Chapter 18

United Flight 11, direct from John F. Kennedy airport in New York to San Francisco International, touched down at about 3:00 PM local time the next day. Aboard the aircraft were all five of us, three with extremely realistic-looking but utterly phony Virginia driver's licenses.

Brock had used his skill with computers to do more than host skin flicks, as it turned out: he had also maintained a thriving under-the-table business in fake IDs for college freshman and sophomores eager to hit the bar and dance club scene. He had been able to scuttle the evidence of that endeavor before he was arrested and it never came to light. He had saved his image files and was lacking only the hardware needed, which, he assured me, could be purchased in Manhattan for less than $1500 — considerably less than the chartering of a flight would have been. I felt that aiding this minor peccadillo was not a problem, especially since, technically, these IDs were not "fake" — each had the owner's real name on it, after all. The mere fact that each represented a person wiped out of recorded history and thus not in possession of more legitimate identification would be a matter of first impression to any reviewing court, in the unlikely event that this ever came to the attention of the authorities.

It did take him the rest of the day to purchase and set up the equipment, and after each of the three subjects had posed for her picture, I had managed to get seats booked on a flight the next day. Courtney wasn't much interested in going out, preferring to stay in her room and flip through the TV channels. Lisa was spending a surprising amount of time watching Brock work, asking questions and drawing him out. He was clearly flattered by the attention, and I could see he was puffing out his chest a bit, metaphorically if not actually, as he explained to the actress how he had set things up and what he was doing. I offered to treat them to dinner at a nice place, but Brock declined, saying he wanted to finish work on the IDs and do a little more exploration of the Blue Gene/L setup. Lisa immediately volunteered to stay with him and "make him eat something healthy." I had raised an eyebrow but offered no comment, since that left Lauren and I free for the evening.

Since we first headed north to New York, I had wanted to take Lauren to an amazing restaurant I'd found on my last trip here, a nouveau-seafood place in Union Square, placed improbably in a converted bank building and offering live jazz in the evenings along with a truly amazing menu. The Blue Water Grill was the brainchild of NYC restaurateur Stephen Hanson, and his usual attention to detail and quality was evident. We enjoyed a superb meal, a smattering of light jazz, and an evening that never faltered. We talked as if we had known each other forever, with no awkward silences or miscues. We didn't dwell much on the current crisis, but our conversation carried us everywhere, leaping from one subject to another like a word association test on steroids.

We talked about literature, and she revealed a fascination with poetry: Wallace Stevens and Emily Dickinson, an unlikely pair indeed. I mentioned my own fondness for Pablo Neruda, and recited "Tonight I Can Write," for her. We talked of politics, Lauren revealing a social bleeding heart with a surprising libertarian economic bent. We shared "most embarrassing moment," stories and laughed until our sides hurt. We talked about musicals, which I enjoyed and which Lauren had a passion for as well. More than once during her Idol competition, she said, the acerbic Simon Cowell had labeled her performance "too Broadway" and she said she never thought of it as an insult. We had no time to secure tickets to anything that evening, but we had both heard of and were interested in a new show called "Avenue Q," and I privately resolved to secure tickets for us when this was all over and we could relax.

It was after 11 when I had looked at my watch, still adorned with the little S-shape carved out of the crystal face by the reality-eating glowworms, and realized we should be getting back to the hotel. And when we fell into bed, there was no hesitation, no tentativeness. We began slowly, but fire overtook us and I remember hoping that the room immediately to the left of ours was unoccupied, given the vigorous expression we gave to our feelings. And Lauren proved to me that I was only as old as I feel; after only a brief rest she began toying with me in an effort to start round two. I had protested that I was weak and feeble, and she had responded with a devilish grin and a descent upon my limp member with her mouth, licking and flicking and nipping and kissing. The combination of the sensations she had generated and the beautiful face looking up at me as she generated them was enough to kick-start me into a second hard-on almost instantly, something I hadn't had happen so quickly since my own days as a lusty teen.

We fell asleep entwined in each other, my cupping one of those perfect breasts as we drifted off to sleep. And when morning came, we came awake almost at the same moment, and spent a few minutes cuddled and stroking and happy before rising to face the day. I had collected the rest of the group, checked us all out of the hotel, turned in my rental car keys, and piled us into a hotel shuttle for the trip to JFK. Courtney was looking grim and determined after another morning of watching her show sans her. She commented that if this got fixed, however it did, she would never again take her job for granted. Lisa and Brock were both tired, which they repeatedly explained as the result of a long night learning more about the computer system that we needed to master. I wondered a bit if this was a case of "doth protest too much," but in no event was I in any position to judge them even if they were getting cozy.

And that brought us to the present, landing about twenty minutes behind schedule in San Francisco. This was actually an improvement; the flight had been almost an hour late pushing back from the gate in New York but had made up time in the air. We slogged our way through baggage claim, me reflecting that perhaps the only positive side-effect of a woman being erased from existence is not having too much in the way of clothing or makeup to cart around. All three of my charges had made some shopping inroads, but I could tell they all, even Lauren, had been trying to keep their purchases to a bare minimum, a gesture I appreciated although it was unnecessary.

The Ruger pistol had posed some challenges. A quick perusal of California's gun laws suggested that as long as I didn't try to carry it concealed, or drive around with it concealed, or carry it loaded, or express admiration for the NRA at any time, I was probably safe in transporting it. So it ended up unloaded, in checked baggage, after declaring at check-in. I didn't worry about trying to carry the bullets anywhere; 9mm ammo should be easy to buy.

I rented another gas-guzzling SUV, knowing that this might make us all the target of outrage in the People's Republic of Berkeley, secured our luggage, new computer and printing equipment, and ourselves safely and legally inside, and left the airport heading north on US 101 towards the city, marveling at the sight of thick palm trees in the highway median. I took the exit for the Bay Bridge and we passed over Yerba Buena Island towards Oakland and the other side of the bay. The rental was equipped with a GPS system that could tell you turn-by-turn where to go, but I was familiar enough with the area that I didn't need it, and, frankly, didn't have an exact address anyway. Since we weren't sure whether we'd be dealing more with Berkeley or Livermore, I wanted to establish a base of operations about halfway between them. While we drove, Brock, who had snoozed during most of the flight, said that he'd taken some additional security steps. "For instance," he explained, "I thought that this Victor guy might notice that the delta he had for Lise wasn't running anymore, so I created a fake delta, named it the same thing, and put it in place."

"That's a good idea," I said. "Any progress on tracking down where that stuff is stored that we have to get back on line?"

He shook his head. "Not really. I have a catalog index number for it, but I don't know where the real-life catalog is or even what the medium is. It's like so kind of disk extender app, but what it's extended to, I haven't figured out yet."

I nodded. "OK — no pressure, but you're kind of the go-to guy for this phase, Brock."

He nodded in turn, his young face serious. "I know. I'll figure it out."

After some back-and-forth driving recon, I settled on the Hilton Garden Inn on Lewelling Boulevard in the heart of San Lorenzo, to the extent that San Lorenzo has a heart. It's a suburban area that was one of the nation's first planned communities, now surrounded by unplanned sprawl and growth driven by proximity to Oakland and San Francisco. But it was perfect for our purposes, almost exactly halfway between Berkeley and Livermore. I had been here years ago, and was surprised to see the changes in the area — many more Hispanic faces and even stores with signs in English and Spanish.

The lobby was dazzlingly white, with a chandelier presiding gracefully over an open reception area that included a fireplace and comfortable seating, although I suspected that the fire wasn't actually lit all that often. It wasn't the grandeur that the Marquis had been, but it was somehow much more welcome and less impersonal. Lauren was pleased; she squeezed my arms and whispered that she liked traveling with me. Lisa and Courtney were less wowed, no doubt owing to careers that had them staying in many places more impressive, but even they seemed to appreciate the atmosphere.