The God Patent by Ransom Stephens Page B

the rebuilding process. After all, he’d made the mistakes. He hadn’t earned any favors. Besides, he could make enough on the side to keep Dodge off his back and to put enough food in the cupboard for his meals and Katarina’s snacks. He even convinced himself that it was better this way, better to have everything go through the proper channels.
    After a few months paying full child support, he figured he could go to court in Texas, argue that he’d demonstrated ability and willingness, get the amount reduced, and have that arrest warrant rescinded.
    But Ryan still didn’t understand the extent of his predicament.

    Of course, Dodge had a complete understanding of Ryan’s situation. If Ryan had asked, Dodge might have even filled in all the details. Probably not, it was more fun this way, but he could have asked.
    It came as no surprise when the OCSE agent knocked on the door. Dodge invited the tired-looking man in for coffee and tried not to chuckle as he followed him down the hall. It wasn’t a complete hand yet, but his down cards looked good. Apparently, the raspy laughter leaked out. The agent flashed a suspicious look as he entered the kitchen. While brewing a fresh pot, Dodge said that yes, a man named Ryan McNear lived there, but no, it didn’t sound like the man he was looking for.
    “McNear, a deadbeat dad? I don’t think so.” He offered a seat at the kitchen table. “You’re looking for a bald man? About fifty?”
    The agent opened a folder, took out two envelopes, confirmed the address, and said, “Ryan McNear, thirty-seven years old, auburn hair, blue eyes, not quite six feet tall?”
    “Naw, the guy that lives here isn’t any taller than me and, if his eyes were ever blue, he’s full of shit now.” Dodge laughed extra loud at his own joke, loud enough that the agent had to join in the laughter or appear rude.
    Dodge poured coffee while the agent puzzled over the contents of an envelope. “I should really talk to your Mr. McNear before reporting that we have a bad address—will he be home soon?”
    Dodge couldn’t help but smile—is stupidity a requirement for government work? You know where the guy works, you know what he does, and you come to his house in the middle of the workday. “Nope, the Ryan McNear who lives here is out of town—don’t expect him back for a couple of weeks.”
    “Does your Mr. McNear work for”—he scanned a page in his folder—“FiberSpec Communications?”
    “FiberSpec? No, this guy is a traveling salesman—sells raincoats or something.”
    “I have to leave a notice for your Mr. McNear, just in case. I sure hate going into a place of business and dragging someone out…”
    Dodge gestured surrender with his hands. “Wish I could help.”
    The agent took a sheet of paper from the folder. Dodge leaned over, close enough to make the man uncomfortable. The page was a map of Petaluma with both Nutter House and FiberSpec marked.
    “Going over to FiberSpec then?”
    “I have to.”
    The agent took a long drink and set the coffee mug down. As he lifted the map, Dodge put his thumb on it and said, “Best way to get over there is to take the Rainier connector. It’s not on the map, but it’ll save you fifteen minutes and is much easier to get to.”
    Dodge took a pen from the man and drew a nonexistent street on the map. The Petaluma City Council had been discussing construction of another freeway off-ramp and connector between the west and east sides of town for a decade but never built one. In the process, Dodge got enough ink on the map that there was no way the OCSE agent could reconstruct reasonable directions. The diversion would add at least twenty minutes to what was otherwise a ten-minute drive.
    The agent gave a halfhearted thank-you, and Dodge walked him to the door.
    Dodge was on the phone within seconds of the door shutting. Ryan picked up on the third ring. Dodge said, “There’s a federal agent on his way to arrest you.”
    Ryan said,