The Oracle Year(74)

“Do we look like we’re here for money?”

“I don’t know!” Cathy said. Becky squeezed her hand.

“Relax, Mrs. Jenkins,” the Coach said. “We just want information. We know that at least you, and probably both of you, set up data security for the Oracle. We need to know who engaged you to do this.”

Becky’s grip tightened another notch. The Coach leaned forward.

“This doesn’t have to go the intimidation route, either. You can just think of it as a job. We’re happy to pay you for your help, in fact.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Cathy said. “Who the hell are you?”

The Coach sighed. She held out her hand, and one of the gunmen placed his pistol in her palm. The Coach held the weapon up, displaying it to the women. To Cathy, it looked singularly ugly; it gleamed dully like some sort of malevolent metal insect.

“Personally,” the Coach said, “weapons like this scare the hell out of me. The idea of killing someone is horrible. You never get tough about it. I remember everyone I’ve ever had to kill, or even hurt. Whatever lives they had left, whatever moments of happiness they had left, disappeared because of me.”

She handed the pistol back to the gunman.

“In my heart, I don’t believe I’m a killer. However,” she said, gesturing at the stony crew standing around them, “these men certainly are, and every one of them is completely fine with that label. I want you both to understand that, and be frightened, because the last thing I want to do today is walk out of here with another face or two to keep me up at night.

“I’m going to ask you a few questions, and I’d like you to answer me honestly. That doesn’t seem like too much to ask, does it?”

A sickening suspicion began to dawn in Cathy’s mind, related to a certain turn of phrase she might have inserted into her program code for the Oracle’s e-mail system—just a reflex, something she included in almost everything she created.

The Coach pointed her index finger, with the nail painted that incongruous shade of royal blue, directly at Cathy’s face.

“Here’s why you want to answer honestly,” she said.

She shifted her finger to point at Becky.

“Because of what I’ll do to Mrs. Shubman if you don’t.”

The Coach’s eyes were sincere, open, without guile.

“Imagine, Mrs. Jenkins, feeling her hands on you, feeling the missing fingers, and know that they’re missing because of a choice you made . . . assuming you get to feel them at all. Hands come after fingers.”

Becky’s hand clenched on Cathy’s.

Cathy bowed her head. She looked at Becky.

“I told her we don’t know anything, but she didn’t believe me,” Becky whispered. Her voice was tiny, like a child’s. “What are we going to do?”

The Coach waited patiently.

Cathy smiled sadly at Becky.

“His name is Will Dando. He lives in New York,” she said, not looking anywhere but Becky’s face. “I don’t know if he’s the Oracle or just works for him, but I think he’s probably who you want. He’s listed. I can get you the number, if you want it.”

Becky sucked in a little breath. Cathy had never told her that she’d figured out John Bianco’s real name. She felt Becky’s hand loosen on hers.

“Thank you,” the Coach said. “We’ll want to verify what you’ve told us, but it shouldn’t take long, and then you’ll never have to see us again. And isn’t it better this way?”

Cathy saw Becky’s eyes narrow. She cocked her head at the Coach, who was dialing a cell phone she had produced from within her suit. Very deliberately, Becky extended her hand toward the other woman. She slowly, elegantly curled down all but her middle finger, leaving it standing straight up.





Chapter 30




Leigh Shore left room 1952 of the Waldorf-Astoria and turned right. She walked down the broad, silent hallway, feeling the slightly imperfect fit of her entirely new set of clothes—a light gray skirt suit, well cut—with every step. It needed a touch of tailoring, but really, it wasn’t bad—and it was certainly more expensive than any other clothing she owned.

There had been three differently sized versions of the suit in room 1952, along with underwear and shoes. Leigh had picked the best fits from the available options, disrobing completely in front of the obviously embarrassed, pregnant Asian woman she’d met there. The woman had explained the rules and taken her purse, jewelry (not that she was wearing much), cell, laptop bag, and clothes. Leigh was given a brand-new laptop, a notepad, and a few sharpened pencils and directed to head to room 1964.

And now that door stood before her, waiting. Her legs were tingling. Why was that? That made no sense.

Leigh stared at the door, trying to calm herself. Trying to focus. It wasn’t working, and so, what? Leave?

No. Absolutely not.

She reached up and knocked.

A shadow moved behind the peephole in the door, blocking the light momentarily. The impulse to run gripped Leigh, so strongly that she half turned before she gathered herself. A click from the door handle, and then the door opened.

A man, white, on the youngish side by complexion, although these days that could mean anything from twenties to forties. Jeans—nice ones—a button-down shirt, tucked in, good shoes, all of which broadcast a picture of casual wealth. Sunglasses, and a mop of light, blond hair.