Lyman and Kurt had long since superimposed the logical network
map over a physical map of the Market, using false-color overlays to
show the degree to which the access points were well connected and
firing on all cylinders.
The map was painted in green, packets flying unimpeded throughout the
empty nighttime Market. And there, approaching him, moving through the
alleys toward his garage, a blob of interference, a slow, bobbing
something that was scattering radio waves as it made its way toward
him. Even on a three-inch screen, he recognized that walk. Davey.
Not a coincidence, the fires.
"Mimi!" he called. The back window was blown out, crystal slivers of
glass all around him on the back lawn. "*Mimi!*"
Billy was at his side, holding something. A knife. The knife. Serrated
edge. Sharp. Cracked handle wound with knotted twine, but as he reached
for it, it wasn't cracked. It was the under-the-pillow knife, the wings
knife, Krishna's knife.
"You forgot this," he said, taking the PDA.
Then Davey was in the yard. He cocked his head and eyed the knife
warily.
"Where'd you get that?" he said.
Adam shifted his grip for slashing, and took one step forward, stamping
his foot down as he did it. Davey retreated a step, then took two steps
forward.
"He set the fires," Bentley said. "She's as good as dead. Cooked. Won't
be long now, she'll be cooked.
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