“Nichols!” Cleary reached down, scooped up some sand, and threw it into the wind. “That man is going to ruin his own dream if it takes his very last breath.” He turned to Pape. “All right. So much for using the nanites on them. Use a gun.”

“They have FBI protection now.”

“Then wait until they don’t. And be sure not to leave fingerprints—that’s the traceable part of you, remember?”

“I remember.”

Three nights later Cleary was scanning the day’s headlines. I recognized them as only a day old. He finished his scan, then tapped Pape. They met in Cleary’s VR office.

“We need to take care of Ray Caldwell,” Cleary stated.

“I thought Nichols had that covered.”

Cleared snorted. “I think Nichols underestimates him. He’s the one loose end that can unravel our whole plan. There’s no telling what he may have told that ex-FBI agent or may be telling him now, for all we know.”

“But he’s in isolation,” Pape objected.

“True. But even isolation is a relative thing.”

“So what are you suggesting?”

“I think it’s time we let Ray go to his mythical maker.”

“You want me to murder him in the hospital?”

Cleary smiled. “That wouldn’t be proper, would it? No, let’s secure his release. Then you can dispose of him as you see fit.”

“You can get him released?”

“No, but Nichols can. Leave that to me. You plan to be in Boston tomorrow to escort Ray Caldwell from the hospital.”

Pape disappeared. Cleary sat at his desk, composing a visual message to the director of the hospital while appearing as Bryson Nichols.

The action was highly illegal—the VR system depended on people trusting whom they were receiving messages from—and extremely difficult to program to escape detection from Grid safeguards. Cleary, apparently, was confident in his ability to pull it off.

I continued my scan of his memory stream.

Cleary/Nichols tapped the hospital director and asked him to release Ray Caldwell. An associate of his was coming to pick him up. The director gladly acceded.

“My associate will be there at five.”

“I’ll have Dr. Caldwell ready.”

I accessed the memory stream’s time. The date was June 29. A chill went down my spine. The memory was from today.

It was currently four minutes after five.

45

I tapped the hospital. A receptionist robot—they were amazingly easy for my new brain to spot—appeared.

“Creighton Daniels for Theodore Brandt, please.”

“One moment, Mr. Daniels.”

Two minutes passed. Brandt appeared. “Mr. Daniels, hello again. I apologize for the mix-up when you were here previously. Obviously, Ray Caldwell—”

“Dr. Brandt, you must not release Ray Caldwell to the man who has come to pick him up. The message you received from Bryson Nichols regarding his release was faked.”