Anarchy of the Mice

Chapter Twenty-Five

There was no mention of eDeed in the news, either online or on TV. The tagging of the Rector Street subway station appeared in channel six's nightly Unrest Roundup, but just a quick image—no details or mention of the Mice. Maybe, I thought, Jason Keiter had discovered something amiss and restored the data. Maybe Piper's assertion that the thumb drive "didn't do temporary" was pure bravado, and some whiz-bang antivirus software had purged it.

Except I didn't really believe this.

I blogged in the morning and played Candyland with Karen after school, but distractedly. I kept thinking of what Quaid had said about tipping points, imagining where this chaos was headed. What if Piper Jackson could wipe out stock balances? Bank balances? What if she could erase criminal records? Looting had quadrupled in the last three months. The Dow Jones Industrial Average was off 77%. How much worse could it get?

I imagined Josiah underneath a bare bulb in some alley, face twisted in a devilish grin. Nibble, nibble. Until the whole sick scam rots through.

I expected the guys to call and pressure me, but they didn't. In fact, I didn't hear from them all day. They had seemed peevish with each other leaving last night. Had they fought? Maybe Durwood had convinced Quaid to back off. Maybe they were devising a different plan.

Or maybe Quaid was simply at a bar somewhere. Maybe he'd given up on me.

Do you ever have these days where your head is all questions and no answers? Outside of my family and the barista who prepared my chai latte, I had talked to nobody all day. My stray thoughts and ideas hadn't been aired, the positive vibes encouraged, the negative ones pushed down like good friends always do. Each hour felt darker than the next.

Finally I couldn't take it. It was eleven o'clock, Granny and the kids asleep, the house stiflingly quiet. I found the slip of paper Piper had given me.

I didn't scheme out what I would say, or think to use the burner the guys had given me for all Mice communications—which they monitored. I called on my personal cell.

Piper answered on the second ring. "Who's this?"

"Hi, Piper. It's Molly from ..." I was standing in my living room, nudging a bin of Barbies under a chair. "You know, Molly."

"Why you calling."

"Well, I was just thinking about yesterday. It—there wasn't anything on the news. Did it not work?"

After a pause, she said, "Nah. It worked. Getting massively hacked isn't the type of news companies publicize."

I finished tidying and sat on a corner of the couch. "I guess not."

"This conversation ain't right for the phone. You feel me?"

"I do," I said. "No, I know, I just wondering ..." I played her last response back in my head and realized it could be taken as an invitation. "... actually, could we meet in person? I just have a few questions."

"About yesterday?"

"Yes. Mostly."

I braced myself to hear no, what was I, insane?, it was almost midnight! Though Piper said nothing at first, skepticism blared over the line. What could I say? What psychological techniques drew down a person's guard, disposed them to trust?

Candor. Displays of honesty and personal conviction.

I continued, "I want to be in the loop. I deserve to know where this is heading. I participated yesterday, I was there for Ted Blackstone. "

"You miss what I just said about talking on the phone?"

"Let's meet then. I blog for change, and that's why I joined—but I need to know it's change in the right direction."