“Like what I said it is.” Freddi sounds a little stronger now. Her eyes are red, but that’s probably from the dope she’s been smoking. “He shot me.”

“She had some mini-pads and I taped one over the wound,” Holly says. “It was too big for a Band-Aid.” She wrinkles her nose. “Oough.”

“Fucker shot me.” It’s as if Freddi’s still trying to get it straight in her mind.

“Which fucker would that be?” Hodges asks. “Felix Babineau?”

“Yeah, him. Fucking Dr. Z. Only he’s really Brady. So is the other one. Z-Boy.”

“Z-Boy?” Jerome asks. “Who the hell is Z-Boy?”

“Older guy?” Hodges asks. “Older than Babineau? Frizzy white hair? Drives a beater with primer paint on it? Maybe wears a parka with tape over some of the rips?”

“I don’t know about his car, but I know the parka,” Freddi says. “That’s my boy Z-Boy.” She sits in front of her desktop Mac—currently spinning out a fractal screensaver—and takes a final drag on her joint before crushing it out in an ashtray full of Marlboro butts. She’s still pale, but some of the fuck-you attitude Hodges remembers from their previous meeting is coming back. “Dr. Z and his faithful sidekick, Z-Boy. Except they’re both Brady. Fucking matryoshka dolls is what they are.”

“Ms. Linklatter?” Holly says.

“Oh, go ahead and call me Freddi. Any chick who sees the teacups I call tits gets to call me Freddi.”

Holly blushes, but goes ahead. When she’s on the scent, she always does. “Brady Hartsfield is dead. It was an overdose last night or early this morning.”

“Elvis has left the building?” Freddi considers the idea, then shakes her head. “Wouldn’t that be nice. If it was true.”

And wouldn’t it be nice I could totally believe she’s crazy, Hodges thinks.

Jerome points at the readout above her jumbo monitor. It’s now flashing 247 FOUND. “Is that thing searching or downloading?”

“Both.” Freddi’s hand is pressing at the makeshift bandage under her shirt in an automatic gesture that reminds Hodges of himself. “It’s a repeater. I can turn it off—at least I think I can—but you have to promise to protect me from the men who are watching the building. The website, though . . . no good. I’ve got the IP address and the password, but I still couldn’t crash the server.”

Hodges has a thousand questions, but as 247 FOUND clicks up to 248, only two seem of paramount importance. “What’s it searching for? And what’s it downloading?”

“You have to promise me protection first. You have to take me somewhere safe. Witness Protection, or whatever.”