Page 125 of Antihero

48Dick Games

Kesh and Rawlings flanked Evan as he ascended the antebellum staircase, which now decidedly swept to the left. He noted the direction, ensuring no confusion on his next go-around at Devine’s compound. The susurration of tumbling liquid from the massive waterfall feature accompanied them up.

Rawlings had met him at the door, relinquishing Devine’s black box with its solitary button. “Our credible sources on the oil-gouging scheme turned out to be not so credible,” he said now. “So it’s good we didn’t involve Mr. Devine or move on it.”

“How’s he doing?” Evan asked.

“Oddly tranquil,” Kesh said.

“Luke Devine? Tranquil?”

“He’s been sleeping a ton, coming down finally. You said you needed to see him when you’re done with Joey? He’ll be in the spa on the third basement level.”

They kept on up the stairs, which seemed to telescope before them, the effect like walking in place the wrong way on an escalator. The carved monkeys peered down at them ominously from their wooden perch, teeth bared, paws clamped over eyes, ears, mouth.

“What’s on the first two basement levels?” Evan asked.

Rawlings: “Squash courts, basketball, gym, hair salon, ballroom.”

“I’ve only seen the old boiler room through the trick door in the marble powder room.”

“What were you doing down there?” Kesh asked.

Evan said, “Killing the last set of security guards.”

She didn’t ask any more questions.

They delivered Evan to the scarlet door, and he entered alone.

The inside paneling was padded, the door sucking closed behind him. Joey sat inside the Faraday cage atop the desk, legs crossed, keyboard in her lap. The Brain’s massive screen loomed before her like a billboard, populated with more windows than he could count. Analytics ran. Progress bars progressed. Terminal log statements fell like snow.

The plush carpet had plenty of give beneath his boots. The baroque gilded chaise longues were upholstered in scarlet, the walls in flocked fleur-de-lis wallpaper of the same shade, the entire room suffused with a naughty red.

Joey held a bowl in one hand, chopsticks in another, conveying what looked like squiggly worms to her mouth with machinelike rapidity.

“What are you eating?”

“Hunh? These?” She circled a pinched delicacy in the air as he entered the cage. “Flamin’ Hot Cheetos.”

“With chopsticks?”

“To avoid the age-old Cheeto-fingertip-dust conundrum.”

“I see.” He chinned at the massive screen. “This part of the RedLite takedown?”

“The RedLite takedown,” she said grandly, “doesn’t need my assistance right now. The self-replicating worm’s doing just fine on its own. The problem’s gonna be dealing with them once they’ve recovered from the initial blow.”

“Then what are you doing?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“Joey.”

“Seriously. Save yourself.”

“Joey.”

“Running biometrics.”