Kidd and LuEllen: Novels 1-4

by John Sandford

  God bless him. He puts up with a lot.

  >>> I WORKED on the preliminary oil sketches for most of September, trying to get it all just right. I was dreaming about them every night; I wanted them to glow from the walls, to hold the colors of the river, and to stand up to the house.

  But some nights, I’d wake up in the motel, in the middle of a painting dream, and when I couldn’t get back to sleep—I can never get back to sleep anymore—I’d wander over to my laptop, load the Bobby files, read and think and work.

  One thing I worked out: Bobby had penetrated the DDC. Some of the files on the laptop certainly came from there. It’s also possible that he was directly in touch with Carp—maybe that’s why Carp was so confident about flicking that little fly out there, about dragging Rachel in front of Bobby’s computer eyes.

  >>> AS FOR Jimmy James Carp, he was gone and he wouldn’t be back.

  John and his friends had split up, going their own ways, after we got Rachel back. When John arrived at the house, he was grim as the reaper himself. He said, “Hi,” in a quiet voice, when he came through the living room, and I nodded toward the bathroom. Marvel and Rachel had been inside for the best part of an hour. I could hear them talking and sometimes, crying.

  John knocked on the door, talked with them for a minute, then came back into the living room. “That jerk,” he said. He was calm enough. He went to the refrigerator and got out a beer and popped the top. “You want one of these?”

  “Yeah, I’ll take one,” I said. The beer tasted pretty good, cold and spiky against the heat. “She’ll be okay,” I said. “Marvel will fix her.”

  “She might grow up to be okay, but she’s not okay right now,” he said, tipping the bottle up.

  “How did you get Carp to tell you where she was?”

  “He made the mistake of thinking death was the worst thing that could happen to him,” John said. I opened my mouth to ask another question, but he tipped the bottle toward me and said, “Don’t ask, okay? Those guys you saw . . .”

  “What guys?”

  He nodded. “Exactly.”

  He took another calm pull on the bottle, looked at it, and then screamed, “That motherfucker,” and he pitched the bottle right through one of the plate-glass windows on the front of the house, which blew out as though it had been hit by a bomb.

  Marvel came wide-eyed out of the bathroom: “What was that?”

  “Window broke,” John said.

  All right.

  >>> THAT evening, as the sun was going down—and after we’d gone to the hardware store for glass and putty and I showed John how easy it is to replace a window—John, Marvel, Rachel, and I headed for Memphis, all jammed into John’s car. They dropped me at the airport, where I caught a plane back to Cleveland, to retrieve my car. They went on to see a doctor, not George, but a lady friend of George’s, who’d give Rachel a complete exam. Nobody said anything about it, but if Rachel had been made pregnant . . .

  That’d be just about the final little chip of horror in the story. The doctor would make sure that wouldn’t happen.

  On the way, Rachel confirmed what I thought but hadn’t mentioned, about how Carp had found her. She’d been going to the Longstreet library with her laptop, and from there, she logged into her regular baby-hacker chat rooms with her baby-hacker name. If you knew what you were doing—and with most programs, it’s really easy—you could track that back to her location.

  >>> LUELLEN was at my apartment when I got back to St. Paul from Cleveland. I walked in the door and she called, “Kidd? In the kitchen.” I dropped my bag in the hallway and found her eating a toasted bagel with cream cheese. The red cat was sitting on the kitchen counter, next to her, licking his chops. Cream cheese was one of his favorites.

  “So what happened?” she asked.

  I told her. All of it.

  “Fuck him,” she said about Carp.

  >>> TWO days later—this is while the DDC was still operating—I found her file in a DDC computer under the tag Betty 47. “Betty,” as it turned out, was intelligence-speak for an unidentified female. The file contained partial fingerprints from her car and a dozen photographs taken by a concealed camera in the room where she’d been detained.

  “They did a good job hiding the camera,” LuEllen said. “I never saw a thing. And I looked.”

  “Some of the lenses are the size of pinheads,” I said.

  I downloaded the photographs, went out to the FBI files and picked up another dozen surveillance photos of a dark-haired woman named Harriet. With a few hours of tedious work in Photoshop, I replaced LuEllen’s face with Harriet’s, while leaving LuEllen’s body and the room backgrounds. The fingerprints were replaced with a set picked at random from the FBI files.

  Is she safe? I don’t know. There may be hard copies, or optical-disk copies, of all the stuff on LuEllen. You can’t get into somebody’s desk drawer from a computer.

  Am I safe? I don’t know that, either. I do have reason to believe that they don’t know who I am. Not yet, anyway—because if they did, they’d come through the door with an Abrams tank.

  Before we went to sleep that night, LuEllen said, into the dark, “My real name is Lauren. My mother named me after Lauren Bacall.”

  She still hasn’t told me her real last name; maybe we’re getting to that.

  >>> CONGRESSMAN Bob had been busy with the CD I gave him, though not exactly saving the Republic. When the Bobby attacks suddenly stopped, most of the air went out of the other charges, too. The political counterattack started with a lot of media bullshit about responsibility and McCarthyism and anonymous smears, despite the black-and-white evidence for many of the charges.

  The hottest charge, the supposed Norwalk virus experiment on San Francisco, cooled off when the governor of California, a possible presidential candidate in three years, congenially agreed that there wasn’t much evidence to support the claim. Somebody, I thought, had gotten to him. With evidence from the DDC files? Who knows?

  >>> ONE politician who did take a heavy hit was Frank Krause.

  Like this: Two weeks after the Bobby attacks ended, a UN deputy secretary-general got rolled on the east end of Capitol Hill. At a previously scheduled press conference, somebody asked the President about it. The President made a few comments about the poor physical condition of the capital city—the bad roads, the deteriorating building stock east of Fourteenth Street—and suggested that America could do better. A week later, the Senate majority leader named Krause to head a special Senate Committee on the Capital, said that Krause would now be the Capital Czar, and everybody shook hands and smiled.

  Bob, in a mildly lubricated call a few days later, told me that the Committee on the Capital was the political equivalent of an isolation chamber. Krause could remain a senator until his constituents realized that he could no longer deliver the pork, but he wouldn’t have any real clout. He’d hurt too many colleagues.

  The DDC itself disappeared. The initials did, anyway. They tried to hide it all away, but nothing hides from the All-Seeing Bobby Eye. The Inter-Service Research Bureau is slowly gathering itself back together—same people, different building. They work under the guidance of the House Special Sub-Committee on Coordination, Congressman Wayne Bob, chairman.

  >>> SO IN September, after time to talk and do a bit of contemplation, I went back to Louisiana and the Penders project. I stopped in Longstreet and talked with Marvel and John, and they were full of each other again. Rachel was as deep into her laptop as ever. We didn’t talk about Carp.

  Lauren calls every night. She’s at my place most of the time, now. The Minnesota weather had turned crappy; they got snow flurries on the fifteenth, she said. She grumbled about the shortness of the golf season and said she was planning to rent a place down in Palm Springs in January, February, and March.

  I was invited.

  “There’s a golf club there, they’ve invited me to join.”

  “That was nice of them,” I said. “Nonsexist.”
>
  “The downstroke is a nonsexist quarter-million dollars.” A downstroke, she explained, was the up-front membership fee.

  “Ah. Maybe they’re not liberals after all,” I said.

  “Maybe not. I’ve got the money. I’m thinking about it.”

  “A quarter-million dollars to chase a little white ball around a sod farm?”

  “Hey—remember what I said about golf. . . . When are you coming back?”

  “Another ten days or two weeks.”

  “Miss you,” she said. “We could have a good time in Palm Springs.”

  California dreaming . . .

  >>> THEN one evening, the twenty-second of September, as I sat on a rickety motel chair among the fumes of the oil sketches drying against the wall, I got a note from Bobby. The note came into one of my alarmed dump sites. When I opened it, it scared the shit out of me—I felt the hair rise on the back of my neck, and I thought, Carp.

  But it wasn’t. It was Bobby:

  Kidd:

  As you probably know by now, I’m gone. I’ve waited this long to send the note just to be sure. I wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed working with you. Hell, it was a short life, but an interesting one, hey?

  You’re worried about my files, but you don’t need to be. I didn’t keep anything that could come back on any of my friends. Not a thing, encrypted or otherwise. That’s all in my dead head.

  I’m sorry I’m dead, because now I won’t know how the world comes out. Hope *you* live long enough to find out. This was the best time to be alive, these past thirty years. What would I have done without computers? Say good-bye to Lauren for me . . . and if you don’t know who that is, you’ll figure it out sooner or later.

  By the way, I’ve appended a list of databases and filenames that would be of use to you. Good luck, friend.

  Bobby (Robert L. Fields, Jackson, Mississippi)

  I told Lauren about it that night, in our bedtime phone call. “You know who he is?” she asked. “He’s the Hanged Man. Remember those tarot readings, right at the start of everything, where the Hanged Man came up? You said it was somebody in a state of suspension, between this and that. Bobby’s like that. Dead, but not dead. Everything that’s happened was because he was gone, but not entirely gone. Like Janis Joplin’s song. And he’s still doing stuff.”

  I thought about it, and rendered an opinion. “Horseshit,” I said.

  >>> NOW, at this moment, unable to sleep, I sit in the near-dark of the motel room, with nothing but the blue glow of the computer screen in front of me. The All-Seeing Bobby Eye goes into operation.

  Bobby’s files need maintenance. If they’re not maintained, they’ll erode, as passwords and protocols are changed, as trapdoors are found and closed, as databases are discontinued or transferred.

  I don’t know if I should bother. Maybe I should just put the laptop in the garbage; or better yet, toss it in the river. But there’s so much here. There’s knowledge, there’s money, there’s power. There’s revenge. With those things, you can have almost anything else, too.

  What do I want? I always wanted to be a painter, and to do my work, and to be left alone. But with these files, you could change history.

  What do I want?

  I sit in the glow of the computer screen, and think, Time to find out.

  • • •

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  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  John Sandford conceived and wrote The Hanged Man’s Song, but with serious help this time. The help came from Roswell Camp of St. Paul, Minnesota, and Emily Curtis of Los Angeles, California, who together provided geographical research assistance, filled me in on some technical aspects of computers and online life (Emily informed me that “online” is now officially one word, rather than “on line” or “on-line”), kept me straight on the logic of the story, provided editing and production services, and also provided the occasional adjective or noun where needed. In keeping with Strunk and White, most adverbs were eliminated.