That's how the fish swam in then,' West said again, gulping Miller. 'Got to be unless someone inside the department did this.'

'Sabotage. A virus,' Brazil thought out loud.

'I'm afraid that's also possible,' Hammer said. 'But saying it's not a virus or a deliberate attempt to crash the system, then there is the other thought that the fish might be a symbol, perhaps a code of some sort.'

'Probably making a joke of us, as usual,' West said. 'First we're the Ninjas, then the Ni-Jays, then the Nee-gees. Now we're fish. Maybe fish out of water, implying that everyone wants us to go home.'

'I don't think this is about us being fish out of water or fish, period,' Hammer stated.

'Maybe we're fishing for something, then.' West wouldn't let it go.

'Like what?' Brazil asked. 'And you know, if you don't mind, Chief, I think I'd like a beer.'

'I don't care.'

Brazil got up and went into the kitchen.

'Fishing for clues? For crime patterns? For hot spots?' West kept on.

'This is nonsense.' Hammer was pacing.

Niles slinked back into the dining room. Brazil was right behind him, sipping a Heineken.

'Took the good stuff,' he said politely to West. 'Hope you don't mind.'

That's Jim's good stuff, not mine.'

Brazil sat down and drained half the bottle in one swallow.

'Andy,' Hammer was thinking. 'Is there any way to trace this fish-thing?'

He cleared his throat, his cheeks burning, his heart pounding irregularly and dully.

'I doubt it,' he said.

'Let's break it down for just a minute.' Hammer stopped pacing and leaned closer to the brilliantly colored map on the screen. 'Sector 219 is outlined in flashing bold red and there are one, two, three, four…, eleven bright blue fish inside it. Everywhere else we find just the usual icons.'

She looked at both of them.

'Possible this could be a warning of some sort?' she suggested.

'Fish?' Brazil thought about it. 'There are only a few fish markets in 219. No lakes or reservoirs or even many seafood restaurants except Red Lobster and Captain D's.'

'What possible illegal use could there be for fish?' Hammer explored. 'I can't imagine a black market in them, not unless there's a proposed fish bill we don't know about yet, a huge fish tax in the works and the lawsuits that would inevitably follow.'

'Hmmmm.' Brazil was willing to consider anything at this point. 'Let's just go down that path for a minute. Let's say this is going on in the Senate and no one knows about it yet. Well, since one of the primary gateways is the Senate Judiciary Committee, and saying fish is a big issue, then could it be we somehow picked up some of their coding as our data passed through?'

'I'm getting a headache,' Hammer said. 'And Virginia, would you please get your cat off my foot. He won't move. Is he dead?'

'Niles, come here.'

Chapter Eleven

Weed tried to get to his feet and fell back on his butt. He crawled across the floor, his new tattoo throbbing. Smoke lit half a dozen fat candles and carried over several gallon jugs of water and a roll of paper towels. Weed started cleaning up his mess and would have thrown up again had anything been left.

'Now, go outside and take your shirt and pants off,' Smoke said.

'What for?' Weed barely asked as his stomach heaved like a small boat on an upset ocean.

'You're not getting in my car stinking like that, retard. So go dump water over yourself until you're clean, unless you want to walk from here.'

Weed made his way carefully in wavering candlelight, stepping through the sliding glass door frames. He peeled off his shirt and jeans. It wasn't as warm out as it had been, and he shivered uncontrollably as he dumped three gallons of water over himself, his slight body clad in nothing but soaked boxer shorts and Nikes that sloshed when he walked.

'You got something for me to wear?' Weed asked Smoke, who was throwing down vodka again.

'What's wrong with what you got on?'

'I can't go anywhere like this!' Weed begged. 'Oh, man, my head hurts so bad. I feel real sick and I'm freezing, Smoke.'

Smoke handed him a Dixie cup of vodka. Weed just stared at it.

'Drink it. You'll feel better,' Smoke said.

He went behind cases of liquor and returned with a pair of folded Gottcha jeans, a black tee shirt, and Chicago Bulls jersey, windbreaker and cap.

'Your colors,' Smoke said proudly.

For an instant, Weed was happy and forgot his head throbbed. He felt important as he worked the relaxed-leg jeans over his soaked hightops and pulled the tee shirt and jersey over his head. He didn't want any more vodka but Smoke forced it on him.

Weed had very little awareness as he struggled and tripped after Smoke through dark woods and ended up at the adult bookstore, hiding behind cars until the coast was clear, then jumping inside the Escort and speeding away. Weed was beginning to think that things weren't too bad when Smoke stopped on a dark street corner in Westover Hills. He reached in back and pulled out two dark blue pillowcases. One was empty, the other filled with things that clanked and clacked together.

'Get out and keep your fucking mouth shut,' Smoke said. 'Don't make a fucking sound.'

Weed barely breathed as he followed Smoke along Clarence Street to a simple white frame house surrounded by a picket fence that leaned this way and that and had uneven spaces between the boards. The redwood deck listed as if sailing into a stiff wind, and the big add-on garage was out of proportion to the rest of the house. An old Chevy Cavalier wagon was in the drive, lights were on in several rooms of the house and a dog was baying in its pen.

'Do exactly what I do,' Smoke whispered.

'What about the dog?' Weed said.

'Shut up.'

Smoke scanned the empty street, bent close to the ground and darted across the yard, ducking behind trees and finally crouching around the corner from the shut garage door. Weed was right behind him, his heart hammering as Smoke reached inside the pillowcase and pulled out a handful of remote controls. He tried one after another.

'Fuck,' he whispered as nothing happened.

On the eighth try, he got his reward. The Sears home-installed garage door cranked up slowly and sounded ill. No other lights went on inside, the dog barking and barking. Weed thought of running and Smoke seemed to know it because he grabbed him by the collar.

'Don't fuck with me," he snarled in Weed's ear.

Smoke slid a small Mag-Lite out of a pocket. He looked around. The same windows in the house were lit up. There was no sign of motion.

'Follow me,' Smoke whispered.

Weed's brain was sliding around inside his skull like an egg yolk. His vision was blurred. He grabbed Smoke's shirttail and crept along behind him, catching his toe on concrete, lurching inside the garage. Smoke stopped. He scanned, breathing hard, listening. He turned on the flashlight and the bright finger probed hundreds of shiny saws, drills, hammers and other tools Weed didn't recognize.

Tucking unbelievable,' Smoke whispered. 'The asshole can't even hammer a nail straight and look at all this shit.'

He shone the light on a tall cabinet with a padlock that promised treasure inside. He didn't bother with the bolt cutters in the pillowcase because there was a better pair hanging on the peg rack. Smoke lifted it off the hooks and opened and closed the cruel steel beaks. He seemed pleased. He snapped through the lock as if it were soft lead and it pinged into the darkness, clanking against the floor.

Smoke quietly opened the doors. He ran the light over shelves of camouflage, targets, boxes of ammunition, revolvers, pistols, rifles and shotguns. His hands flew as he stuffed everything he could into the pillowcases Weed held open for him. Smoke filled the pockets of his relaxed-leg jeans, tucked handguns into his waistband. He snapped open a black plastic thirty-gallon bag and stuffed it and handed it to Weed. Smoke slung the bulging pillowcases over his shoulder like Santa Claus making the rounds for the NRA.