They hit the road closer to five than four. It was chilly, and the gathering clouds and intermittent breeze promised more snow after dark when Roscoe parked outside the apartment. Marcel was ready and waiting, positively jumping up and down as soon as Roscoe opened the door. "Let's go, man!"

Back in the cab, Sylvie was making notes on a palmtop. "Hi," she said guardedly, making eye contact with Marcel.

"Hi yourself." Marcel smiled. "Where we going tonight, man? I brought the stuff." He dumped Roscoe's toolbox and a bag containing a bunch of passive repeaters on the bench seat next to him.

"We're heading for East Aurora." Roscoe looked over his shoulder as he backed the truck into the street, barely noticing Sylvie watching him. "There's a low hill there that's blocking signal to the mesh near Chestnut Hill, and we're going to do something about that."

"Great!" Marcel shuffled about to get comfortable as Roscoe cautiously drove along the icy road. "Hey, isn't there a microwave mast up there?"

"Yeah." Roscoe saw Sylvie was making notes. "By the way, if you could keep from saying exactly where we're placing the repeaters? In your article? Otherwise, FCC'll just take 'em down."

"Okay." Sylvie put her pocket computer down. It was one of those weird Brit designs with the folding keyboards and built-in wireless that had trashed Palm all over Europe. "So you're going to, what? String a bunch of repeaters along a road around the hillside?"

"Pretty much that, exactly. Should only need two or three at the most, and it's wooded around there. I figure an hour for each, and we can be home by nine, grab some Chinese on the way."

"Why don't we use the microwave mast?" Marcel said.

"Huh?"

"The microwave mast," he repeated. "We go up there, we put one repeater on it, and we bounce signal over over the hill, no need to go round the bushes." the hill, no need to go round the bushes."

"I don't think so," Roscoe said absently. "Criminal trespass."

"But it'd save time! And they'd never look up there, it'll look just like any other phone-company dish-"

Roscoe sighed. "I am so not hearing this." He paused for a few seconds, merging with another lane of traffic. "Listen, if we get caught climbing a tree by the roadside, I can drop the cans and say I was bird-spotting. They'll never find them. But if I get caught climbing a phone-company microwave tower, that is criminal trespass, and and they'll probably nail me for felony theft of service, and felony possession of unlicensed devices-they'll find the cans for sure, it's like a parking lot around the base of those things-and parole breach. I'll be back in prison while you're still figuring out how to hitchhike home. So enough about saving time, okay? Doing twenty to life is not saving time." they'll probably nail me for felony theft of service, and felony possession of unlicensed devices-they'll find the cans for sure, it's like a parking lot around the base of those things-and parole breach. I'll be back in prison while you're still figuring out how to hitchhike home. So enough about saving time, okay? Doing twenty to life is not saving time."

"Okay," Marcel said, "we'll do it your way." He crossed his arms and stared out the window at the passing trees under their winter caul of snow.

"How many unwirers are there working in the area?" Sylvie said, breaking the silence.

Marcel said, "Just us," at the same moment as Roscoe said, "Dozens." Sylvie laughed.

"We're solo," Roscoe said, "but there are lots of other solos in the area. It's not a conspiracy conspiracy, you know-more like an emergent form of democracy."

Sylvie looked up from her palmtop. "That's from a manifesto, isn't it?"

Roscoe pinked. "Guilty as charged. Got it from Barlow's Letters from Prison Letters from Prison. I read a lot of prison lit. Before I went into the joint."

"Amateurs plagiarize, artists steal," she said. "Might as well steal from the best. Barlow talks a mean stick. You know he wrote lyrics for the Grateful Dead?"

"Yeah," Roscoe said. "I got into unwiring through some deadhead tape-traders who were importing open recorders from Germany to tape to shows. One of them hooked me up with-someone-who could get French networking gear. It was just a few steps from there to fun-loving criminal, undermining the body politic."

Marcel came out of his sulk when they got to the site. He loaded up his backpack and a surveyor's tripod and was the model of efficiency as he lined up the bank shot around the hill that would get their signal out and about.

Sylvie hung back with Roscoe, who was taking all the gear through a series of tests, using his unwieldy laptop and two homemade antennae to measure signal strength. "Got to get it right the first time. Don't like to revisit a site after it's set up. Dog returning to its vomit and all."

She took out her key ring and dangled it in the path of the business end of the repeater Roscoe was testing. "I'm getting good directional signal," she said, turning the key ring so he could see the glowing blue LEDs arranged to form the distinctive Nokia "N."

Roscoe reached for the fob. "These are just wicked wicked," he said.

"Keep it," she said. "I've got a few more in my room. They had a fishbowl full of them on the reception desk in Helsinki. The more lights, the better the signal."

Roscoe felt an obscure species of embarrassment, like he was a primitive, tacking up tin cans and string around a provincial backwater of a country. "Thanks," he said, gruffly. "Hey, Marcel, you got us all lined up?"

"Got it."

Only he didn't. They lined up the first repeater and tested it, but the signal drop-off was near-total. Bad solder joints, interference from the microwave tower, gremlins . . . Who knew? Sometimes a shot just didn't work, and debugging it in the frigid winter dusk wasn't anyone's idea of a fun time.

"Okay, pass me the next." Roscoe breathed deeply as Marcel went back to the truck for the other repeater. This This one worked fine. But it still left them with a problem. "Didn't you bring a third?" Roscoe asked. one worked fine. But it still left them with a problem. "Didn't you bring a third?" Roscoe asked.

"What for?" Marcel shrugged. "I swear I tested them both back home-maybe it's the cold or something?"

"Shit." Roscoe stamped his feet and looked back at the road. Sylvie was standing close to the truck, hands in her pockets, looking interested. He glanced at the hill and the microwave mast on top of it. A light blinked regularly, warm and red like an invitation.

"Why'n't we try the hill?" Marcel asked. "We could do the shot with only one repeater from that high up."

Roscoe stared at the mast. "Let me think." He picked up the working repeater and shambled back to the truck cab absentmindedly, weighing the options. "Come on."

"What now?" asked Sylvie, climbing in the passenger seat.

"I think." Roscoe turned the ignition key. "Kid has half a point. We've only got the one unit, if we can stick it on the mast, it'll do the job." He turned half-around in his seat to stare at Marcel. "But we are not not going to get caught, y'hear?" He glanced at Sylvie. "If you think it's not safe, I'll give you a lift home first. Or bail. It's your call. Everyone gets a veto." going to get caught, y'hear?" He glanced at Sylvie. "If you think it's not safe, I'll give you a lift home first. Or bail. It's your call. Everyone gets a veto."

Sylvie stared at him through slitted eyes. Then she whistled tunelessly. "It's your ass. Don't get into this just because I'm watching."

"Okay." Roscoe put the truck in gear. "You guys keep an eye out behind for any sign of anything at all, anyone following us." He pulled away slowly, driving with excruciating care. "Marcel? Stick that bag under my seat, will you?"

The side road up to the crest of the hill was dark, shadowed by snow-laden trees to either side. Roscoe took it slowly; a couple of times there was a whine as the all-wheel drive cut in on the uncleared snow. "No fast getaways," Sylvie noted quietly.

"We're not bank robbers." Roscoe shifted down a gear and turned into the driveway leading to the mast. There was an empty parking lot at the end, surrounded by a chain-link fence with a gate in it. On the other side, the mast rose from a concrete plinth, towering above them like a giant intrusion from another world. Roscoe pulled up and killed the lights. "Anyone see anything?"

"No," said Marcel from the backseat.

"Looks okay to-hey, wait!" Sylvie did a double take. "Stop! Don't open the door!"

"Why-" Marcel began.

"Stop. Just stop." Sylvie seemed agitated, and right then Roscoe, his eyes recovering from headlight glare, noticed the faint shadows. "Marcel, get down get down!"

"What's up?" Marcel asked.

"Crouch down! Below window level!" She turned to Roscoe. "Looks like you were right."

"I was right?" Roscoe looked past her. The shadows were getting sharper, and now he could hear the other vehicle. "Shit. We've been-" He reached toward the ignition key and Sylvie slapped his hand away. "Ouch!"

"Here." She leaned forward, sparing a glance for the backseat, where Marcel was crouching down. "Make it look like you mean it."

"Mean what-" Roscoe got it a moment before she kissed him. He responded automatically, hugging her as the truck cab flooded with light.

"You! Out of the-oh, geez." The amplified voice, a woman's voice, trailed off. Sylvie and Roscoe turned and blinked at the spotlights mounted on the gray Dodge van as its doors opened.

Sylvie wound down the side window and stuck her head out. "I don't know what you think you're doing, but you can fuck right off!" she yelled. "Fucking voyeurs!"

"This is private property," came the voice. "You'll have to get a room." Boots crunched on the road salt. A holster creaked. Roscoe held his breath.

"Very funny," Sylvie said. "All right, we're going."

"Not yet, you aren't," the voice said again, this time without the amplification, much closer. Roscoe looked in the rearview at the silhouette of the woman cop, flipping her handcuffs on her belt, stepping carefully on the ice surface. In her bulky parka, she could have been any state trooper, but the way she flipped her cuffs- "Go go go," hissed Marcel from the backseat. "Vite!" "Vite!"

"Sit tight," Sylvie said.

From the backseat, a click. A gun being cocked. Roscoe kept his eyes on the rearview, and mumbled, "Marcel, if that is a gun I just heard, I am going to shove it up your fucking ass and pull the trigger."

Roscoe rolled down his window. "Evening, Officer," he said. Her face was haloed by the light bouncing off her breath's fog, but he recognized her. Had seen her, the day before, while hanging off the edge of the gorge, aiming an antenna Canadawards.

"Evening, sir," she said. "Evening, ma'am. Nice night, huh? Doing some bird-watching?"

Made. Roscoe's testicles shriveled up and tried to climb into his abdomen. His feet and hands weren't cold, they were numb numb. He couldn't have moved if he tried. He couldn't go back- Another click. A flashlight. The cop shined it on Sylvie. Roscoe turned. The concealer was smudged around her scar.

"Officer, really, is this necessary?" Sylvie's voice was exasperated, and had a Manhattan accent she hadn't had before, one that made her sound scary-aggro. "It was just the heat of the moment."

Roscoe touched his lips and his finger came back with a powdering of concealer and a smudge of lipstick.

"Yes, ma'am, it is. Sir, could you step out of the car, please?"

Roscoe reached for his seat belt, and the flashlight swung toward the backseat. The cop's eyes flickered behind him, and then she slapped for her holster, stepping back quickly. "Everyone hands where I see them. NOW!"

Fucking Marcel. Jesus.

She was still fumbling with her holster, and there was the sound of the car door behind her opening. "Liz?" a voice called. The other cop, her partner. Fourth and Walnut. "Everything okay?"

She was staring wide-eyed now, panting out puffs of steam. Staring at the rear window. Roscoe looked over his shoulder. Marcel had a small pistol, pointed at her.

"Drive, Roscoe," he said. "Drive fast."

Moving as in a dream, he reached for the ignition. The engine coughed to life, and he slammed it into gear, cranking hard on the wheel, turning away from the cop, a wide circle through the empty parking lot that he came out of in an uncontrolled fishtail, swinging back and forth on the slick pavement.

He regained control as they crested the ridge and hit the downhill slope back to the highway. Behind him, he heard the cop car swing into the chain-link fence, and in his rearview mirror, he saw the car whirling across the ice on the parking lot, its headlights moving in slow circles. It was mesmerizing, but Sylvie's gasp snapped him back to his driving. They were careening down the hill now, tires whining for purchase, threatening to fishtail, picking up speed.

He let out an involuntary eep eep and touched the brakes, triggering another skid. The truck hit the main road still skidding, but now they had road salt under the rubber, and he brought the truck back under control and floored it, switching off his headlights, running dark on the dark road. and touched the brakes, triggering another skid. The truck hit the main road still skidding, but now they had road salt under the rubber, and he brought the truck back under control and floored it, switching off his headlights, running dark on the dark road.

"This isn't safe," Sylvie said.

"You said, 'Drive fast,' " Roscoe said, hammering the gearbox. He sounded hysterical, even to his own ears. He swallowed. "It's not far."

"What's not far?" she said.

"Shut up," he said. "Okay? We've got about five minutes before their backup arrives. Seven minutes until the chopper's in the sky. Need to get off the road."

"The safe house," Marcel said.

"SHUT UP," Roscoe said, touching the brakes. They passed an oncoming car that blinked its high beams at them. Yes, driving with my lights off, thank you, Yes, driving with my lights off, thank you, Roscoe thought. Roscoe thought.

Roscoe hadn't been to the safe house in a year. It was an old public park whose jungle gym had rusted through and killed a kid eighteen months before. He'd gone there to scout out a good repeater location and found that the public toilet, behind the chain-link fence, was still unlocked. He kept an extra access point there, a blanket, a change of clothes, a first-aid kit, and a fresh license plate, double-bagged in kitchen garbage bags stashed in the drop ceiling.

He parked the truck outside the fence, snugged up between the bushes that grew on one side and the chain link. They were invisible from the road. He got out of the truck quickly.

"Marcel, get the camper bed," he said, digging a crowbar out from under his seat and passing it to him.

"What are you going to do?" Sylvie asked.

"Help me," he said, unlatching the camper and grabbing a tarpaulin. "Unfold this on the ground there, and pile the stuff I pass you on top of it."

He unloaded the truck quickly, handing Sylvie the access points, the repeaters, the toolboxes and ropes and spray cans of camou colors. "Make a bundle of it," he said, once the truck was empty. "Tie the corners together with the rope. Use the grommets."

He snatched the crowbar away from Marcel and went to work on the remaining nuts holding down the camper bed. When he had the last one undone, he jammed the pry end of the bar between the lid and the truck and levered it off the bed. It began to slide off, and he grunted, "Get it," to Marcel, but it was Sylvie who caught the end.

"Over the fence," he gasped, holding up his end while he scrambled into the back of the truck. They flipped it over together, and it landed upside down.

A car rolled past. They all flinched, but it kept going. Roscoe thought it was a cop car, but he couldn't be sure. He stilled his breathing and listened for the chop-chop of a helicopter, and thought that, yes, he heard it, off in the distance, but maybe getting closer.

"Marcel, give me that fucking gun," he said, with deceptive calmness.

Marcel looked down at the snow.

"I will cave in your skull with this rod if you don't hand me your gun," he said, hefting the crowbar. "Unless you shoot me," he said.

Marcel reached into the depths of his jacket and produced the pistol. Roscoe had never handled a pistol, and he was surprised by its weight-heavier than it looked, lighter than he'd thought it would be.

"Over the fence," he said. "All of us." He put the gun in his pocket. "Marcel first."

Marcel opened his mouth.

"Not a word," Roscoe said. "If you say one goddamned word, either of you, you're out. We're quits. Fence."

Marcel went over the fence first, landing atop the camper bed. Then Sylvie, picking her way down with her toes jammed in the chain link. Roscoe set down the crowbar quietly and followed.

"Roscoe," Sylvie said. "Can you explain this to me?"

"No," Roscoe said. "Sylvie, you stay here and cover the camper bed with snow. Kick it over. As much as you can. Marcel, with me."

They entered the dark toilet single file, and once the door had closed behind them, Roscoe pulled out his flashlight and clicked it on.

"We're not going home ever again. Whatever you had in your pockets, that's all you've got. Do you understand?"