Simple Simon (12 page)

“We’re not strangers, remember,” Anne said, tapping her chest.

“That’s right,” Art concurred. “He’s got it in writing.”

The lightness of the moment, the freedom of a jesting observation, opened a space in Anne’s thoughts for a possibility more concrete. Something that might, just
might
, bring some measure of peace to Simon, and to their nights. “Babe, you have the key to his house, right?”

“Yeah.”

“You
can
go in,” Anne continued.

“Yes…?” Art confirmed warily, knowing that tone. “Why?”

“You should take him,” Anne said. “Tonight. Not where there might be, you know…” She mouth spelled
B-L-O-O-D
. “To his room. Let him see that it’s there, that it’s okay. Maybe he has a pillow or something that he can bring back. We got him out of there so fast last week that there was no time to think of taking anything other than some underwear and clothes. Let him show you what he’s attached to.”

Art hardly had to think on it at all before deciding that she was on the mark. “You’ll come, too, right?”

Anne shook her head and smiled. “Get past it, G-Man. You don’t need me there. He likes you. And you’re good with him.”

“Come on,” Art protested, though his heart wasn’t in it. “I’ve never even had kids.”

“I’d say that was a waste from what I’ve seen.”

Traffic slowed again, bringing Art close to the truck ahead, and the tailgater right up on his ass. But nary a curse was uttered, though a few were carefully
thought
in higher decibels.

“I’ll have sundaes waiting when you get back,” Anne said.

“Wonderful,” Art said as traffic began to inch forward. “I get to get back into this.”

*  *  *

Lying on his stomach on a grossly inadequate pad of some variety, a former Marine named Georgie burned through the last roll of thirty-six exposures and came to a cross-legged sit in the back of the truck now yards ahead of the silver Volvo. He lifted a radio to his mouth in the dark and empty box of the truck, light entering only in spurts as the inspection portal slammed open and shut.

“Done,” Georgie said.

In the cab, Ray, a once promising Green Beret officer who’d had the misfortune of riding in a Humvee that hit a mine in the Kuwaiti theater of operations, pressed the gas pedal with his titanium and Kevlar right foot and brought a radio up from the seat. “Four rolls?”

“Four rolls,” Georgie replied, pressing a button on the camera that began rewinding the film. “The kid ain’t photogenic.”

“I doubt that matters.”

Georgie peeked through the inspection portal a final time and squeezed the transmit key hard. “The guy driving is going to be out of the way before we grab the kid, right?”

“You weren’t told to take any more of him, right?” Ray responded with a confirmatory question.

Georgie popped the canister or film out as the rewind motor stopped. “I sure as hell hope he’s gone.”

“Why?”

“The guy’s eyes never stop moving. I doubt he’d go quietly.”

Ralph changed lanes right and caught a glance of the driver in the truck’s side view mirror. His eyes checked the lanes, his head moved, all while he talked, and drove. Ralph brought the radio up a final time as he peeled off toward the exit. “It’s supposed to be taken care of.”

*  *  *

Before Rothchild was Rothchild, he was a man named Kirby Gant, but even Kirby Gant was known by another name. A more prominent name. One feared and respected by the denizens of cyberspace and the heads of corporate computer security alike. Once he was known as Mr. Tag.

Mr. Tag was a cyberspace resident, a net surfer of the highest and most dangerous order, a computer age equivalent to Jesse James or Attila the Hun, though it was joked that even those criminals and savages knew some limits. Mr. Tag knew no limits, be they legal or moral.

He trafficked in digitized child pornography and shut down regional telephone switching systems at will. He played havoc with computer systems from Japan to South Africa. When Hurricane Miranda was twenty four hours from landfall in the Florida keys, Mr. Tag tweaked the National Hurricane Center’s computer to erase its data every ten minutes. He raided New York stock brokerages and had millions of dollars transferred to accounts he had electronically created, then directed the computers of the banks holding those accounts to disburse cash in steady streams from ATM’s in Minnesota, much to the delight of the fortunate few to be in the vicinity.

He lived on the run, the feds always on his heels, half wanting to lock him up for twenty years, the others wanting to talk shop with him and learn how he did it. One bank offered him a quarter million dollars if he would turn himself in and help them make their system secure. Later, when he thought about it, he realized they would have gotten off cheap, considering he’d placed an order in their name for three hundred million dollars in municipal bonds, a mess that had cost the bank more than a million just to fix.

Yes, Mr. Tag was a fugitive, a criminal, a hacker, a danger, and he loved every second of his existence. So, when the cuffs were finally on him and after a few weeks in federal detention, the offer relayed to him through a soft-spoken government attorney seemed attractive. And when he met G. Nicholas Kudrow while out on a suddenly agreed-to bail, the offer became irresistible.

Do what you do best, but for us, now. And without risk.

And so, after a tragic accident on the Chesapeake, with Mr. Tag’s body written off as food for the fish, Rothchild came into being. Doing what he did best from a smallish office deep in the earth beneath the most secure installation on the planet. Phone lines came in, phone lines went out. Fiber optic cables snaked in, and out. Satellite up and down links were wired in.

All to a place that, like Rothchild, did not exist. No records. No mess. No worry.

Hacker heaven.

And in that heaven, Rothchild stared at a screen and dreamed of a way to ruin Special Agent Art Jefferson of the Federal Bureau of Investigation’s Chicago Field Office. Dreamed and plotted, culling useful tidbits from the seemingly endless streams of data pouring through the display.

At one spot he suddenly paused the scroll, a disbelieving glint lifting from his eyes. “You used a credit card?! What a fool.” With a few keystrokes he cross referenced that with a check Jefferson’s former wife Lois had written to a private detective several months earlier, when she had put him on her husband’s trail. An obvious case of cold sheets. “Jefferson, Jefferson. Who was she?” Rothchild scanned the credit card info from the motel. “And only once. Well, you weren’t that bad of a boy.”
Especially considering what your ex was doing back then
, Rothchild thought. Phone records gave her away. “Dumb and trusting, Jefferson. You should have checked the phone bill. Called a number or two. Man, she was burning up beds all over L.A.”

But an affair, or dozens of them, as titillating as they might be, were far too mundane to be of use in what Rothchild needed to craft. “The demise of a man,” he said aloud as the information once again flashed by. “The end of a career.”

Career.
Rothchild froze the display. “Career. Wait a minute.”

For several minutes he swam through the digitized information until he had what he wanted, something that had whizzed by hours before but now took on new meaning. A newspaper article, about some mobster beating a federal rap, and in particular the portion where the U.S. Attorney had none-too-kind words for the man of the night. “Oooh, I am thinking, I am thinking….”

Rothchild’s eyes glazed over for a long while, nothing in the room moving except the air through the vents. His mind worked, taking that which had happened and twisting it into a picture he wanted to see. Into a false reality, but one nonetheless as real as his own false existence.

And at some point his cheeks bulged above a grin, and his eyes narrowed. He had it. The picture. Whole. “Oh, Special Agent Jefferson, have I got a surprise for you.”

*  *  *

Art guided Simon through the living room of 2564 Vincent, leaving the lights off, and led him up the stairs where he finally turned a light on in Simon’s room.

The young man took a tentative step in, then another, and finally went to his bed and sat on the edge. His face angled toward a corner of his room, a corner where a large red rocking chair sat in pained stillness.

“Daddy’s gonna sing,” Simon said, then his jittery gaze shifted to the floor near his feet.

From where he stood just inside the doorway, Art brought his hands free of the pockets that provided the implements of nervous distraction. He clasped them first in front, then crossed his arms, then tucked his thumbs in his front waistband. Glancing down and picturing the image he thought,
An Armani cowboy
, and gave up, letting his hands back where they wanted to be, with the change and the keys that provided relief.

A minor relief.

And why did he need relief?

What is the matter with you?
Art demanded of himself as he watched Simon begin to slowly rock where he sat on the bed.
He’s the one who lost his parents. What’s your problem?

But he knew what his problem was. It was a lingering remnant of the old Art, pre-heart attack, pre-new life. A trait that was part of his successes and part of his failures. He was sure there was a gene in his makeup just for it.

You want to fix it. You want to make it right for him.

Simon stood and went to the chair, but he did not sit. Instead he touched the wooden arm. After a moment he pulled out his cards and flipped through them, searching, it appeared to Art, for an explanation, an answer.
You and me both, kid.

“Daddy…”

Art walked to where Simon stood and put a hand on his shoulder. The cards disappeared back beneath a pull over sweater.

“Where did Daddy sing to you?”

Simon caressed the worn arm of the rocker. It moved eagerly beneath his touch.

Art watched the motion and thought how soothing it was, remembering his grandmother rocking him when he was young. He wondered quietly, equating it with Simon’s seemingly furtive motions, the rocking, the swaying, wishing he knew if he found comfort in it.

“Do you want to sit?” Art asked. The rocker moved, old wood moaning softly against the hardwood floor.

“Daddy’s gonna sing,” Simon repeated.

Art eyed the chair thoughtfully. “Did Daddy sit here? And sing to you?”

Simon reached over and took Art’s left hand in his, and squeezed hard. “Daddy sits in the chair and sings.”

The skin, cold and soft, churned a pang in Art’s gut, and he said, “What did Daddy sing, Simon?”

Simon let go of Art’s hand and backed away, once again sitting on the edge of his bed, downcast face toward the rocker.

Dammit, what is it?!
Art swore internally.
I don’t know what he wants! He’s sitting here just like at our house, except there it’s an empty corner. Here it’s a…

*  *  *

Anne heard the garage door open, her cue to get the sundaes from the freezer and top them with whipped cream and a drizzle of glorious chocolate. As the door from the garage to the house opened, she decided that she wouldn’t tell Art that she had snuck a few spoonfuls of Hersheys earlier. To test it, of course.

“Well, my men, how did it…” Surprise screwed onto Anne’s face at what came in the door, Simon in the lead, followed by Art, and a big red rocking chair in a stretcher-carry between them. “What is that?”

*  *  *

Two hours later, Art came to bed after turning the lights out in the guest room.

“Is he?” Anne asked hopefully, rolling toward her husband.

“He’s under the covers and it’s not even midnight,” Art said, sliding into bed and turning off the light on his nightstand. Moonlight filtered through the curtains, shining off their skin as Art pulled Anne close. “Staring at that rocker.”

They held each other tight, Anne letting one finger trace random patterns through the hair on his chest. “It’s something familiar to him. Comforting, you know. What’s his name in the
Peanuts
always has his blanket. Pigpen, or Schroeder. I can never remember. But it’s the same thing.” She kissed his chest and said, “You did good, G-Man.”

Art said nothing back. When Anne rose up on one elbow she saw that he was fast asleep.

The Spark

Leo Pedanski had no sooner come into the Puzzle Center when Craig Dean was on his feet. The taller man’s hair, usually in a pony tail that at least made one wonder if he’d washed it recently, hung loose and dirty, strands and clumps going every which way. His eyes were open but glassy. He snatched his jacket from a cluttered table and pushed his lanky arms through the sleeves.

“Where’s Vik?” Dean asked, his voice hoarse. He coughed and spit into a used coffee cup.

Pedanski came no further into the room. He’d never seen Dean look
this
bad. “Man, you look absolutely toasted.”

“Yeah,” Dean agreed through a yawn. He looked quickly around and tested three soda cans resting near the main console, choosing the one with the most heft and downing the remnants with a fast gulp. “So where’s Vik? He’s supposed to relieve me.”

“We switched,” Pedanski said, coming past Dean, his nose twitching. “Man, take a shower, Craig.”

Dean sneered at his illustrious leader. “Yeah, like fucking when do I have time for hygiene?”

“Ease up, man,” Pedanski reacted. He checked the activity log. “Anything?”

“What does the log say?” Dean asked sarcastically as he headed for the door, haste in his step.

“Where are you going?” Pedanski asked innocently.

“Fucking home, Leo,” Dean answered brusquely. “Where else would I go?”

*  *  *

Just one step into Art Jefferson’s office and Lomax knew that something was different about his number two. “You get lucky last night?”

“No, I got some sleep,” Art said. Lomax took a seat and swung his feet onto the visitor side of Art’s desk.