He sighed and held his face in his hands, only partially faking relief. Even after coming face to face with him, he doubted his own reality. When you dealt with the insane, you could feel your own sense of sanity slip. ( Assuming, of course, he had any sanity left. )

"Gabriel was the only one not killed by dum dums," Roberts continued. "He was killed with hollow points from a gun found in his own hand."

Stan let his hands fall away. "Are you saying he committed suicide?"

"No. Even if he was startled I doubt he'd shoot himself in the shoulder, and then rip out a hunk of his own neck. No, my guess is he was tortured."

"Tortured?" The surprise was genuine.

"Somebody wanted him to hurt. No easy death there." Roberts stared at him hard, waiting for him to crack, to give him some sign that he knew that wasn't the real story, but Stan didn't take the bait.

"Couldn't happen to a nicer guy," he said, meeting Roberts' gaze unflinchingly.

He snorted derisively. "Yeah, that's what Peterson said. Looked like the place had been cleaned up too, in spite of the gore. Someone got rid of some footprints, other blood based evidence before the P.D. arrived."

"So again, looks like a professional job, huh?"

"Everything but Gabriel's actual death. That still looks like a personal event."

"I'm guessing a lot of people wanted him dead."

"I'm guessing you're right. So tell me, Stan, where were you three days ago?"

He pretended to be surprised, but not overly so. "Me?" He scoffed. "In Canada. Why? Do you think I actually beat up Ginger - sorry, Dorothea - and stole Peacekeeper?"

"Peacemeal."

"Whatever."

Roberts sat forward, unfolding his arms and leaning them on the table. "Do you have any proof you were there? Witnesses?"

Stan sat back, continuing with the astonished act, letting it merge naturally into suspicion. "I was house hunting. I bought a Coke at a gas station, maybe I can dig up the receipt for it out of my car. You can't possibly be serious, Roberts."

"Agent Roberts," he corrected archly. "So, house hunting, huh? Is that why you're in Seattle?"

As soon as he could catch a flight, Stan had come here and started using his real credit cards - not gratuitously, but just enough that the Feds could find the paper trail. He'd only paid for a hotel room, a restaurant meal, and a laptop with his cards.

"No, I found a house. I was down here visiting a friend of mine from college. He's one of the Microserfs - sold out for the money, but hey, who am I to judge?"

That was true - Sajeet Asna was one of his 'real world' buddies in college, a natural programmer with a frightening gift for higher mathematics. They had kept in loose touch ever since, and he was one of the few people to ever visit him while in Leavenworth. A good guy, his whole life was computers: he had no family, few friends outside the programming realm, and little interest in the outside world. But he was very loyal to the friends he had, and as awful as it was, he knew Sajeet would back up whatever Stan said here.

Roberts probably knew that too, judging from the scowl on his face. And Sajeet was as clean as a nun; he didn't even have a parking ticket to his name. His testimony would probably be considered more reliable than the Pope's. After all, Sajeet didn't appear to have any creativity - how could he fabricate a story?

"Sajeet Asna," Roberts said, and it sounded like he was trying to make it a question, but failed.

Stan let his suspicion grow. "How did you know that?"

"I arrested you, remember? We have a file on all your associates then. As proud as they were of you fucking over Carnivore, most of your fellow cracker buds deserted you once you got thrown in the big L. But he didn't."

He knew Roberts had called him a cracker to bug him, but he refused to take the bait. "Sajeet's a straight guy. Leave him alone."

"I intend to. I wish more people were as law abiding as he was."

"Including me?"

"Especially you, Stanley." He leaned forward with a sigh, and said, in a low voice, "Cut the shit. I know you're involved in this somehow. Ginger said you implied you were freelancing for the Mossad to get Gabriel, although at the end she decided you were making that up. But of course, then Gabriel ends up dead in what looks like a Mossad hit, and she changes her mind again. Truth time here. You know anything you say now will be inadmissible in a court, so why not cut the crap?"

Stan sat back, feeling obscurely sorry for Roberts, old nemesis and brief, uncomfortable ally. They both knew he was involved in this, and yet Roberts couldn't prove it ( who would believe a known thief, terrorist, and liar such as Ginger? ), and Stan had no intention of incriminating himself. Even if he couldn't nail him for this, Roberts would dig up something else to nail him on. "There's no crap to cut. I'm trying to get on with my life here, such as it is. I am not a master criminal or a terrorist, and I'm certainly not working for the Mossad. I'm a washed up hacker single father, with a nice criminal record that guarantees I have to invest well or end up on the street within a year."

Roberts grimaced humorously. "Washed up. Interesting term there. You are about twice the age of your average hacker - "

"Gee, thanks."

" - but you have more patience and experience than your average pimple faced MUD junkie trying to crack into NORAD. You can more than compete, Stanley. That's what bothers me. It's impossible that any one man could do all that Ginger claimed you did. But then again, a man with diligence, planning, and a big helping of connections and luck could have. Considering all you've been through, you're a very lucky man."

That made Stan laugh genuinely, no acting required. "Lucky? Ah shit, I'd hate to see my life if I was unlucky."

Roberts continued to stare at him, briefly glancing outside, at the people passing by the window. He didn't see his partner, and wondered if he actually did come alone, or if he was doing a distance surveillance.

"How's Holly doing?" He asked, as if they really were just two old friends catching up.

"Still in therapy, but aren't we all?" Stan ran his hand through his hair, suddenly very tired of all of this. "She's coping better than I am, overall. But I guess she had to grow up fast."

Roberts nodded, at least sympathizing with Holly's position. "So where are you going to live?"

It wasn't quite a third degree, but almost. Still, Roberts could find out some other way. "Vancouver. Just closed on a two bedroom ranch style house in an exurb, close enough to the city to be interesting, but far enough out to avoid the traffic."

"British Columbia?" Stan nodded. "Nice area. Great Chinese food."

He shrugged. "Good schools too. Holly liked it."

"So she's still alive. Ginger said you'd gone over the edge 'cause she was killed in a car crash. She thinks you had a head injury or something."

Stan chuckled, helping himself to a gulp of his cooling mocha. "Really? Why is this news to me?"

"Yeah, that part of her story didn't check. She said it was an article in a Boston paper, partially corroborated by hospital files, but they thought they were plants. She said you told her yourself the info was real, only you altered them so you'd appear to be dead as well."

"Do I look dead to you?"

He didn't look terribly amused. "Not completely. The newspaper records were clean, so was the hospital's. But anybody could have planted an article and phony files and extracted them without a trace. If they were good."

Stan raised a curious eyebrow at him. "Are you saying I'm good?"

"I'm saying you're diligent."

Stan shrugged and took a sip of his mocha, refraining from commenting further. Roberts stared at him for a few seconds, then sighed, rolled his eyes, and crossed his arms over his chest. "You're a piece of work, Stan."

"Is that a compliment or an insult?"

"Both."

"So what's gonna happen to Ging - I mean Dorothea - now?"

"Well, even if she manages to get a deal, she'll get the book thrown at her. In times likes these, no one wants to be lenient to a known associate of terrorists."

Stan nodded. That tracked. He almost felt sorry for her ... but only almost. "I wonder how she'll do in prison."

"She's pretty tough - I think she'll do as well as you did."

Stan gave him a hard, humorless grin. Roberts did like to put him in place, just in case he forgot it. "Well, bully for her. Give her my regards, and tell her not to drop the soap."

Roberts briefly quirked up a corner of his mouth, but didn't commit to a smile. "Aren't you at all interested in Peacemeal?"

Stan rolled his shoulders nonchalantly, feigning complete disinterest. "Should I be?"

"If it worked, it would have wiped out computer hard drives for about a mile outside of the blast radius, so yeah, you should be."

"If it worked?"

"The tech boys are still going over the suitcase, but so far it seems as if the case had never been opened before. If so, it would confirm what the Pentagon assholes have been telling us, that a non - nuclear EMP weapon is a myth."

"I don't understand."

"It was a scam. The bomb in the case looked complex and fancy, but was just a standard non - nuclear suitcase bomb, with the explosive force of a bottle rocket. The guy who brought it over was probably out to make a quick buck and duck out of the country before they used it."

"Did you ask him about it?"

Roberts shook his head, and seemed ticked off with him. "He was found in a bathroom stall in LAX. It looked like a suicide, but it had all the earmarks of a classic Gabriel hit. We figured he tried to run after the disappearance of Peacemeal, and Gabriel figured he was trying to fuck him over, so he had him taken out."

Stan had to fight the urge to react, because that would confirm that he had something to do with this. But it had never occurred to him that M. K. would get caught in the net - and wasn't that sloppy of him? He knew Gabriel liked to tie up his loose ends. He should have anticipated a hit on M.K. ... but what exactly could he have done about it? Stan knew he'd have to feel bad about it later, not now, not in front of Roberts. "Even in death, he was having people whacked?"

"This was before his death, but I'd put little past Gabriel."

Stan nodded in agreement, and looked down at the murky dregs of his coffee. Was he ever going to feel any better? Well, at least he could guarantee Holly would be safe from Gabriel and his grab bag of thugs - that was some kind of victory.

"What are you up to, Stanley?" Roberts asked, surprising him. But he had enough control to stifle any expression before it rose to his face.

"What do you mean?"

"What I mean is am I gonna have to spearhead another task force to take you down?"

He never liked Roberts - how could you like the man who sent you to prison? - but he had helped him get Holly back, so he at least owed him an answer for that alone. "No. Holly deserves as normal a life as she can get from now on, and I'm going to try and give that to her. I can't be a father to her back in prison."

"Good, Stan, remember that." Roberts stood up, and gazed down at him impassively, as if trying to decide on a final verdict.

"Gabriel deserved worse than he got," he finally said, his expression grim. "And whoever our mysterious benefactor was, he managed to have better intell than all our departments - we didn't know Peacemeal was in the States until we got the phone call." He let that sink in, and then added, "Be good to that little girl of yours. And Canada or not, take one step over the line, Stan, and I will have you nailed to the wall."

Stan nodded, and Roberts turned and left the Starbucks for good, walking casually down the street and out of view.

He sat for several more minutes, staring at the brightly painted nothing on the far wall, and wondered if the real Peacemeal was a dud.

The suitcase he left with Ginger was a decoy, a fake Peacemeal. The real Peacemeal he had removed the night he stole it, wondering what the hell he was going to do with it until he passed that slightly run down old pet cemetery near Monterey Park. That was when he went back to the Home Depot, got the appropriate gear, and buried the contents of the suitcase - what appeared to be a large lead rectangle with a digital readout - in a makeshift grave behind the weeping willow, covering it with a loose plank of board before covering it with dirt and an intact piece of sod he had cut out with the shovel before digging. He figured if his plan went all to shit, and Gabriel somehow figured out all his aliases and was able to retrace his route, Gabriel would still never get the real Peacemeal. There was absolutely nothing connecting him to the pet cemetery in Monterey Park, except he drove by it. The fake had been ready to go, and waiting in his trunk; he took the suitcase with him, only to plant it with everything else at Buena Sierra Estates.

After Gabriel's death, Stan drove back to Monterey Park, and dug up the real Peacemeal. Now that his plan had worked, he was in the awkward position of figuring out what to do with what could well be one of the most dangerous weapons in existence.

It did look phony to Stan, even though he was no expert with bombs. Still, he carefully took off the metal casing, and found the interior to be a complicated collection of wires, electrical coils, magnets, processors, and god knew what else, but it still didn't look like some EMP superweapon. Of course, he had no idea what one would look like, but he had a feeling it wasn't that.

Finally, as dawn was starting to break, and he knew he'd miss his flight to Seattle if he didn't get his ass in gear soon, he took action. He cut all the wires surrounding what looked to be the detonator and its fuel cell, and went to an auto junkyard in Ontario, California. The lot was open, so, carrying the remains of Peacemeal in an old backpack, he went to the junkyard owner and started inquiring about parts for or equivalent to a late '60's model Corvette. He wasn't sure they had any, so as he consulted whatever it was guys like that consulted, Stan started searching through the junkyard, and found a convenient moment to chuck the backpack into the car compactor. He loitered around until the man operating the car crane dropped in the already accordioned and partially stripped body of what looked like some late model, cream and primer grey colored Ford Fairlane, and let the compactor do its thing.

Stan was braced for some kind of impact, in case he was wrong and the thing was still explosive ( if it had ever been - he wasn't sure ), but the Ford was crushed into a cube only slightly bigger than your average microwave, and there were lots of little metal detritus, some bearing shreds of a black nylon backpack.

The junkyard didn't have any of the parts he was pretending to look for, so he thanked the man and left as the car crane operator continued turning car after car into metal scrap, pulverizing what remained of Peacemeal to dust. It struck Stan as somewhat ironic and sort of blackly comic: a technological weapon that could have devastated a major city, destroyed by a car compactor - a piece of antiquated equipment, judging from the layers of rust - in Nowhere, California. It seemed like justice somehow.

Could it have worked? Had M.K. actually perfected the mobile, non - nuclear EMP bomb? He didn't know. No one would ever know, because Peacemeal was as dead as Gabriel.

Stan smiled to himself as he checked his watch, and decided it was high past time he got back to Canada and pulled Holly out of that boarding school.

Maybe he had found something to feel good about after all.

_______

The End
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