Anarchy of the Mice

Chapter Thirteen

Z7976?

16M!

The second line I understood: I had 16 minutes to do, get to, or accomplish whatever it was the Mice wanted accomplished. The first was a mystery. Part of a phone number? A location somehow coded into numbers? GPS coordinates, latitude/longitude? Was I officially in the Blind Mice now, or did I still have to solve this puzzle? And if I did, how many more would there be?

I stood in the middle of this deserted strip mall, wracking my brain, dizzy from the whirlwind of the last hour—and possibly the fumes of Hatch's truck exhaust too. The asphalt under my feet felt suddenly harder, the lot farther off the street. The sun had set while I was inside getting inked, and none of the overhead parking lights worked.

Focus, Moll.

It took me thirty seconds to realize Hatch couldn't see me anymore. I was free to call Durwood. I dug into my purse for my phone.

Durwood answered, "What's it say?"

Apparently he'd intuited everything from my earing audio.

"It has two lines: Z7976 and 16M. The second part means 16 minutes—and we've already lost two. What do you think about the Z number?"

The line was silent. In my nose, frigid night had replaced truck exhaust.

"The way those 7s repeat," I said, "and with the 6 being an upside-down 9, I thought it could be in code. Should I try asking Google? Do you have anything in the Vanagon for—"

"Zip code."

"Huh?"

"Z for zero," Durwood said. "07976. Northern New Jersey."

My lower jaw dangled. How had he figured that out? And did he possess a photographic recall of New Jersey zip codes?

I ran to the Prius and punched the zip into my navigation. Durwood said to call if I needed him—he was heading that way himself now, wouldn't be far if things turned hairy. I zoomed from the parking lot, racing north by my phone's precisely-enunciated directions. The defensive driving I practiced with the kids in tow vanished; I honked and gunned yellows and changed lanes without signaling. My stomach bottomed with each move, then recovered once nothing calamitous occurred, little roller-coasters of exhilaration keeping my foot on the gas.

I merged onto the turnpike, accelerating up the entry ramp. The Prius' electric motor vre-eee-ed as I slipstreamed past a Mercedes. Over the soundproofing banks I could see neighborhoods changing, homes becoming larger, yards luxurious, boats in front of three- and four-car garages.

Where were the Mice leading me? Was I going to be hazed? Blindfolded and dumped in the Hackensack River? Forced to perform an initiatory computer hack?

I reached the 07976 zip code just in time. An upscale mall constituted its western border. Frantically I looked around the Bloomingdale's sign for some arrow, or heavily-pierced ambassador, or button I could push to register my arrival.

My phone vibrated. I fumbled it to the passenger floorboard, had to crawl across the center console to retrieve it.

mAYHeM @ 23rd & Pinecrest

With trembling fingers, I pecked the intersection into my navigation. On the way I called Durwood, who said he would set up four or five blocks away. Soon I found myself in an ultra-wealthy subdivision. Pavement yielded to smooth cobblestone roads, wood and chain-link fences to marble and brass.

What business could the Mice have here? I thought of that scrap Hatch had thrown back into his cab, the one for Pups. "Private email addresses for for every CEO in the Despicable Dozen." Maybe they had other kinds of addresses.