Anarchy of the Mice

Chapter Eleven

"I'm Hatch," the man said. "Welcome to nowhere."

Instinctively I pinned my purse to my side, which was idiotic—if this behemoth wanted my stuff, my elbow wasn't stopping him.

I could not speak. The man occupied the entire door frame. Was he seven feet tall? I didn't know. Close. Tattoos covered his skin from head-to-toe, looking like a mass of teaming snakes for all the bulging muscle underneath. I could barely make out individual designs in the dark, but a few stood out—a bald eagle flaring up out of his shirt and into the hollow of his neck, a pair of classic hot-rods breathing fire down either forearm, the Declaration of Independence scripted across his shaved skull.

His broad fingers accommodated what I already knew to be his URL: detonatetheworldorder.org.

He gestured to my Prius. "You drive that?"

It took me a few starts, but finally I managed, "Yeah. 57 MPG."

He nodded. Up, not down. I felt like I needed to say more so I indicated the only other vehicle in the lot, a rusty pickup with boulder-sized tires. "And that truck is yours?"

He said yep. Sure was. I didn't see a flex fuel sticker. "Do you own this place? Or work here?"

His eyes were active, impenetrable. A wind passed through the shop behind him—his bulbous left calf propped the door—and I thought I heard something like a dental hygienist's scraping.

"Did you come alone."

It wasn't inflected like a question, but his biceps demanded an answer.

"Yes. Like you said to."

"Are you attempting to join the Blind Mice in concert with law enforcement."

"No."

"Are you attempting to join the Blind Mice for journalistic reasons, or in concert with a third party of any other sort."

My thumb and forefinger started for the lobe of my ear, the one with Durwood's microphone, but I stopped them. "N—no."

Hearing my voice crack, I repeated the word. "No."

Hatch inhaled, which made the beak of his bald-eagle tattoo stretch across his Adam's apple. "Are you mad?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

I thought. Long or short answer? "I'm mad about what this country's become."

The trace of a grin appeared. Quickly he was serious again. "Do you believe it can be fixed?"

A bright part of my brain almost answered, Yes of course!, but I stopped in time.

"No." I shook my head, slowly, grimly.

Hatch folded his arms over his chest.

I said, "It needs to get blown up first. We have to start from rubble."

The giant considered me for several seconds. I kept my eyes on his and hiked one hand up my hip, forcing a defiant pose even though I wanted to shrink into the pavement. Durwood had said tonight would be "the key moment." I had completed their questionnaires, solved their riddles, but now came the hard part. The sniff test. No keyboards. No avatars. No unlimited time to compose an answer.

Face to face, could I pass for a Blind Mouse?

Hatch asked if I knew what a pup was.

"Like a puppy? A juvenile dog?"

"No. The generalized form of the word, which also applies to rodents." His diction rising, a whiff of the philosophical tint I had observed in his blog. "95% of individuals that reach this point in the process become Blind Pups."