Agents of the Internet Apocalypse (24 page)

Over the next two or three hours I worked my way down, remaining fairly hidden in the dark and completely silent except when screaming from surprise sticker-bush attacks. But at least there were no more helicopters. And when the sun started to come up I could see the mountain had led out into some millionaire's backyard. I found a road and walked until I hit the town—Burbank I guess—and then I found an all-night diner that didn't mind serving some eggs and coffee to a man covered in dried blood and dirt.

My waitress gave me the name of a cab company and the diner even let me use their phone to make the call. Businesses were being nice about that now. Some people were asking them to reinstall pay phones. I thanked her and then noticed the cap of her pen had one of those metal clips you could break off.

“If I doubled your tip,” I asked her, “do you think I could have your pen?

“Are you serious?” she asked, looking down to make sure it didn't have some secret value.

“Yes, I need it.”

“Go nuts,” she said and dropped it with the check. I twisted off the metal clip and left a twenty for my ten-dollar meal.

“Thank you,” she said.

“Not at all,” I replied. “You wouldn't also happen to have a paper clip, would you?”

*   *   *

I gave the driver Romaya's address and worked my paper clip into a zigzag with two pennies between my fingers, and then I must have fallen asleep because he woke me in front of Romaya's, with my newly fashioned lock pick on the floor and drool running down my chin. According to my watch, it was 7:30
A.M.,
and I wondered if it was too early to ring her bell. But I didn't need to decide because Romaya actually rushed out of her door the second I left the cab. She was dressed like an adult again: blouse and skirt and everything.

“Babe,” I called out, and she looked up in a panic. I was confused, but then I remembered what I looked like. I walked toward her as she stared.

“What happened to you?” she said. “Your coat is ruined.”

“Hmm? Oh, yeah, Cali's been pretty hard on my sports jackets, I suppose. Don't worry,” I said. “The letter's still fine.” I pulled the love letter from my breast pocket just enough to prove it still existed, even if it was crusted with the boy's blood. “Where are you going, all dolled up?”

“Work,” she said, dismissively.

“You got a job?” I asked.

“Just some stupid temp job for now.”

“I told you I'd get a job,” I said.

“Did you get one?” she asked.

“Well, no. It's been a day … but I have something else.” I took off my backpack and removed the gold metal box.

“Baby or not, you need a job. You get that, right? You can't ignore that letter.”

“I get it,” I said, “but will you look?” I held up the box.

“What the hell is that?” she asked.

“The Internet phone book I told you about on the way to Google!” I said, but she didn't hear me because a helicopter was flying overhead.

“The Internet phone book!” I screamed. “The one I told you about! We found it!”

“What we?” she asked looking around.

“Tobey, Jeeves, and me.”

“Jeeves is in California?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Where's Tobey?”

“With Jeeves. I think they might have gotten arrested. We got separated.”

“Have you been taking your meds?” she asked.

“Dude, I'm showing you what I've done.” I placed the box on the third step of the outdoor staircase leading up to the second-floor apartments. “I've found the biggest clue to who stole the Net—or at least, who had the power to.”

Even Romaya had to be impressed. “It's locked,” she said.

“Yes, but you know I can take care of that, right?” I took out the pen cap and paper clip.

“Oh, shit,” she said.

I slid my pen cap tension wrench into place and raked my clip over the tumblers.

Romaya smiled. “I remember that sound.”

“Me too. It feels just like the windows at Fordham.”

I'd never picked a lock quicker than the night we snuck onto the law school roof, and I knew I couldn't beat it, but I was hoping to still make a strong showing. My first attempts did little more than dislodge dirt, and I readjusted my wrench.

“I really don't want to be late for my first day of work,” Romaya said. “Even if it's a temp job.…”

“I got this,” I said, and ran my pick with a touch more assertion and a drop less desperation. It popped. The locking mechanism actually dislodged and shot forward.

“Holy shit,” Romaya said. “That's exactly like the Fordham windows!”

“Yeah, weird right? I've never seen that anywhere else.”

“That was hot.”

I opened the golden box and inside was a thin leather-bound book, much nicer than the earlier version Quiff had given me. The cover read. “Internet Control, Edition XXII.”

“Now are you ready, Babe?” I asked, and I swear she was excited, even if she'd spent a decade scraping away at the possibility of wonder. I was putting her behind the scenes into a whole new world. “Here is the biggest clue of my investigation,” I said, taking the book out for display. “The names of the people who have the ability to control the destiny of the Net. This is what Anonymous was looking for and couldn't find without me. I did this. Do you understand? Me. I found it.”

She nodded in silence, and it will never be clear to me if her silence was born from suspense or good manners. I took out the book and there on the very first page of heavy parchment was the name I knew I'd see: Hamilton Burke.

“Look!” I said, handing her the book. “Look! Hamilton Burke. I've met him. Twice.”

Romaya took the book from me. “The guy from your journal. The rich guy.”

“Yes, I met him at the Playboy Mansion just the other day.”

“You what?”

“Yes. I'm telling you, Babe. I'm not spinning my wheels here. I'm onto something.”

“What were you doing at the Playboy Mansion?” she asked.

“Tobey and I got invited. By Hamilton!”

“So Tobey met Hamilton Burke too?” she asked, hoping to validate this story.

“Well, no. He went off with that douchebag from
High School Musical
, but I'm telling you. We had a drink and a cigar.”

Romaya didn't say anything. She just flipped through the book. “There are some other names here too,” she said as if choosing an appetizer from a menu she'd never seen before.

“Babe, I've won the trust of Anonymous and Jeeves. I've climbed the Hollywood Hills and found the clue no one else could find. Do you think anyone could do that?”

“No, but what's your point?”

“My point is marry me. If I can do this, can't I be the man you need?”

Romaya took a step back, unprepared. It wasn't just because we were divorced, but because she had been convinced for years before she left that I did not love her.

“Marry me,” I said again, like it was a simple proposition. Like we had lived a life designed to deliver us to this conclusion as inevitably as the Hollywood Hills had delivered me to Burbank this morning. But again, she did not hear me over another helicopter. Without a wedding ring, I grabbed the gold box and held it up to her.

“You thought we got divorced because you couldn't crack conspiracies?”

“That's not the point.”

“Then what's the point? This doesn't prove you love me. If it proves anything, it proves you're the Internet Messiah.”

“I don't want to be the Internet Messiah, I want you to love me again!”

“Aren't all those followers enough?”

“No. They're not. They're not nearly enough to replace everything. They don't fill the hole you left.”

Those were still the wrong words, so I said what I almost said the day she left.

“Please. I'm still me. This is still my jacket. It's dirty and ruined, but it's still mine. It fits me. And it still has my love letter in its pocket.”

She looked down at the gold box and back up at me. I felt she could see me a little more clearly now, but now that she was looking, she could also see the things I wasn't showing her.

“I know you're hurt,” she said. “I'm hurt too, but isn't this the part where you're supposed to tell me you love me?”

I dropped down to one knee, saying, “I don't care about this. I care about you. I love you. Let's melt this fucker down to twenty wedding rings.”

And then I heard a shot from behind me. I turned to find its location, but saw nothing aside from a helicopter flying away, and when I turned around, Romaya was on the ground, blood dripping from her mouth, breathing in spasms.

I held her head in my hands. “I'll get help!”

She grabbed both my lapels hard enough to keep me with her. She knew no ambulance would come in time. Instead, while she still could, she reached inside my jacket and pulled out the letter and held it to her chest as hard as she could before her head fell back to the ground.

“Babe!” I screamed into her face, but my voice bounced uselessly off the concrete around her. I held her until I felt my knees get wet. My bloody love letter clutched to her heart. Then I realized the blood was fresh. Wet. Her blood. And when I pulled it from her fingers I saw she'd grabbed the letter from the New York disability board. My love letter was still in my pocket. I sat there holding her. Everything in the darkness, wet with blood and tears, and at some point the life we created must have died inside her too.

 

12.

When I awoke, Romaya was gone, and I was in the back of Quiff's limo again. My clothes were still wet and filthy, but the Internet phone book was by my side. Quiff sat across from me in a Groucho Marx mask.

“I wish you'd called me sooner,” he said, and then I remembered. After enough time had passed and I'd become as soaked as I could with Romaya, I'd managed to make my way into her apartment so I could call the number Quiff had given me days before. I let him know where I was, that I had the Internet phone book, and I asked him to come get me. Most of all, I insisted he bring an army.

Quiff could see me recovering the past. “You passed out from exhaustion nearly the moment we came,” he said. “You've been through a lot. And without much sleep it seems.” He paused and then added, “I'm sorry about Romaya.”

“Where is she?” I looked out the window and saw we were no longer in Brentwood.

“We called the shooting into the police. I'm sure they have … her now. Again, I'm sorry.”

It only took a moment of being awake to regather my focus and anger. “It was him,” I said. “It was Hamilton Burke. We have to kill him.”

“Hold on,” Quiff said. “How do you know it was Burke?”

“He's here. In the book!”

I tossed the Internet phone book onto Quiff's lap and he started flipping the pages.

“Y'know, Gladstone,” he said, “there's more than just one name in here. Did you even bother to read past the first page?”

“I didn't need to, did I? It's him. He tried to kill me, but when I dropped to one knee to propose to Romaya, he shot her by mistake. Or one of his assassins did, I mean. Listen to me. I don't care about the Net. I just want him dead.”

“This is the same Gladstone who wasn't looking for war? The Gladstone who believed in ‘pure things'?”

“Well, things have changed,” I said. “He killed Romaya. I want him dead.”

“You want one of the most successful, powerful, and richest men in the world dead?”

“Yes!”

“Well, I'm not sure I can help you there, Gladstone.”

“Why? You want to bring him down from the inside? Do all your Anonymous computer-hacking bullshit? Without the Internet? You said you had an army!”

“I do have an army, Gladstone. You have no idea. But I just can't go ahead with your plan.”

“Why not?”

Quiff dropped his head down almost to his knees, until I could see the seam at the back of his mask. He grasped the rubber at the top and pulled it forward off his face before looking up at me with a smile.

“It's nice to see you again, Wayne,” he said.

It was Hamilton Burke. The same man from New York. The same man from the Playboy Mansion. It was Hamilton Burke. Sitting with me. Talking with me.

“What have you done to Quiff?” I asked, and he frowned with impossible disappointment until I understood.

“There is no Quiff?” I asked. “It's always been you?”

“Right.”

“In New York, in California, always?”

“Correct.” He paused and leaned in a little closer, speaking in a needless half whisper. “I like to know what's going on,” he said. “Anonymous? If there's gonna be an antiestablishment, well then you know the establishment better be part of it. You can never have too much information.”

He paused for emphasis. “I've always found, well, people who only know part of the story make poor choices. Don't you agree?”

Hamilton had seen me drunk and crazy. He'd seen me sober and insecure. But he had no way to predict what I'd do next. I launched forward in my seat and grabbed tight and quick at his throat, banging his head up against the glass that divided us from the front. Before I could bash his head a second time, the glass lowered and one of his masked goons leaned forward over Hamilton's shoulder, sticking the barrel of a gun in my face. He didn't wait for me to release Hamilton. He just jabbed the side of the revolver into my forehead, sending me backwards and bloody into my seat.

“Come now, Wayne. Did you think I would leave myself exposed the moment after telling you who I was?” Hamilton asked. “I'm fucking Hamilton Burke. I didn't inherit this position from my dad, y'know?”

“Fuck you,” I said, holding my head.