Chapter 19

It wasn't just Spook; Richard, in a very different way, was pushing at me, too.

Spook hadn't contented himself very long by focusing only on terrorism; he was branching out into other sides of man's constant inhumanity to man. And he was finding a lot of it.

One of his early finds was, for God's sake, a kid, a fifteen-year-old with a 'tude and, unfortunately, a lot of illicitly accumulated firepower. The boy had been pretty open with his thoughts, loading up a personal Web page with plenty of gory imagery inspired, perhaps, by some of the horrible school shootings that had happened not that long ago—Columbine, Virginia Tech, all that.

When Spook coupled that with some not-very-well-concealed records of weapons and ammunition purchases, he told me about it. And I decided quickly to call Richard.

"Yes, Jack?" he answered almost immediately.

"And a good afternoon to you, too, Richard," I said, amused. I identified the town and state, and gave him a name.

"So?"

"So take a look at this young man's personal Web page," I told him. I gave him the site address. "And then consider that he, or his parents really if they know about it, has recently acquired—" I listed the weapons Spook had been able to identify. "Not to mention considerable ammunition for both those and several other types of guns that he may have found illegally."

" ... Jesus Christ."

"Do I have your attention now?" I asked.

"Wait a minute," he said. I could hear him talking in the background to somebody else, or maybe multiple somebody elses, before he came back.

"Jack, I'm sorry, I was in the middle of something else," he said. "But yes, you have my attention. You sure about this?"

"I'm sure about the guns and ammo, and the Web page speaks for itself," I said. "Is he really going to do it? I'd rather not find out the hard way, how about you?"

"Well ... It's awkward, Jack. It isn't our jurisdiction—"

That did it. I'd been dealing with all the pressure from Spook, and now this? I was a little surprised at myself how quickly and hard I blew up. "Balls, Richard!" I yelled into the phone. "You said call you, and I did. What would you prefer, another anonymous tip to small-town cops? Deal with it. Or don't." I snapped the phone shut, and when he called back I told Spook not to put it through.

Lee had heard me from the kitchen and came running in to find out what was wrong. I was still so steamed that all I could do was rant for a couple of minutes—I think "stupid mother­fucker" was one of my gentler epithets—until I got her so upset that I wound up having to calm her down. It took half an hour or more before we were both back to ourselves.

"You did all you could, Jackie," she consoled me after I'd finally recounted the story coherently. "It's up to them, now."

"I hope," was all I could say.

I got the upshot from the news again, the next day. This time the story was better, thank God. They didn't identify the kid—protecting the identity of minors, even lethal ones, and all that—but state police assisted by the locals had paid an early morning call to his home, had seized no fewer than five guns including an assault rifle plus assorted other quasi-military paraphernalia, and had taken the boy into custody.

It appeared that I owed Richard a phone call.

"I'm sorry about that, Richard," I said as soon as he picked up. "I was out of line. I've been, well, under a little pressure lately, I overreacted. And thanks for handling it."

"I'm sorry, too, Jack," he replied. "I don't know why I gave you that jurisdictional crap, it was just reflex. Bureaucratic bullshit. We liaise with state cops all the time on this kind of thing; I just ran it upstairs and they took care of it."

"'Upstairs, '" I echoed, a little sourly. "Yeah, there's always 'upstairs' in your line of work, isn't there? Chain of command."

"Mmm," he agreed noncommittally. "And along those lines, look, Jack, I need to talk to you about something, OK?"

"Talk."

"Well ... First, is there any chance at all I can convince you to come in?" I started to laugh, but he cut me off. "Jack, wait. Suppose we offered you immunity? No prosecution, no nothing, you come to work for us and we pay you. Hire or consultant, your choice."

I was shaking my head before he finished, even though he couldn't see. "Why do I not believe that, Richard?" I asked rhetorically. "Give it to me in writing with the President's signature on it, I still wouldn't believe it. Trust it. You'd milk me dry and then put me somewhere I'd never see daylight again. No go. And that's not you talking, Richard, it's 'upstairs.' Right?"