Burning Bright (Peter Ash #2)(46)

“Tell me again,” he said. “Your mom said the algorithm, this Tyg3r, would contact you.”

“Yeah, I don’t get it, either. Is it going to send me an email? Friend me on Facebook?” She took her hands off the wheel and waved them in the air. “Fucked if I know.”

Peter liked how much she swore. Just like the carpenters he’d worked with in high school. Nouns, verbs, and profanity. Hand me that fucking skilsaw, would you? The carpenters were worse than the Marines.

“How smart is this thing?”

“An algorithm isn’t a thing, it’s code designed to perform a task. And my mom said it was like a stupid cockroach. Which is pretty smart for software. It’s also designed to learn and improve its function. I’m not a coder, so I can’t really tell you more than that. I know a guy in Seattle who might be able to help. That is, if this algorithm ever writes me a letter. I’ll start on those names when you’re driving again. Nicolet the lawyer, and those guys, you know. From the mountains.”

The dead guys, thought Peter. They would have killed him if they could. They’d certainly done their best. It wasn’t like he’d had a choice.

“I can drive now, if you like,” he said.

June pulled the car to the shoulder, where the asphalt turned to gravel. Peter strapped on the medical boot and got out to stretch his stiff muscles in the cool wet breeze, looking out into the darkened trees as anonymous headlights flashed by behind them.

“You’re really okay?” she asked, not quite looking at him. “Pretty crazy day today.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Peter said, smiling into the dark. He was supposed to be taking care of her, but here she was, trying to take care of him. “Today seemed fairly normal to me. Maybe one major event.”

“Just one? You bullshit artist. Let’s see, which one?” She ticked off each item on her fingers. “You climbed a three-hundred-foot redwood. Got shot at, twice. Totaled my car. Saved my life, at least twice. Fractured your leg, cracked some ribs.” She paused for a moment, and Peter wondered how far she’d get into this. She took a breath. “You also killed at least one man, maybe more, depending on how you see things. You got stuck in the hospital, which made your post-traumatic stress flare up. And now we’re on the run in the middle of the night from whoever is hunting me.”

“That’s all true,” said Peter. “But not what made the day exceptional.” It was easier to talk like this in the dark, when he couldn’t really see her face. But he could feel the pressure of her attention like a physical thing.

“Oh, yeah?” she said. “What was it?”

“We should keep moving,” he said, and began to limp around the front of the minivan to the driver’s side. The headlights ruined his night vision, he could barely see her silhouette. He definitely couldn’t see her face.

“Hey,” she said. “What made the damn day exceptional?”

He smiled at her as he opened the door, the dome light illuminating his face.

“That’s easy,” he said. “I met you.”

Then he got back in the car and spent some time adjusting the seat for his taller frame.

By the time he was done, she’d climbed into the passenger side, booted up the little tablet computer, and was nose-deep into the Web, as if the conversation had never happened.

Peter put the car in gear and got back on the road.

? ? ?

“OKAY,” SAID JUNE. “I found our attorney, Jean-Pierre Nicolet. Lives in Seattle, an equity partner with Sydney Bucknell Sparks. Corporate website lists his specialties as intellectual property and M&A. What’s M&A?”

“Mergers and Acquisitions,” said Peter. “Any subspecialties?”

“A long list. Sensitive negotiations, corporate reorganization, blah blah blah. A bunch of honors and awards. He’s all over the Web, but there’s nothing interesting. A bunch of nonprofit boards, some obscure tech incubator, a couple of arts organizations.”

“What about the law firm?”

“Sydney Bucknell Sparks. Founded in 1937, they claim over two hundred attorneys, with offices in Seattle, San Jose, and New York.”

“So he’s not some yahoo operating out of his rec room. He’s the real deal.”

“Oh yeah,” she said. “But he’s just the mouthpiece. He didn’t think this up on his own.”

“I’d love to see a client list.”

“I’m gonna take a look at the guys from the redwoods.”

She took the wallets out of the black cloth bag—the hood, the kidnapper’s hood—emptied them onto the side console, and sifted through the contents. Then went back to the little computer.

Eventually she turned on the map light and held up the driver’s licenses to examine each one in turn. She tapped one with a finger. “Jason Ross,” she said. “He’s the one with the Taser. Threw me into the back seat.”

“You recognize the driver?”

“I think this one,” she said. “Martin Alvarez. Although I didn’t get as good a look at him.” She held up a third license. “This guy, Dexter Smith, I don’t recognize.”

Peter thought about hanging at the end of a rope, listening to the four men talk to each other. He’d only gotten three wallets. The fourth guy was crushed under the Tahoe.