I went back to the laptop. In a file called Carly, I found thirteen letters to a woman. The earliest ones were friendly technical advice on printing photographs from a new digital camera. They gradually became more personal, and he began trying to cajole her into a date. That apparently didn’t work. In a file called Linda, there were six letters to another woman, with the same tone. There were other files named Shannon and Barb that were a bit more businesslike, but still had that feeling of attention that would make most women nervous.

Another file contained unremarkable glamour shots of super-models, along with a major selection of hard-core porn. Half of it seemed to be young Japanese schoolgirls in plaid skirts; or out of plaid skirts. Given the resolution of the photos, it appeared that most of it had been downloaded from the ’net.

In a file called Contacts, I found addresses and phone numbers for Thomas Baird and Rachel Willowby. In his Microsoft address book, there were several hundred e-mail addresses, and in a PalmPilot sync file, there were thirty or forty home addresses and phone numbers for people I’d never heard of.

Then I stumbled over a file called DDC Working Group-Bobby, and inside, a list of names, e-mail addresses, and a half-dozen phone numbers and a few memos. One of the memos referred to a Deep Data Correlation working group, which explained the “DDC.” I showed it to John and LuEllen.

“What the heck would that be?”

“I don’t know, but we better find out, if we can,” I said. To John: “Anything else?”

“Most of it can be tossed,” he said, patting the pile of paper on the bed. “It’s just bullshit.”

“So toss it,” I said. “I’m gonna call one of these numbers, and then get online, see if there’s anything new from the guys on the ring.”

BACK to the truck stop. From a phone inside, I called the first of the phone numbers for the Deep Data Correlation working group. After the usual long-distance clicking, I got a computer tone, and hung up. Called another number, got another tone. All right: computer access, but no way to get in, not yet.

Then I checked my blind addresses and got an alarm from the address I’d given to Rachel Willowby. It said, “Jimmy James Carp is parked outside-4:17 P.M.”

I looked at my watch: a few minutes past 4:30, so the note had just come in. I fired the car up, took it back to the motel in a hurry. John and LuEllen were flipping cards at a waste basket when I came in.

“We gotta go get her,” John said, when I told them about the note.

“If there’s trouble…” I remembered what Marvel had said about his fingerprint status. “And he’s got a gun.”

“Gotta go anyway,” he said. He was already headed toward the door.

“Made a mistake not bringing a gun with us,” LuEllen said, a step behind him. “Every asshole in Louisiana has a gun in his car except us. And when you need one, like the NRA says, you need one.”

“I’m not sure the NRA would want me to have one,” John said.

“Let’s figure this out on the way over,” I said. “There’s gotta be something we can do. Besides trying to tackle him in the street.”

WE WORKED through a series of harebrained plans as we drove into New Orleans, but there wasn’t time, and there just isn’t much you can do when the other guy has a gun and you don’t.

“One big thing is that none of us can get hung up with the cops,” LuEllen said. “We can’t just jump him in the street and then haul him away. That’s kidnapping and it looks like kidnapping and somebody’s gonna get the license plate number and then we’re toast.”

“Track him, get him inside, wherever he’s staying…”

“But what about the kid?” John asked. “There’s only one reason he’s after the kid, and that’s to find out who tracked him to the trailer.”

“Two reasons,” I said. “The other one is, to shut her up. She can connect him to Bobby.”

“Ah, Jesus. And since he already killed Bobby…”

“You better drive faster, Kidd,” LuEllen said.

“We still gotta figure out the gun.”

“Catch him in the open, and he might be afraid to use it,” I said.

“Gotta get to the girl, though,” John said. “That’s the number-one thing.”

WE WENT straight into Rachel Willowby’s. Didn’t see a Corolla, nothing but the usual beat-up full-sized Chevys and Oldsmobiles; one guy far down the street was washing off the floor mats of his car, but he was the only person we could see moving around outside.

At the Willowby place, John was out on the street before the car stopped rolling, heading for her door. I was out and called, “Take it easy, take it easy.” LuEllen was trailing, hurrying to catch me, and I was hurrying to catch up with John, but he was a dozen steps ahead of me and I didn’t want to run, because running attracts the eye.

Then he was at the door, and instead of knocking, pushed it, and then was inside and the shouting started, “Hey, hey, hey…” and then I was in, blinking in the sudden darkness of the interior. John was halfway across the small front room, Rachel Willowby was sitting at the kitchen table in front of her laptop, and Carp stood beside the table.

He had the gun.

“… are you motherfuckers?” Carp was shouting.

“Friends of Rachel’s,” John was saying over the top of Carp’s question. “We’re friends of Rachel’s and she says she’s in trouble.”

“Is this a friend of Rachel’s?” Carp asked, waving the gun barrel at me. “Where in the hell did he come from? And who’s that?” He looked past me, and I half turned. LuEllen peeked around the door frame and said, “We called 911, they’re on the way.”

Carp glanced toward the back door on the other side of the kitchen, and his tongue flicked out. “You guys are from the working group. Tell Krause to stay the fuck away from me or I will bomb them. I will fuckin’ blow them up.”

“Who? What group? What are you talking about?” John asked. He stepped toward Carp, but he looked at me. He needed a couple more steps.

“Krause,” Carp said.

“What?” John asked. Another short shuffle step.

CARP shot him.

The gun was a.22, but even a.22 sounds like a cannon when it’s fired in a small concrete cubicle, and the muzzle flash lit us up and John staggered and went down and Carp was already across the kitchen and banging out the door. I went as far as the door and saw him running toward the back of the lot, aiming for a space between two duplexes. He’d parked one street over, I thought. He was running awkwardly and I knew I could catch him and took two quick steps and was snagged by LuEllen’s voice: “Kidd!”

I stopped, then went back.

“John’s hit. We’ve gotta move.”

Rachel was frozen next to her laptop. John was on his feet, his left hand clapped over his right triceps, and looked at her and said, “I’m a pretty nice guy who lives up north of here on the Mississippi and I’ve got two kids and a nice wife. If you want to come with me, you can stay with us until we find your mom. But you gotta decide right now.”

She looked at him for a long three seconds, then turned and pulled the power cord on her laptop. “I’m coming. I gotta get my bag.”

JOHN was hit in the middle of his triceps, and though he didn’t think the bone was broken, he thought the bullet might have grooved it. The slug was still inside his arm, and he was shaky as he was walking out to the car: trembling now from post-fight adrenaline and shock. We were operating in full daylight yet, but I could hear traffic passing and a plane overhead and music from somewhere, and we didn’t seem to be attracting much attention. I’ve heard a theory that you can shoot a gun once anywhere and get away with it; it’s twice or three times that causes a problem. Maybe that’s right: in any case, we got John into the backseat of the car without any trouble.