As Bosc kept typing, the screen filled with readout—columns of numbers in a code that Bosc explained with no prodding. Bosc pushed another key, and the columns were replaced with what looked like blueprints. Vectors and loci, computerized map lines, everything loading at warp speed.

Bosc was sitting in the Saab’s passenger seat. Hands free to work, but Milo had rebound his ankles, first, kept the gun at the back of Bosc’s neck.

Promising to let him go when he’d done his bit for humanity.

Bosc thanked him as if he was Santa Claus with a bag full of goodies. The guy stank of fear, but you’d never know it from looking at him. Smiling, smiling, smiling. Gabbing technotalk as he worked.

Killing time and filling space; keep those psych tactics going.

His fingers rested. “That’s it, amigo. Look at the capital X, and you’ve got him.”

Milo studied the map. “That’s the best you can do?”

“That’s pretty damn good,” said Bosc, offended. “Within a hundred-yard radius.”

“Print it.”

His pocket filled with paper, Milo yanked Bosc out of the Saab and walked him to the rear of the car.

“Okay, Milo, we’re just gonna forget this happened, right?”

“Right.”

“Could I have my legs back, please, Milo.”

The easy, repetitive use of his name filled Milo’s head with enraged buzzing. He looked up and down the street, now graying. During the time Bosc had played with the computer, a single car had driven by. Young woman in a yellow Fiero, blond and big-haired enough to be one of Bosc’s unwitting home movie costars. But she sped by fast, went two blocks, disappeared, never returned.

Now the street was empty again. Thank God for L.A. alienation.

Milo popped the Saab’s trunk, gave Bosc a swift, hard kick behind one knee and as Bosc collapsed predictably, shoved him inside, slammed the lid and walked away to the muffled drumbeat of Bosc thumping and screaming.

All that noise, someone would find him soon enough.

He hurried to the Polaris, checked the gas gauge, fired up, sped toward the 101 freeway, driving like a typical SoCal idiot: way too fast, steering with one hand, the other gripping his mobile phone as if it was a life preserver.

CHAPTER

42

A husky voice from outside the cabin bellowed, “Everyone out, hands up.” A second later: “No fucking around or we kill the retard and the old guy.”

I crouched closer to the window. “We’re coming out. I have to get him in the chair.”

“Do it.”

I returned to the bedroom, clamped my hands around the grips of Bill’s wheelchair. I’d put a bright white stocking cap on his bald head and had covered him with two soft blankets, despite the heat.

Or maybe it wasn’t that hot. I was sweat-drenched but, he, the diabetic, remained freakishly dry.