Fire Will Fall

  Nurse Alexa has not believed my tone, as she appears behind me, winded from climbing the stairs. Silently, she begins picking up CDs, having taken note of Tyler's fury. One good thing: Tyler has taped each case shut with a small piece of clear tape, I notice, trying not to roll my eyes.

  "My uncle would say that ... that you cannot run away from trouble. You have to fight the trouble where you are, or it will follow you," I say, suddenly hearing roosters crow behind me. I mutter, "Omar is online."

  Tyler looks torn; he wants to jump down. But he remains on the desk. "How many times have I been beaten up in school? I never quit going," he says. "But this is different. I came to this country with a fake name, a fake passport, and a fake identity shoved straight up my ass. Now I want something of my own choosing. What is it about USIC that they can't, uh, get involved with that?"

  TWENTY

  CORA HOLMAN

  SATURDAY, MAY 4, 2002

  3:25 P.M.

  LIBRARY

  "SCOTT, we just can't get involved with that. We can't share classified material with outsiders, even if they just want to help. Not even you," Mr. Steckerman was saying to him in the parlor. I was in the next room, the library, trying to add something to my blog. But as usual, I imagined the hundreds of eyes reading it and drew a blank after only a few lines about being out of the hospital. I watched the double doors that separated the two rooms but knew Scott would feel betrayed if I simply closed them. His voice rose.

  "You know what, Alan? When you tell me there's nothing you can do, you don't have to look so ... so proud about it. What do you have to be proud about, when you're telling me you're just a ... a helpless little fish in a huge pool?"

  "I'm not meaning to look proud, Scott."

  "You're right. Actually, you don't look proud. You look ... pitiful. Pitifully small."

  "I am, I suppose."

  I flinched, deleting a line of my blog that came out clunky. Mr. Steckerman was getting the better of Scott by going along with him. But it was maddening, even from the next room. Marg had opened the windows, and I could hear the wind rustle through the trees from my comfy seat on the couch. I tried to ignore them as I stared into my screen and forced myself to retype the line.

  "So small you can't even make a petty decision?"

  "Scott, for you to help us, we would have to reveal classified material, and do you know how tight national security is right now? Tighter than it's been since World War II. Now tell me where the two of you went this afternoon. It's important."

  Scott laughed triumphantly. "We were abducted by aliens."

  "Not funny."

  "Who's laughing? You reap what you sow."

  Scott had seen Mr. Steckerman's car parked outside as we drove up, and almost as an afterthought had asked me to leave the rolls of film in one of the outbuildings. He distracted the man while I hid the film under an antique carriage missing a wheel. They were having a fairly heated conversation when I came in. Mr. Steckerman wanted to know where we had been. We had said we went to the CVS, but we had no bag, no purchase. I had made a fast exit into this room while he and Scott argued about why Scott couldn't work for USIC.

  "All I can say is that I got a phone call from one of my agents who said he saw your car parked somewhere. And I want you to confirm that," Mr. Steckerman said.

  "We were on Mars."

  "Great. Were you also in Griffith's Landing?"

  Scott thought long and hard, I guess, because the rubber tread of his sneaker clomped a few times. "No."

  "Scott, don't lie to me," Mr. Steckerman pleaded sternly. "Listen. The four of you need to check with me before you leave the property from here on in."

  "Why?"

  "It has to do with, er, People and the other magazines you've been in," Mr. Steckerman stammered. I'd have almost sworn he was omitting something that was making him nervous. "When Godfrey gave you permission to go out in the car, he wasn't thinking—and I wasn't thinking—that you are very recognizable. People can be cruel. And if not cruel, invasive and—"

  "I think we can handle it," Scott said with genuine calm, though with his next line I thought he was being defiant. "I'll take it under advisement. Thanks, Alan."

  "No, you will listen to me and do what I'm telling you!" I heard a sound like a rolled-up newspaper being slapped down on a table. He went on in annoyance. "After all we've done for you kids, you should not be acting like this."

  "I don't want anyone doing anything for me," Scott said, equally loud. "I want to do something for somebody. Okay? Something important. Why is that so hard to understand?"

  I found myself drawn into the room, thinking I could defuse this somehow. I could feel Scott's pride, along with his lack of usefulness, filling the air with toxic energy. And Mr. Steckerman was so red in the face I wondered about his health as well. I found myself moving toward Scott.

  "You don't understand the pressure we are under!" Mr. Steckerman yelled.

  "What about pressure do I not understand, Alan?"

  "Cora, give me the film you brought out of the car."

  I flinched in surprise.

  "When the two of you pulled up, you had a fistful of film in your hand, Cora," he persisted. "When you came in the door, the rolls were gone. What did you do with them? I want to know what you were photographing and why it is that one of my agents thought he saw you in Griffith's Landing. What in hell would make you go there today?"

  Why would he want my film? I looked at Scott in confusion, my privacy threatened and violated. I thought of the men scrambling away from my lens when I raised the camera to my face. I knew it meant something ... people not wanting to be photographed ... but the big picture eluded me. I'd relied on Scott all day to know the meanings of things, and at the moment he only knew the meaning of getting what he wanted.

  "Hel-lo. It's the closest place to get to the beach and boards," Scott said. "If you didn't want us there, you should have said something. If you're going to keep so many little secrets, I'd say there's a natural consequence to your actions."

  Mr. Steckerman's voice rose above his. "Do not condescend to me. Cora, give me the film."

  "I ... it wasn't film," I heard myself stammer as I moved close to Scott. He brought his arm around me protectively. "It was just ... We're allowed to sneak junk food once in a while, aren't we?"

  "Where is the packaging?"

  "I ... threw it outside."

  "You littered? You're sick as a dog, and you can still remember to put on a necklace that matches your shirt and shorts! Please don't insult my intelligence."

  This was worse than having a principal in your face. It took everything I had to say the right thing. "If you want Scott to answer anything, then you'll find a way to get him a job. It will help him. Sitting around isn't making him well."

  Scott snickered with his lips closed, which made his shoulders shake, and I stood very straight, in spite of Mr. Steckerman's impatience.

  "Look!" he hollered again. "I'm a man pulled in many directions, and you kids are acting very ungrateful. You think we have no problems, because you're sick and we're well. You've never felt this from a parent's perspective! I've just had to tell my daughter she can't have her car out here, and her driver's license is now invalid until she's more emotionally stable. She took off, and right now, I don't know where she is."

  I let out a little gasp. That news must have hit Rain hard. A breeze blew in from the window, and I realized that storm clouds were coming. I wondered if I should go look for her.

  Scott had refused to ever talk about his symptoms when they came upon him, but I could see that our road trip and lengthy walk in the warm sun had been too much on him. His face was red and he was shiny with sweat. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, which he often did to massage away the start of one of our headaches. He only smiled slightly when he answered.

  "Welcome to my nightmare, Alan." He moved toward the stairs, toward his room. Mr. Steckerman turned to me with a look like he was considering taking me by the
throat.

  "Are you going to tell me anything?"

  I swallowed, my heart in Scott Eberman's pocket. "No."

  He started to turn, and my guilt exploded. "But I'll help you find Rain."

  He muttered, "She'll probably come back, but I don't want to risk her being out there in a storm. Owen took off straight ahead. I'll go east, you go west."

  He didn't sound angry anymore. I wondered how he could juggle so many situations.

  TWENTY-ONE

  SHAHZAD HAMDANI

  SATURDAY, MAY 4, 2002

  3:25 P.M.

  HIS BEDROOM

  I SEE A GATHERING DARKNESS outside the bedroom window as tall clouds roll. A thunderstorm is rising, which means we will shut down the computers. Tyler does not trust surge protectors. Hodji has called, saying he is on a plane that is delayed on the runway, and I can call him anytime. But he is waiting for a change of heart in Twain about this never wanting to see him again and anxiously awaits his boy's call. He promised that nothing but his son calling and wanting to talk would keep him from answering his call waiting.

  Tyler is sitting in my chair, clicking the mouse many times. He is no longer pouting and cleaning. I am happy that while he gets very uncouth and angry, he bounces back quickly.

  I caution him to be careful to do only untraceable activity, as HotKeys is being paid much to trace v-spies. But Tyler is excited to discover if VaporStrike's server is merely a patch also. As a groan of thunder resounds in the sky, we hear a cockle-doodle-doo. I stand behind him, watching as he grabs the mouse.

  ALERT: Omar0324 is Online: www.lessismore.com/chat/blue-fishbay/%917.18.63%/ Enter5:59pm

  VaporStrike logs on a minute later. With just a few clicks, we detect that Omar comes off a server in Tijuana, and VaporStrike is visiting a chat room from what appears to be a server in Manhattan. Quickly, Tyler opens a program he just finished that identifies IP addresses, and he copies and pastes the address into the search engine. "No such IP address exists" came as the results.

  "See?" Tyler said. "He's ... somewhere with tides. Is it an island? Can I be selfish and hope it's not ours?"

  "No, you cannot be selfish," I say, thinking of our earlier conversation when we were trying to decide if VaporStrike was on a New Jersey barrier island or if he had returned to his home away from home: here. "If he is not near our tides, he's near theirs."

  Tyler stays silent, understanding my meaning of "theirs" to be the Trinity Four. We feel like something akin to guardian angels, an inspiration that came from my father, I felt. A way of life that was jeopardized when Trinity Falls was assaulted. He'd had many ways to describe the small towns of America. "There is a graciousness," he'd often said, "an innocence ... a step between regular earth and heaven in those heartlands." It's not that we undervalue ourselves. To the contrary. I would prefer VaporStrike was close to us. I know Tyler does, too.

  "These guys are getting too slick, too paranoid about potentially being watched. They're gonna give me a headache."

  "Obviously they suspect they have v-spies," I note.

  "I think they suspect everything and know nothing," Tyler muses. "They can't know about us. How could they know about us?"

  Nurse Alexa calls upstairs in a loud voice that makes me flinch, saying that our dinner is prepared and to hurry, that she wants to see us eating before she goes on her Saturday visit to her sister's. We eat early on Saturdays so Miss Alexa can eat with her sister.

  "Actually, I already have a headache," Tyler mutters in annoyance.

  He returns to the chat screen as I shout down for her that we promise to be right down, and she should go. She will not like this, but she looks forward to these Saturday visits, as she cannot be with us 24/7. I hear the front door slam after a grumble about how promises must be kept.

  Both men are logged in but idling. I assume they wait for HotKeys. Another rumble of thunder makes Tyler flip vulgar sign language up at the sky.

  Finally, they make an exchange, all in Punjabi, which I know, so I translate out loud and cut and paste during their pauses.

  VaporStrike: Your antics with the swans are not amusing to our backers.

  Omar0324: MY antics? It was your idea to toy with one of the swans' food.

  VaporStrike: I am not your mother.

  Omar0324: You nag like her.

  VaporStrike: Don't tamper with their food. It is cruel. Cruelty to animals.

  Omar0324: I am not a silly American who thinks animals need rights.

  "What are they talking about?" Tyler pushes me in the soreness of my shoulder. He is taking this literally.

  I am not. "They are arguing over the people they are ... holding or applying drugs to. VaporStrike is saying that too much tampering with their doses is cruel, but he is being ironic. He actually thinks it's very funny."

  "I can't understand how you can get all of that," he says in amazement.

  Years of practice. Coded sentences make slightly less sense than regular communication, regardless of how hard the sender tries to be clever.

  VaporStrike: I am passing on messages to you from Chancellor. Whisper down the row. Let us hope I get this right: The swans have wandered a bit. He wants to put up an electrical fence. Let one of them take a spark or two.

  I try to think of what this could mean, but thinking too hard can do no good, either. "They're using codes inside translations in disappearing chatter..." I breathe. "These must be highly guarded secrets."

  "What does it mean?" Tyler asks.

  I am knowledgeable only in linguistics and the languages of the computer. Hodji is best at discerning codes.

  "He wants to keep the swans from getting away?" Tyler persists.

  I shake my head. "Take a spark or two. Spark ... Fire? FireFall?"

  I don't want to say it, but he cannot resist. "Tell me he's not going to give that shit to a human..."

  Omar0324: Remind Chancellor that if he outright kills a swan it will be counterproductive.

  Tyler pushes my hand away from picking a scab. I do not understand how Chancellor plans to expose a human being to FireFall without it killing him—not if one milligram killed three monkeys. By spraying aerosol in the room with the hostage? By brushing it against his skin only?

  Omar0324: And tell Chancellor to be careful of the snakes regardless of what he decides. They are indigenous to that area.

  "Snakes would be law enforcement," I whisper, though I cannot figure out why I am whispering. Tyler wants me to skin his palm, though it is obvious.

  VaporStrike: He is well aware of the snakes. You make too much of them. They come out of the water this time of year.

  Omar0324: Colony Two is a snake pit. I do not think he appreciates, as he has never been bitten.

  "Bingo," Tyler admits. "A shitty bingo... Chancellor and his hostages are near Colony Two. What the fuck. We should have gotten it through online news if people were reported missing down there."

  I remind him, "Whores and prostitutes are often not missed for days after a serial killer murders them. This Colony Two would have to be near Atlantic City. Where there's gambling, there is prostitution, and maybe ShadowStrike has seized several prostitutes for experiments—"

  Omar0324: In fact, I would like very much for you to get your own neck out of there quickly.

  Our surprised yells bounce off the walls, and Tyler cackles, rejoicing freely, forgetting our feelings of protection toward the Trinity Four. "I'm thinking of Hodji. If his flight is no longer delayed, he is on his way to Mexico. It's like he took a sucker punch. Left the action to—"

  "It's not funny when you consider who delivered the punch." I feel not only guilty but unprotected. I am once again haunted by a web post left by Omar, just after his escape in March, on a web board for parents of asthmatic children. It was as if he wanted me, known only to him as the Kid, to find it. We will strike and, unlike others you choose to call "terrorists," you will never be sure it is us.... You will never know quite where we are, who we are, and where we will turn up
next.

  Perhaps I have v-spied for so long that my instincts exceed my knowledge accurately. The following appears after an arrogant period of idling:

  VaporStrike: Did I suggest to you that I was in the snake pit? Your inferences concerning my intelligence alarm me.

  Omar0324: I told you to dispose of the monkey corpses personally. I'm assuming you didn't hire a delivery service.

  VaporStrike: The brethren have steel drums in their possession for the WMD. I had one of them deliver the remains to me on the Parkway.

  In all my years gathering online intelligence, I know Hodji's saying to be true: "When it rains, it pours." We have learned so much in two sessions that my brain does not feel equipped to process more. But I am forced to. It becomes very personal:

  Omar0324: Where will you dispose of it?

  VaporStrike: I remember from March that the dumpster behind Trinitron gets a Wednesday/Sunday pickup.

  Trinitron, the Internet café, his former haunt. I had been brought from Pakistan in March to capture and translate his chatter there. He had scattered to the winds after the raid. I remained and am still living a mile away. Now, he is coming back.

  Tyler is stunned to silence for once, and I pull out my cell phone, dial Hodji, and hear his busy clicks. He had said the only reasons he would not take my calls were if he was taking off, or if he was talking to Twain. I assumed he had taken off by now.

  Tyler realizes and suddenly does not find Hodji and his flight to Mexico so funny.

  "Sonofabitch," he explodes. "Tell me he's got that ungrateful brat of his on the phone whom I would love to switch lives with. It's a long flight. He could play dad for hours—"

  I think to text, but I have only recently learned how to do it, and I find hitting the buttons two and three times annoying. I send Hodji an e-mail, thinking he would have heard my calling clicks and check all communications immediately. Perhaps he can read while he is listening. In the e-mail I simply say: