along bits of broken glass. I could hear his old bones creak and break as they manhandled him, and his screams cut through the wire like needles. I winced away from the monitors for just one second.
And when I looked again . . .
The meat cleaver was flashing in Hartman’s right hand.
“ This is what I need from you, old-timer. A little show of respect. A few fingers and we’ll call it even. Whatdaya say? ”
David’s signature. Stainless steel, stained by blood. The old man, still begging in a broken garble I couldn’t quite hear. My father’s voice, sounding the all-clear again. Just about time.
Didn’t feel like watching what happened next.
I snapped the handheld closed, threw the rig over my shoulder by the leather strap and followed my boys out, trying not to think about what was going on in that alley on the other side of town: Hartman’s sick game, all twisted up and dumbed down in the most inhuman gutter. His cruel laughter and his evil redneck drawl, endless and numbing.
Toni told me about it a month later.
She was just a voice on the phone by then.
It was the last time I ever spoke to her.
She said they took all ten fingers right there in the alley, thenshot the old man in the head while he begged them not to. Said she was in the hospital with a cracked collarbone for three weeks. And the whole time, Hartman was there, telling her the way things had to be from now on.
Telling her that if she went back to me, I was dead.
That was when she said I had to give her the divorce—or it would be my hands next on the carving block, and then my life. I knew Hartman would do it. He was crazy enough, foul enough. But I wasn’t going to let her go.
I’ll never let you go, Toni.
Never.
6
00000-6
INTO THE FUTURE
W hen I wake up, I’m slumped on the bed, and the photo is on the floor. I pick it up and fold it again. Stash it under the bed, with my getaway money. Steel myself for the workday ahead. Have to finish the rig. Have to go in hard and strong.
Back to work, boy.
Back to goddamn work.
Before that happens, I open up the laptop on my bedside table. It’s a small deck, compact but powerful. I spend a few minutes running the electronic version of the photo through a series of image manipulation programs, searching for digital anomalies—things that might tip off a forgery. You can always tell when someone messes with something in Photoshop because the pixels will be corrupted in specific ways that only happen when a digital brush or a cloning stamp is used. There’s nothing like that in this file. But that probably doesn’t mean much. Forgers are also experts at covering their tracks. I use a few other programs to enhance the image. I look for details in the room. Other faces. Things that might look familiar. I can’t see anything. I close the laptop and stare off into nowhere.
Back to goddamn work.
• • •
T he rig is finished a day and a half later. The main deck is a series of X58 military-spec motherboards, with six core CPUs, each with 18 gigs of memory, all hotwired together in a foldout custom chassis that’s packed with more software and hardware. Two additional flat-screens, three for the blackware, two for the main run itself. Two keyboards, six removable hard drives, one terabyte each. Wacom pad, virtual mouse, plenty of external power—a Thanksgiving turkey with all the trimmings. Bennett reads off the specs with robot precision. She’s fresh from a war, knows her business. A state-of-the-art material girl.
When we’re done with the rig, she breaks out a big black briefcase. Spins it and thumbs the latches.
“This is my specialty,” she says. “Are you familiar with current deep protocol?”
“Some of it.”
Haven’t heard that term used in a while. A little dated, kind of like calling the hackers “cyberpunks.” It means specialized gear not yet on the professional market. Military-issue. Stuff you’re not allowed to talk about, even if you happen to
And when I looked again . . .
The meat cleaver was flashing in Hartman’s right hand.
“ This is what I need from you, old-timer. A little show of respect. A few fingers and we’ll call it even. Whatdaya say? ”
David’s signature. Stainless steel, stained by blood. The old man, still begging in a broken garble I couldn’t quite hear. My father’s voice, sounding the all-clear again. Just about time.
Didn’t feel like watching what happened next.
I snapped the handheld closed, threw the rig over my shoulder by the leather strap and followed my boys out, trying not to think about what was going on in that alley on the other side of town: Hartman’s sick game, all twisted up and dumbed down in the most inhuman gutter. His cruel laughter and his evil redneck drawl, endless and numbing.
Toni told me about it a month later.
She was just a voice on the phone by then.
It was the last time I ever spoke to her.
She said they took all ten fingers right there in the alley, thenshot the old man in the head while he begged them not to. Said she was in the hospital with a cracked collarbone for three weeks. And the whole time, Hartman was there, telling her the way things had to be from now on.
Telling her that if she went back to me, I was dead.
That was when she said I had to give her the divorce—or it would be my hands next on the carving block, and then my life. I knew Hartman would do it. He was crazy enough, foul enough. But I wasn’t going to let her go.
I’ll never let you go, Toni.
Never.
6
00000-6
INTO THE FUTURE
W hen I wake up, I’m slumped on the bed, and the photo is on the floor. I pick it up and fold it again. Stash it under the bed, with my getaway money. Steel myself for the workday ahead. Have to finish the rig. Have to go in hard and strong.
Back to work, boy.
Back to goddamn work.
Before that happens, I open up the laptop on my bedside table. It’s a small deck, compact but powerful. I spend a few minutes running the electronic version of the photo through a series of image manipulation programs, searching for digital anomalies—things that might tip off a forgery. You can always tell when someone messes with something in Photoshop because the pixels will be corrupted in specific ways that only happen when a digital brush or a cloning stamp is used. There’s nothing like that in this file. But that probably doesn’t mean much. Forgers are also experts at covering their tracks. I use a few other programs to enhance the image. I look for details in the room. Other faces. Things that might look familiar. I can’t see anything. I close the laptop and stare off into nowhere.
Back to goddamn work.
• • •
T he rig is finished a day and a half later. The main deck is a series of X58 military-spec motherboards, with six core CPUs, each with 18 gigs of memory, all hotwired together in a foldout custom chassis that’s packed with more software and hardware. Two additional flat-screens, three for the blackware, two for the main run itself. Two keyboards, six removable hard drives, one terabyte each. Wacom pad, virtual mouse, plenty of external power—a Thanksgiving turkey with all the trimmings. Bennett reads off the specs with robot precision. She’s fresh from a war, knows her business. A state-of-the-art material girl.
When we’re done with the rig, she breaks out a big black briefcase. Spins it and thumbs the latches.
“This is my specialty,” she says. “Are you familiar with current deep protocol?”
“Some of it.”
Haven’t heard that term used in a while. A little dated, kind of like calling the hackers “cyberpunks.” It means specialized gear not yet on the professional market. Military-issue. Stuff you’re not allowed to talk about, even if you happen to
Similar Books
