. . . 61 Hours and Counting . . .

6:00 A. M. said the cool green digits. Vasquez struggled to reach the top of the alarm clock. She was betrayed by her short arms, struggled with the blankets, and finally managed to hammer the snooze button with her fist. The buzzing ceased and silence blissfully prevailed.

Sitting up, she automatically gathered the stiff, white hotel sheets against her breasts. Outside, the sun was shining. She always left the blackout curtains open, as having sunlight in the room seemed to help her wake up. She wasn’t a morning person, and she needed all the help she could get.

When her eyes could focus, she saw the blinking screen of her notebook, set up on the letter desk in much the same spot that Vance had set his. They had ransacked that room, but come up with nothing useful. They did know that it was Vance, the night clerk was pretty definite on identifying his photo. They also knew from the rearrangement of the room that he had a computer with him, which heightened the odds greatly that Hapgood’s account had been used by him. But that was it. He had checked in, used a computer, then disappeared. They’d waited until two for him, then put a squad car with two uniforms in the parking lot, but there was no sign of him.

She wondered if their anonymous tipper had had a fit of remorse and also tipped Vance. Sometimes that happened. The truth was that all police work, even that of the Bureau with all its the fantastic resources, relied largely on informants. The police forces simply couldn’t cover all the bases, they couldn’t be there at every crime scene. But very often, someone was. Somewhere, somehow, a pair of quiet eyes witnessed most crimes. For an agent on the job, the informant was usually faceless, a disembodied, hushed voice on the phone. Of course, you never knew if you could rely on the information or not, particularly if the source was a paid one. It was a frustrating way to solve crimes.

The message blinking on her computer said that she had e-mail. She allowed herself a trip to the bathroom where she peed and fired up one of those dinky one-cup pots of coffee. Still in her underwear, she sat at the letter desk. Her machine had gone into sleep mode. She roused her machine by nudging the mouse.

She had mail, explained a cheerful, rotating icon. She had the volume on the sound card turned down or it would have told her aloud as well. The computer was still attached to the HUNTRESS account. She clicked twice and the message came up.

Agent Vasquez,

I’m sending you this to help you find my son. Whether you believe the case of the virus and my son are related or not, please take my input seriously. I believe the virus was written and released by John Nogatakei. His motives are fairly clear: he hates me and has a thing for my wife. I don’t know who took Justin yet, but I am doing my best to find out. I’m sure it wasn’t Nog who did the kidnapping, it isn’t his style, he has never been a direct, physical person. This indicates an accomplice, as yet unidentified.

P.S. Don’t bother to stake out this system. I won’t be using it or this account again. Use your time to find my son.

The system data at the end of the message indicated it was from an anonymous local address. The timestamp read: 12:31 A. M. He had sent it with a delayed delivery option, it had only arrived at five this morning.

Vasquez hammered her fist on her bare thigh. “Dammit!”She had blown it by grandstanding on the system and calling herself HUNTRESS of all things. She had stupidly underestimated Vance. She swore she wouldn’t do it again.

She got up to get her single cup of instant. Pouring it into the provided Styrofoam cup, she immediately started another brewing. Sipping and burning her lips intermittently, she reread the message several times. She thought about it while she showered and dressed. As usual, she received her strongest ideas in the morning shower.

When she was ready, she called Johansen for breakfast.

“Already had mine,” he said. “But I’ll sit with you.”

She frowned. He was the only partner she’d ever gone on a field assignment with who was always up and fully alert before she could even function. Doesn’t the man ever sleep? she wondered. She chalked it up as one more exhibit in the mounting evidence that proved their incompatibility.

She used her portable fax machine to make a hardcopy of the e-mail message and took it with her to breakfast. John Nogatakei. She supposed they would have to check it out, but it annoyed her to be getting tips from her prime suspect. What could be less reliable than that?