he would never forget the look she gave him, and what was left of his heart broke into pieces. And he felt an odd lightness just before the room vanished.

TWENTY-NINE

Ward opened his eyes to find himself lying on the floor in his son's bedroom. He looked up at Barney, who was seated on his bed, staring down at Ward. He dangled his legs back and forth. “It'll be all right, Daddy.”

Ward knew this event wasn't real, but he hoped somehow he wasn't dreaming, but that he was dead, too, and this meeting could last forever.

Suddenly the windows darkened, as though fast- moving, rain- heavy clouds had blocked the sun, and Ward felt a sense of growing danger.

“You and Mama have to be together,” Barney said, looking at the windows. His legs stopped swinging.

Ward jerked awake on the couch to the sight of Natasha looking down at him, the odor of ammonia burning his nose.

“Ward?” Natasha said. “He's awake, Gene.”

Ward slowly sat upright and saw the ampoule in his wife's hand.

“What happened?” he asked.

“You fainted,” she told him.

“You okay, buddy?” Gene asked. He had a cell phone in his hand.

“I'm fine,” Ward said, putting his hand to the back of his head. “My head hurts.”

“You hit it on the floor,” Natasha said, studying her husband's pupils for signs of a concussion. “Just rest there for a few minutes.”

“Never mind,” Gene said into his phone. “I
won't need EMS. Yes, he's with a physician and she says he's fine.” He closed the phone.

“I couldn't catch you in time. Sorry,” Gene said sincerely.

“It's okay.”

“As soon as you feel steady enough, you need to go lie down on your bed,” Natasha said, in her professional voice.

“I have to run,” Gene said. “I have a meeting with Tom Wiggins, who looks to be your other lawyer.”

Ward had met Wiggins at a formal dinner at the hospital to raise money for the children's oncology wing of the medical center. He was a mild-mannered man in his mid- sixties, and a top- notch criminal attorney from Charlotte who was the attorney of choice for the wealthy—whom everybody usually figured were guilty He was known to the legal establishment, and much of the public, as “Reasonable Doubt Wiggins.”

“I think he's going to be our best shot at getting this crap handled. Any problem with that?” Gene asked.

The bell rang, and Natasha went to the door. When she came back Leslie Wilde was with her.
Leslie came over to where Ward was lying on the couch and peered down at her boss.

“Are you okay?” she asked. Her look of concern was comforting to Ward.

“Yeah,” he said. “I just passed out.”

After pausing to place his hand on Natasha's shoulder in a show of support, Gene left for the front door.

Leslie said, “I told the FBI that I started Mr. McCarty's computer, because mine was on the fritz. It's my fault it happened.”

“It wasn't your fault,” Ward said.

“They asked me if I'd put any disks into your computer and I said I had, that my computer was on the blink last week and I used yours a lot when you weren't in your office. I told them that I found some unmarked disks on my desk and that I looked at them to see what they were, but none of them had porn on them.”

“Is that the truth?” Natasha asked her.

She looked at Natasha and shrugged. “The FBI agents are jerks. The truth is that I came in early because I had something to do for Mr. Brooks in accounting, and when I brought my computer up, it started displaying the porn. I didn't call anybody for like ten minutes. If I'd
called Paul Wolfe sooner, maybe he could have stopped it. I'm sorry. I have used Mr. McCarty's computer, which is the truth, but I've never put any disks into it that I can recall. So this is sort of my fault. And I know Mr. McCarty didn't do what they said.”

Ward told her, “You shouldn't have put yourself in such a position. I don't want you to lie to anybody. I appreciate your loyalty, but this is bad enough without you being pulled into it.”