it, it’s true.”
“Don’t cop an attitude with me. Why’d you quit?”
“I didn’t like it anymore. I’d rather wrestle with girls.”
“You were good at it.”
Phillip shot him an attitudinal glance. “How do you know?”
He was right. Will knew because Nancy peppered him with e-mails of articles from the local e-paper. He’d never seen him wrestle.
“If you’d have gone to school down in Florida I wouldn’t have missed any of your matches.”
“So it’s my fault you’re practically split-up with Mom.”
“I didn’t say it was your fault.”
“Whatever.”
“And we’re not split up. It’s a compromise. You know the score. You were always free to choose Florida.”
“And live on your boat? No thanks.”
“I would have gotten a condo. I’m still willing to do that when your mom decides to retire.”
“What’s the point? Feb 9 is in less than a year. Just leave me alone to ride it out on the suckmobile, okay?”
“What about the things you wrote about in your essay, about having a positive attitude, making each day count, living life to the fullest?”
The boy gave him a patronizing grin. “It was just an essay.”
“You didn’t believe the things you wrote?”
Phillip didn’t answer.
“You didn’t believe the things you wrote about me?”
The kid pointed at the ceiling. “I think you left the water on.”
P hillip’s NetPen chimed. He yawned, turned his music down with a hand gesture and clicked the pen onto speech mode.
“What?” he said to it.
“Friend request,” it said in a sweet robot voice.
“Who?”
“Hawkbit.”
“Accept. Gimme pic.”
“No photo available.”
He was about to raise the music volume when the pen chimed again. “Message from Hawkbit.”
“Yeah.”
“I need to speak with you,” the pen said.
He switched the pen from the female voice to an androgynous one. He didn’t like to use his real voice with people he didn’t know. Net Safety 101. He replied, “Chat mode: And you are?”
“Hawkbit,” the pen said in a masked voice.
“Well, duh? Do I know you?”
“Not yet.”
“But that’s about to change, right?”
“I hope so.”
“You XX or XY?”
“Sorry?”
“Male or female?”
“Female.”
“Okay, you’ve got my attention.”
“Do you know how to tunnel?”
“Sure. Don’t you?”
“No.”
“Not into tech?”
“Sorry.”
“Why do you want to tunnel?”
“I’ve got to talk to you. In private.”
“This is private.”
“No, superprivate.”
“Why?”
“I need your help.”
He furrowed his brow and was about to ask if Hawkbit was a scam artist. The Net was full of them. “Do you even know who I am?”
“You’re Phillip Piper, the son of Will Piper. I read your essay. You’re the only person in the world I can trust.”
F BI Director Parish didn’t look good on one of his good days and he looked particularly gaunt and sallow today. Nancy approached his desk the way one might approach fresh roadkill, guarding against the shock of a sudden leg twitch.
“Talk to me,” he said. “For Christ’s sake, give me some good news.”
She sat, crossed her legs and opened her briefing book. She noticed his furtive eye motion directed to her thighs and shrugged it off. She was used to it butif she ever mentioned it to Will she knew he’d knock the guy’s block off. Will was old-school. What was good for the gander wasn’t good for the goose.
“Another eight postcards were found yesterday, bringing the total number to thirty-six.”
He rubbed his eyes and gazed out onto Pennsylvania Avenue. “I said good news.”
“Well, I suppose the good news is that they’re intercepting about a quarter of them at post-office sorting stations so some of the targets aren’t getting them anymore. The volume of physical mail is way down these days.”
“Hooray for that,” he said sarcastically.
“The new batch of postcards is fitting into the same overall pattern. These were postmarked three
“Don’t cop an attitude with me. Why’d you quit?”
“I didn’t like it anymore. I’d rather wrestle with girls.”
“You were good at it.”
Phillip shot him an attitudinal glance. “How do you know?”
He was right. Will knew because Nancy peppered him with e-mails of articles from the local e-paper. He’d never seen him wrestle.
“If you’d have gone to school down in Florida I wouldn’t have missed any of your matches.”
“So it’s my fault you’re practically split-up with Mom.”
“I didn’t say it was your fault.”
“Whatever.”
“And we’re not split up. It’s a compromise. You know the score. You were always free to choose Florida.”
“And live on your boat? No thanks.”
“I would have gotten a condo. I’m still willing to do that when your mom decides to retire.”
“What’s the point? Feb 9 is in less than a year. Just leave me alone to ride it out on the suckmobile, okay?”
“What about the things you wrote about in your essay, about having a positive attitude, making each day count, living life to the fullest?”
The boy gave him a patronizing grin. “It was just an essay.”
“You didn’t believe the things you wrote?”
Phillip didn’t answer.
“You didn’t believe the things you wrote about me?”
The kid pointed at the ceiling. “I think you left the water on.”
P hillip’s NetPen chimed. He yawned, turned his music down with a hand gesture and clicked the pen onto speech mode.
“What?” he said to it.
“Friend request,” it said in a sweet robot voice.
“Who?”
“Hawkbit.”
“Accept. Gimme pic.”
“No photo available.”
He was about to raise the music volume when the pen chimed again. “Message from Hawkbit.”
“Yeah.”
“I need to speak with you,” the pen said.
He switched the pen from the female voice to an androgynous one. He didn’t like to use his real voice with people he didn’t know. Net Safety 101. He replied, “Chat mode: And you are?”
“Hawkbit,” the pen said in a masked voice.
“Well, duh? Do I know you?”
“Not yet.”
“But that’s about to change, right?”
“I hope so.”
“You XX or XY?”
“Sorry?”
“Male or female?”
“Female.”
“Okay, you’ve got my attention.”
“Do you know how to tunnel?”
“Sure. Don’t you?”
“No.”
“Not into tech?”
“Sorry.”
“Why do you want to tunnel?”
“I’ve got to talk to you. In private.”
“This is private.”
“No, superprivate.”
“Why?”
“I need your help.”
He furrowed his brow and was about to ask if Hawkbit was a scam artist. The Net was full of them. “Do you even know who I am?”
“You’re Phillip Piper, the son of Will Piper. I read your essay. You’re the only person in the world I can trust.”
F BI Director Parish didn’t look good on one of his good days and he looked particularly gaunt and sallow today. Nancy approached his desk the way one might approach fresh roadkill, guarding against the shock of a sudden leg twitch.
“Talk to me,” he said. “For Christ’s sake, give me some good news.”
She sat, crossed her legs and opened her briefing book. She noticed his furtive eye motion directed to her thighs and shrugged it off. She was used to it butif she ever mentioned it to Will she knew he’d knock the guy’s block off. Will was old-school. What was good for the gander wasn’t good for the goose.
“Another eight postcards were found yesterday, bringing the total number to thirty-six.”
He rubbed his eyes and gazed out onto Pennsylvania Avenue. “I said good news.”
“Well, I suppose the good news is that they’re intercepting about a quarter of them at post-office sorting stations so some of the targets aren’t getting them anymore. The volume of physical mail is way down these days.”
“Hooray for that,” he said sarcastically.
“The new batch of postcards is fitting into the same overall pattern. These were postmarked three
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