Double Lives (Johnny Wagner, Godlike PI Book One)
Page 17
“You chastise me for the incineration of a mere coffee table?” Dak rumbled. “I destroy your coffee tables all the time.”
“Yeah, but those are mine! That belonged to Mrs. Anderson!”
“What are you two…oh.” She had hurried over, and was looking down at the now-empty space in front of the couch. “I see. Don’t worry about it, Johnny.” She looked at my God Arm. “You did well, Dak.”
“You see?” Dak rumbled. “The lady is pleased.”
I looked at Julia quizzically. “Are you sure? I can pay for it.”
“No, it’s fine.” She smiled at me strangely. “In a way, that was…cathartic. I’ve been sitting here, wasting away, reading all those old stories about my husband, when I should have been doing something.”
“You’ve been doing something,” I said. “You hired me, and—”
“Yes, I hired you, but I didn’t tell you everything you needed to know, and now that loathsome Damien Woodruff has got us both cornered – or so he thinks.”
I waited. I knew what she was going to do next.
“I’m tired of being intimidated,” Julia said. “I don’t care about Damien Woodruff, or Homer Bollinger – or Patrick Anderson. I want the truth. I want it for me, and I want you to find it – if you’re still willing.”
“Oh, I am,” I said, shooting out a grin so wide Woodruff would have gaped in awe.
“You see, John Wagner?” Dak said. “Was that coffee table not worth destroying, if it unlocked the lady’s innate destructiveness?”
“Yeah, yeah, rub it in, why don’t ya?” I said. “So, I’ve got some ideas of how we can get around Woodruff, if you want to hear them.”
“I’m all ears,” Julia said, smiling.
Chapter Fourteen
I took a sip of my black-as-sin coffee as I walked up the stairs to my office. I was still mentally reviewing Woodruff’s sliminess, and what had happened afterwards during me and Julia’s planning session. It had been a wild morning. To have a man like Damien Woodruff beat you from pillar to post, and then to see Julia completely shed her meek demeanor and transform into a tough-as-nails fighter….
She had been giving me The Look, too, as we discussed our next move. She clearly wanted me to kiss her, hold her, do something, never mind that Molly was upstairs, but something held me back.
It wasn’t her looks – she wasn’t a knockout, but she wasn’t unattractive either, especially now that she was radiant with new life. No, it was something else – some lingering doubts, some half-formed thoughts tugging at the back of my mind. She could be lying to me, manipulating me – this could all be a well-acted ruse.
Was I being paranoid, or just appropriately cautious?
I tabled my ruminations for now. Erna had sent me a text message during my cab ride back to Bootheel. In typical Erna fashion, it said: “TOP SECRET FOR MR.WAGNER. I HAVE SOMETHING TO TELL YOU! COME TO THE OFFICE ASAP!”
I opened my office door and walked in. Erna was at her desk, typing away with her glacially-slow hunt-and-peck style. I didn’t see Jared; he was apparently satisfied with his robotic grandma’s mental state, and had gone home, or to work, or wherever he went when he wasn’t tinkering with Erna.
“Oh, there you are!” Erna said, jumping up and bustling over to me. “Did you get my textual message?”
“Yep,” I said. “What’s up?”
“It’s Netmaster, sir! He’s back!”
My coffee cup froze mid-sip. “When? Where?”
“He sent a messenger up here just after you left, some black man named Big-Eyed Baldwin.” Erna frowned, and wrung her hands. “Oh, I meant to say African-American! That’s what they want to be called, don’t they?” She wrung her hands harder. I almost expected a bolt to pop loose. “Oh, and I don’t mean ‘they,’ as in ‘other people who are different from us and so we must use demeaning language to’—”
“Erna, calm down,” I said. “There are no Social Justice Warriors in Bootheel, believe me. Where’s Netmaster?”
“He’s outside.”
“Outside?”
“Yes, he’s parked right across the street, in his Net-Van.”
“Erna, if this is some kind of joke….”
“It’s not, Mr. Wagner! You know my programming prevents me from making jokes – well, except harmless PG rated ones.”
She was right, so I downed my coffee in two giant gulps and pounded back down the stairs. Once out on the sidewalk, I looked up and down the street. I saw a hobo playing a mandolin, two mohawked kids skateboarding, and a possible prostitute leaning against a graffiti-covered mailbox. I scanned the cars on both sides of the street, and then I saw it: a brown paneled van with a giant dead cockroach painted on its side, and “REAL-E-GOOD EXTERMINATORS” blaring out in large red letters.
I was pretty sure that was the Net-Van; Netmaster’s disguises always had a certain flair. As I was standing there staring at it, someone honked the horn and the driver’s side window rolled down, revealing Big-Eyed Baldwin’s grinning mug.
“Bugs hassling you?” Baldwin yelled to me. “Call us! We’re licensed to kill, baby!”
I waited for a break in the traffic and then jogged across the street. I stopped beside the brown van and looked up at the false exterminator.
“What the hell kind of setup is this?” I asked.
“Whatcha mean, Johnny?” Baldwin said. “This is the ticket right here. We’re mobile, agile, and hostile, and no one so much as flicks an eyeball our way. A black man driving a pest control truck? Pfffttt, that’s a standard Bootheel sight, man.”
“It is good to see you again, Baldwin With The Big Eyes,” Dak rumbled. “Our battle yesterday has been recorded in my godly realm at least a thousand times, and I have then destroyed each and every one of those monuments.”
“Uh, OK, Dak,” Baldwin said. “I guess that’s a good thing?”
“It is, though don’t ask me to explain it,” I said. “Where’s Netmaster?”
On cue, the side door slid open, and a pale face poked out.
“Right here, Johnny,” Netmaster said. “Come on into the van. Don’t worry, consultations are free, and all our services are backed by a thirty-day money-back guarantee.”
I climbed in, and Netmaster slammed the door shut behind me. Crouching to keep my head from banging against the ceiling, I looked around for a place to sit. My foot brushed against an overturned five-gallon bucket with a small cushion placed on top. I sat down onto it, making a loud squeak. Netmaster sat down a few feet from me on his own bucket-and-cushion seat
“What do you think?” Netmaster said, spreading his arms wide, obviously proud of his Net-Van.
The inside was filled with pest control equipment: I saw two backpack sprayers hanging from the wall, a tool belt, a portable generator, various traps and bait stations, and enough gouges and stains on the flooring to make this look like an authentic work truck.
“Where’s your stuff?” I asked. “I know you can’t go five minutes without hacking into something.”
“Actually, during this whole fiasco I’ve been away from the Net for hours at the time.” He gave me a sad-puppy face. “Hours, Johnny. But we’re rigged up now, don’t you worry.”
He reached into his brown coveralls, pulled out a remote control, and pressed a button. A hole opened in the floor between us, and a computer terminal rose up slowly. Four panels flipped open on the walls, and monitors displaying idyllic settings (a white-sand beach with rustling palm trees, desert mesas covered in the fierce orange glow of sunset) bathed the interior with soft light.
“Nice, huh?” Netmaster said, his eyebrows bouncing.
“It’s just like old times,” I said. “You used to love making these elaborate disguises and alter egos.”
“I know,” Netmaster said wistfully. “It’s been kinda fun, I admit. I was cooped up in the old building, just sitting in that same room every single day. Good to be out here rolling around Bootheel.”
“You’re still cooped up,�
� Baldwin said from the front, twisting around to look at us. “You stick your head outside about twice a day, and you’re in the Net every other goddamn second.”
“Well, it feels different,” Netmaster said. “We’re moving, after all. That’s something.”
“It is good to see you as well, Master of Net,” Dak rumbled. “I am glad those yellow-colored peons did not apprehend you.”
“Me, too, Dak,” Netmaster said, “though it was touch and go for a while there – and I’m still pissed off those bastards were able to trace me.”
“What happened after the battle?” I asked. “Besides you getting into the termite-spraying business.”
“Me and the crew ran through our secret tunnels, then collapsed them behind us,” Netmaster said. “Thanks for the diversion, by the way. Gave us plenty of time.”
“No problem,” I said.
“After that, we split up. Some of the guys devolved into straight-up vaginas – said things had gotten too hot. They said they were going back to mommy and daddy’s house and get a real job – or to those fucking indoctrination centers they call universities to get a computer science degree or some shit. Fuck ’em. No true hacker lets a few goons with pulse rifles frighten him off the Net.”
“Of course, you’re the only true hacker,” I said.
“Damn right,” Netmaster replied. “Anyway, me and Baldwin linked up at a safe house, but we didn’t stick around there for long. I’d been running a cerebral scrub on myself, and I’d found some things that shouldn’t be there – bugs, as in the tracking types, not the ones Real-E-Good Exterminators would kill.”
“How did they get that crap into you?” I asked. “I can’t remember a time when someone out-hacked you.”
“You’re telling me,” Baldwin said. “Man always bragged that his mind was as secure as the Beacon—”
“Shut up!” Netmaster yelled. He picked up a can of some insect-killing spray and hurled it into one of the computer monitors. The impact created a spiderweb of cracks and caused the desert mesas that had been on display to blink out.
Baldwin was just as taken aback as I was. We both kept silent, waiting for Netmaster to cool off.
“I’m sorry,” Netmaster said after a few seconds of red-faced brooding. “Like I said, I’m still pissed off, and I’d appreciate it if you guys didn’t pour malware into my e-wound.”
“Alright, we’re sorry,” I said carefully.
“Thanks, Johnny,” Netmaster muttered.
“So – did that cerebral scrub work, or is there still shit bouncing around that degenerate brain of yours?”
“Degenerate?” Netmaster said, smirking; I didn’t know if the banter would perk him up, but it thankfully had. “That’s rich, coming from you.” He picked up a mousetrap and examined it for a few seconds, like it was some kind of metaphor for this whole situation, then tossed it back to the floor. “No, I found everything – and yes, I’m certain of that. I cornered up all those buggers and zapped them. Even did a second scrub to make sure one of them hadn’t slipped by me and hid within my grade-school memories or wherever.”
“Do you have any idea who did this to you?” I said.
“That’s still a mystery, unfortunately,” Netmaster said. “There are some hackers out there who may be as good as or better than me – don’t tell anyone I said that – but I don’t think they’d ever work with the government unless their lives were at risk.” He let out a sound that was part sigh, part growl. “That being said, Damien Woodruff is quite capable of putting lives at risk if it furthers his agenda. He may very well have acquired the services of one of my peers.”
“Woodruff….” I said. That power-mad fox still had me steamed – but I was almost certain the next round would go to me and Julia.
“Yeah, he’s a bastard,” Netmaster said. “He may have hushed up all that furor in the press, but there are still some suits and ties crawling around Bootheel making things difficult. We need to let things settle down some before we find another pad.”
“So that’s our story,” Baldwin said. “What’ve you been up to, Johnny? You look a little rough around the edges, man.”
“Like you guys, I’ve been busy,” I said.
I told them about my frenetic day-and-a-half, keeping some details vague to protect certain people. Rubbing my legs, which were still a little sore, I explained how Burt (who I called “my inside man”) had called me as I was fleeing the Net-Pad and how I’d raced across Z City for my talk with Gray Squirrel. I then detailed my brawl with Waverush and how Deathrain had rescued me. There were plenty of raised eyebrows and mutters when I mentioned the gun-toting killer.
Finally, I related Damien Woodruff’s oozing threats, again keeping things vague. Throughout my tale, Dak embellished everything as only he could.
“You have been a busy little beaver,” Netmaster said when I finished.
“Yeah, man,” Baldwin agreed. “Thought you were a lazy bitch, but all that activity’s pretty impressive.”
“Stop it, guys,” I said. “All that praise is making me blush.”
“You gonna bone that assassin chick, Johnny?” Baldwin asked. “Dak sure seems excited about her.”
“No, I’m not,” I said bluntly, though my thoughts were definitely not as blunt. After dealing with Felicia (the good girl I wanted but didn’t want), Deathrain (the assassin whose boobs I wanted to fondle – maybe), and Julia (the newly strong woman who obviously wanted to see just how liberated she was) in a thirty-six hour stretch, my mind was a tumult of regrets, masturbatory fantasies, and prudish hesitation. I probably needed to unburden myself with someone I trusted, but Baldwin and Netmaster weren’t exactly relationship experts or psychiatrists.
“This Deathrain woman….” Netmaster said, reaching forward and plugging a data probe into his cranial jack. “I’ve heard of her before. Dangerous, sexy, damn near impossible to find. I hear some people whispering about her in the Net every few months, but those whispers always die down quickly. She travels all over the world sniping people, only stops into Z City when circumstances call for it.”
His probe glowed soft blue for a few seconds, then his eyes focused on us again. “Yeah, I hear some whispers now. A few people know she’s here, but they have no idea what she’s after.”
“She’s a damn crazy bitch,” Baldwin said. “Offed Kaiser Bottulucci a few years back. His brothers set up on one of her drop boxes, tried to get some revenge. Thought they were well-hidden. They weren’t. Four of ’em got their brains splattered, and no one even saw Deathrain.” Baldwin adjusted his glasses, unsmiling. “Hope you know what you’re getting into, Johnny.”
“I’m not ‘getting into’ anything,” I said. “I certainly don’t want to ally with someone who’s got gallons of blood on her hands.”
“We are going to ally with her,” Dak rumbled. “I demand it. We will meet her tonight at the Hotel of Russert, and then we will find the Dasher of Balders and wring efficacious knowledge from his—”
“Settle down before you bust your load all over us,” I snapped. “We’re not going to partner with her – not really. She’s a means to an end, nothing more.”
“You use a vulgar phrase to demean my regard for her,” Dak said, “while ignoring your own tempestuous feelings.”
“What’s that, Dak?” Netmaster said. “Has Johnny fallen for a femme fatale? Man, he’s either on one extreme or the other.”
“That’s enough,” I said, loud enough to kill the grins I was seeing. There was a long, awkward silence, and then Netmaster cleared his throat.
“You’ve got plans, don’t you? To deal with Deathrain, Balderdash, Woodruff, all of them?” he said. “I can tell something’s percolating in that brain of yours.”
“Yeah, I’ve got some ideas,” I said, “but I still need your help.”
“No can do,” Netmaster said. “I know you’re all hyped up for this crusade of yours, but I march to the tune of a different MP3.”
“Listen—”
“I’m sorry,” I said, my voice hard. “I could’ve gotten to it when I was struggling at the bottom of Jameson Bay or when Damien fucking Woodruff was pouring his diarrhea charm all over me, but I just plum forgot.”
“I don’t wanna hear it,” Netmaster said. “Don’t act like we’ve been living in the lap of luxury while you’ve been trudging through the muck – well, you have trudged through the muck, literally speaking, but you know what I mean.” He reached back to his data probe, running two fingers along the thick wire. “I don’t blame you for the DOT finding us. That was totally my fault. But I’m a businessman, just like you. You don’t work for free, do you?”
Netmaster’s comments stung, especially since I’d made the same argument to Felicia just last night. I felt like the biggest hypocrite in Z City. I took a few deep breaths and closed my eyes for a few seconds to calm myself.
“You’re right,” I said. “I’ll send you some whatever-the-fuck-they-are coins now.” I pulled out my phone and opened up the browser.
“Hold on there, partner,” Netmaster said, reaching for my phone. “We need to do this the right way, so no one can trace the transfer. Normally I’d just trust the security on my end, but after yesterday I want both ends to be tight. Hand it over.”
After five minutes of talk about encryption, unbreakable passwords, phishing, and the true significance of Area 51, along with lots of tapping on my phone’s touchscreen and a brief dive by Netmaster into the Net, the transaction was complete, and Netmaster regarded me with a much sunnier disposition.
“You still owe me,” he said, “but that little appetizer makes me feel much, much better. What do you need me and Baldwin to do?”
“I’ll point my eye-beams at whatever you want, man,” Baldwin said. “If the boss is happy, I’m happy.”