The Egg Code (31 page)

Climbing around a curve, she could see the lake glinting between patches of bare trees. The tower in the middle of the lake looked like just another tree, except wider around the base and brick-brown instead of ash-gray. She crossed the road and slid down the bendy trail leading to Olden’s shack. The door was open, with some red fuel canisters piled near the step. Inside the room, Olden’s face was still and blue as he stared at the computer screen, a power generator humming between his feet.

“Mind if I shut the door?” she asked.

Olden didn’t look up. “Yeah, sure . . . don’t step on anything.”

Scarlet tiptoed across the room, taking a wayward course around boxes filled with green transistor boards. “Don’t step on what?”

“Just . . . never mind. I’m building a new processor.”

“What’s that?”

“A new processor, in case I have to move this goddamn site. I’ve gotta use non-registered parts. I can’t just walk into a CompStomp and plunk down twelve hundred bucks for a new hard drive. They’d be on me like that.”

“Oh, right.”

“They’re probably monitoring the whole thing right now, but if I dump the page, they’d be down here by the time the last packet hits the server, so I’ve gotta figure out how to divert the address—”

“You want to take a break?”

Scarlet kept her bag slung over her shoulders as she fell back onto the bed. The springs whined, a sexy noise, but Olden heard only the sound of his own fingers slapping the keyboard, updating the information. “Five minutes,” he said.

“What?”

“Five minutes is all, hon, then I’ve got to get back to work.”

“Gee, I’m glad you could spare me the time.”

Olden leaned forward to peer at the screen, apparently reading from some treatise he’d just written. “Go to sleep. I’ll be there in a while.”

“I don’t want to go to sleep, Olden. It’s four in the afternoon! I haven’t seen you for three days.”

“I haven’t seen
anyone
for three days, Scarlet. Do you know what this is about? Look—”

“I don’t want to look.”

Revved up, he turned the monitor around until it faced the bed. “Sixty sites, Scarlet, sixty references. Sixty sites have taken my phony information and put it out over the Internet. Corporate sites too. And those are just the ones who’ve admitted it. Who knows how many others—”

“Oh, God, Olden, just turn the fucking thing off and go outside. There’s a whole world out there—”

“Here, listen to this—”

“I . . . don’t . . . care!” Scarlet stood up, and the heavy gym bag pulled her toward the desk.

“From
Ten Thousand People, Maybe More: A Tribute to Simon and
Garfunkel
. Did you know—”

“Oh, God.”

“—in 1969, legendary architect Frank Lloyd Wright toured with the famed rock duo, playing Fender bass and organ for a series of six dates on the West Coast.”

“Right, and then the world comes to an end, right?”

“This is fascinating to me—”

“I can see where this is going.”

“—particularly since he died in nineteen fifty whenever-the-fuck-it-was.”

“Oh, who cares?”

Olden frowned, then spun the console back around. “That’s what everyone thinks. They’re just facts. Little things to play with.”

“Are you going to be angry about this forever?”

He braced the keyboard between his elbows and muttered into his lap. “Maybe you don’t understand. This is serious, Scarlet. Everything you read, everything you see on the Internet . . . it’s people like
me
who make this shit up.”

“What can you do?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then don’t do anything! Let it go. Let’s take a walk.”

“Oh,
that’s
a good idea.”

“Okay, I’ll go by myself.” She hurried toward the door, then, hearing his soft, penitent voice, slowed and came back. They both looked at each other—tired, unhappy with the argument. Their hands groped across a dark space as she pressed his cheek against her stomach. His hair felt hot between her fingers—hot and thick, like heavy sand. “Oh, Olden. What are we gonna do? You’re the only—”

“What is this?” He pulled away, his eyes fixed on a speck of gold pinned to her collar.

She could feel the pin against her neck, cold and sharp. “It’s nothing.”

“Where’d you get it?”

“Derek Skye gave it to me.”

“God-fucking-damnit.”

“It was just a stupid little thing that he gave me, and I’m not going to see him anymore, so don’t worry.”

“Shit. That’s the real thing.”

She wrapped her hands around Olden’s neck, her desire inflamed by what she supposed was jealousy—a bad feeling, yet better than no feeling at all. She kissed him, but he did not kiss back, just kept staring at her collar. “Honey, I know what you think about him, and I want you to know I was wrong, and all that time I wasted, I want to spend it with you now.”

“Christ.”

“What? The pin still?”

He pointed at her shirt. “Do you have any idea what this is?”

“What? You’re gonna tell me it’s some sort of valuable code—”

“The Gloria Corporation, Scarlet! The fucking Gloria Corporation—it’s a goddamn cult! They were the ones who picked up the DoD contract back in the mid-eighties. The makers of the Internet. The keepers of the flame. What the hell is Derek Skye doing with the Gloria Corporation?”

“He’s not doing anything, Olden. Believe me—”

“You can’t buy these things in a flea market. Jesus . . . and right here in Big Dipper Township. Amazing.”

“It’s amazing. I’m bored out of my mind. I’m going.”

Giving up, Scarlet turned and stormed out of the room. Olden followed, not because he wanted her to stay, but because the rant which had been building inside now needed, like a top, to spin itself out. “The routers, Scarlet. The routing tables all go through the GC. The hardware, even the goddamn real estate.”

“It hurts me, though, Olden—”

“It’s the GC. Fuck Cisco! It’s not Cisco. It’s the Gloria Corporation all the way. Christ! My father!”

“And I thought musicians were bad.”

Olden chased her down the steps.
“Scarlet!”
he called out.
“Ten to
one that thing is bugged. Take it home and melt it down. I’ll see you in a
week
.
”

“Fuck you!”

He watched her disappear over the hill, then went back inside and dug around for the telephone. He hadn’t used it since December, when his father called from the Steele County Corrections Facility in Sparta, the same as he did every Christmas. Following the trail of a twisted cord, he found the receiver lying under a stack of printouts. He dialed, then waited. The man who answered the phone sounded old.

“M-Mason residence.”

“Julian!”

“Oh. Good day now.”

“Julian. Jules.”

“Hello there.”

“Do you know who this is?”

“I think I do.”

“Starts with an O—”

“All right, then.”

Looking out the back window, Olden stared past the trees to where Julian’s house rose above a brown, rolling hillock. A tall man strode across the front lawn, peering into the basement with his right hand cupped like a visor to block out the light. “Julian, can you come over for a quick meeting? I’d make it real brief.”

“Oh. Well. Gee.”

“Or I could come up there. Whichever.”

“I don’t know if that would be possible today, sir.” Standing in his kitchen, Julian held back the drapes and leaned over the sink. The telephone antenna knocked against the window as he looked at the tall man now moving around the corner of the house.

“It’s just . . . I think it’s important that we have this talk, Julian, because to tell you the truth, I’ve been seeing things a little bit differently now, and I know that in the past I might’ve given the impression of being somewhat—oh, you know, crazed and around the bend, and—”

“Oh . . . I don’t know.”

“Come on, now, isn’t that true?”

Julian took the phone into the hall, hoping to catch the man on his way past the living-room window. “Well . . . different strokes for different folks, sir.”

“Yeah. I mean, what can I say? I should’ve been more out in the open, more respecting of your need to know, and I apologize for that. But it’s clear the Egg Code has got to go.”

“Mmmmm.”

“And I don’t want to do it by myself.”

“Oh, okay.”

“I want to take it back. I want to do it in a way that’s professional, and I want you to help. I know it’s a lot to ask, but . . . I gotta tell you, Julian, there’s just something about that
typeface
, man. It’s so
irresistible
.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“I mean, don’t you agree?”

“Most definitely.”

Julian could feel the acid rolling around inside his gut as he studied the stranger outside. Steam came off of the man’s nearly bald head, and Julian could hear his footsteps crunching across the frozen grass.

“I don’t want to screw you over,” Olden continued, “because I know how much time you spent putting it together. As far as I’m concerned, that’s your intellectual property, and I’m going to honor it as such.”

“Nice, nice.”

The man drifted back to the curb, glaring up at the third floor. Light frost made a curtain along the fringe of his mustache. Deep eye sockets, lost in shadow, revealed nothing, only a dark core. Still, Julian knew who he was. Derek Skye. The famous recluse. Bit of a quack?

“It really would just be a few hours on the weekend, and I would take it from there, and you wouldn’t be obligated to, you know, deal with it anymore.”

“Oh, okay then.”

“And I’d definitely keep the content very tasteful, because I know how sensitive you are about, you know . . .
are we misleading children?
and things like that, whereas I’m coming at it from a more academic point of view.”

Julian stood shivering inside the foyer. He could feel the cold air pouring through the walls, the thin door. “No, I understand. It’s just . . . I mean, I respect it all, I respect you, and . . . everything’s beautiful. But for me, my feeling is, I guess . . . it wouldn’t be something . . . I would feel comfortable—”

“Shit.”

“—with having to get involved with . . . at this time.”

Olden sounded distracted, already onto the next plan. “Right. Okay. Sigh. All right, that’s fine.”

“But I really enjoyed working with you, sir.”

“Well, I enjoyed working with you too, Julian. I’ve always had a lot of respect for you as an artist, because . . . you and people like you are really a part of . . . an old breed of craftsmanship that’s basically dying out as we speak . . .”

“Well, thank you, sir.”

“Anyway, it looks like you’ve got company, so I’ll let you go, but . . . if something comes up—”

“I’ll let you know.”

“Sounds good.”

“Yes, and you have a blessed day, sir.”

Julian squinted at the receiver, then found the right button and pressed End. He opened the door and stepped out onto the front porch. The wind blew him back into the foyer; he staggered forward again, his eyes narrow, almost shut. Derek Skye, having satisfied his curiosity, now lingered at the edge of the yard, his hands on his hips. Julian let the screen door slam behind him and joined Derek on the lawn. “Can I help you?”

“I rang the bell, but it didn’t work.”

Julian raised his voice over the wind. “It’s Derek, right?”

“Derek Skye. We met a few months ago.”

“That’s right.”

The two men shook hands. Looking down at their clenched fingers, Julian remembered a poster campaign he’d designed in the late seventies—some charity walk for racial harmony, a black hand and a white hand, and he’d intentionally exaggerated the colors, making it bold and obvious, but here in real life Derek was really that white and he was really that black.

“I’ve been out of the mix for a while . . . been going through some things. A divorce and—you don’t want to hear about it.”

“Mmmlord.”

Releasing Julian’s hand, Derek crossed his arms behind his back. “How are you enjoying the country?”

“It’s a . . . unique experience.”

“That’s about right.”

“Good place for an old man to relax.”

“I hear what you’re saying. I’m getting up there myself, and I’m liking the solitude.”

At a loss, Julian looked back toward the house. “Why don’t you come on in, and I’d be glad to show you around.”

“No thanks, I’ve got to run. I just had a few items I wanted to discuss, if you . . . ?”

“Well, sure. It’s a trifle cold.”

“That it is. Look, I’ve heard from a few people that you’re a . . . what’s the word?”

“A colored fella? Heh.”

Derek stared for a moment, then smiled. His mustache crinkled, breaking into frosty chips. “No, well, that too, obviously that too. But . . . you’re an artist, aren’t you? A designer, I guess would be the more accurate term.”

“Used to be, that’s right.”

“Book production, that sort of thing?”

“Advertising, mostly. Print work.”

Derek nodded absently. “You might know my father-in-law. Ex-father-in-law. Bartholomew Hasse . . . ?”

“Name sounds familiar.”

Derek shrugged as a gust rolled in from the lake. The wind filled the neck of his shirt, and for a moment his entire torso seemed to swell and then shrink. “Anyway, I wanted to ask you—”

“Whoo—that wind!”

“I’m a writer of sorts. I write . . . informational material. I’ve actually had a few bestsellers over the past several years.”

“Oh, okay.”

“And I’m kind of working on an interesting project right now.”

“Nice, nice.”

Derek smiled again, and Julian could see lines of tobacco red and tobacco black running along his receding gumline. It seemed odd that such a man wouldn’t have taken better care of his teeth. Julian’s own teeth were sore and looked like quarried limestone, but that was only natural, given his childhood.

“I’m pretty excited about it. But my publisher . . . wait for the wind to die down . . . my publisher has expressed a few reservations about the project. The usual ninth-inning jitters.”

“Nice.”

“It’s aggravating, is all.”

“They all saying one thing, whereas—”