Twenty-Two

Bobby and Hunter peered closely at my cheek, Bobby probing with the eraser end of a pencil.

“Does that hurt?” asked Bobby.

“Yes!”

“That’s going to leave a scar,” said Hunter.

“That’s what they tell me. I am marred.”

“It’ll be dashing,” Bobby said.

“Can’t hurt,” Hunter said.

Bobby had invited me down the street to his office in Center Plaza, where he said he would buy me lunch.

“And a drink,” I had said.

“And a drink,” he’d agreed.

Now Bobby and Hunter sat on either side of me at a curved bar in the Kinsale Irish Tavern, a warm, woody restaurant tucked improbably into the brutalist sweep of Center Plaza across the street from Government Center. Bobby and Hunter each sat behind a Guinness. I cradled a double Jameson’s.

“That Hertz lady packed a wallop,” Bobby said.

“She used a foreign object,” I said. “I think it was a ring.”

“Maybe you’re just a bleeder,” said Hunter.

“I don’t blame her,” I said. “She had just lost her kid.”

“Actually, she thought you had killed her kid.”

“Yeah, that too.”

“Which raises a question.”

I drank some whiskey. Let it settle in my stomach, tamp down some leftover stress from getting hit in my face. “Yes, Special Agent Hunter, what would that be?”

“How did you dox Peter?”

“Are you going to add this to the curriculum at Quantico?”

“Depends if it’s clever enough.”

I told her about Facebook.

Her face fell. “That’s it?”

“This is why a magician never reveals his secrets. It’s always disappointing.”

Bobby said, “Have to admit, Tucker, you never fail to disappoint.”

I toasted Bobby, drank more whiskey, ate a potato skin.

“The problem we have now,” said Hunter, “is that Peter was our only link to PwnSec.”

“What do you care about PwnSec?” I asked. “They’re kids. They can’t write software, they can only run scripts other people wrote.”

“You’re saying they’re script kiddies?”

“They’re not even script kiddies. They’re just mean little shits.”

“Our information tells us that they stole some important information.”

“Confidential information?”

“Yes. We’re supposed to find it before it gets out.”

“What was it?”

“Confidential.”

“Ah, well,” I said, finishing my whiskey. “Good luck with that.”

Bobby motioned the bartender to bring me another round.

I said, “It’s a little early.”

“You don’t want it?”

“Make it a Guinness.”

My beer arrived. I ate another potato skin. Blew out a big breath, suddenly exhausted. This thing with Maria had been jangling my nerves for days, a constant twisting of my guts. I’d been hoping for closure, but seeing the kid murdered wasn’t closure.

You don’t sound sorry.

I had said I was processing. Processing complete. I still wasn’t sorry.

Bobby was talking. “ … the same way.”

“What?”

Hunter said, “Bobby wants you to help me find PwnSec the way you found Peter.”

“Facebook would be happy to help. Look at Peter’s account and do what I did.”

“And if they’re not on Facebook?”

“Then they’re smarter than Peter.”

I drank my Guinness. They know how to pull a Guinness here, of course. Probably should have started with Guinness. The whiskey had made me a little sleepy. Given the week I’d had, I deserved a nap.

“People are going to get hurt if you don’t help me,” said Hunter.

“People have already gotten hurt,” I said, pointing to my cut. “Me least of all.”

“Putting your head in the sand isn’t going to help.”

“Look, all I want to do is repa—”

I glanced out the pub’s front window. Standing there, trying nonchalantly to peer through the glass, an impossible task, was the hook-nosed guy in a different suit. He’d gone from gray to brown.

“Don’t look now, but who’s that guy in the window?”

Hunter looked.

“I said don’t look!”

“How am I supposed to see?”

Hook Nose realized that he’d been made, and took off.

“I don’t see anyone,” said Hunter.

“He’s gone.”

“Who’s gone?”

I told them about the museum visit and about being followed.

“Guy in a suit with a big hooked nose?” asked Bobby.

“Yeah. You know him?”

“Never heard of him.” Bobby went back to drinking his beer.

“What’s he talking about?” I asked Hunter.

Bobby gave Hunter a glance, and she drank her beer instead of answering.

“This is bullshit, Bobby. If you know what’s going on, you should tell me.”

“Why? You said you don’t want to help.”

“I don’t want to help.”

“So go about your life.”

“What about this guy?”

“He’s harmless.”

“Who is he?”

“Doesn’t matter. I’m telling you he’s harmless. I mean you scared him away.”

“Hey, you know, I can get pretty ragey.”

“Yeah, well, don’t go all Hulk on us, okay?”

I pushed back from the bar. Stood.

“You didn’t finish your beer,” said Bobby.

“I’m done with this.”

“C’mon, don’t leave in a huff.”

“Screw you, Bobby.”

“Aw, jeesh.”

“Bye, Special Agent Hunter. Thanks for the beer.”

“Tucker, let’s talk,” Bobby said.

I turned from the two and stalked out of the pub, across the street, and down into Government Center station. It was time to put my life back together. I stood on the platform waiting for the train, pulled out my smartphone, and opened Twitter.

I had forty-five notifications. Forty-five people had mentioned me on Twitter.

That could not be good.