3 Lies (12 page)

Albert pushed away his binder. “We’ve only added methods. We haven’t taken any away.”

Doug scanned the group. “Essentially, when it’s all said and done, he’s right. The old technology still exists and still has a place in the scheme of things. We’ve only added flavors.”

Chester said, “So what’s your point?”

“Some event caused the remnant old code to kick in and print the ten lines on my report. But why only these ten agents? If the procedures are no longer active, but the code is still around, why wouldn’t all the agents trip on them? It makes no sense.”

Simon focused on his pen. “It could be a worm.”

Natalie stopped taking notes. “A virus?”

Simon seemed to finish his thoughts before he sat up in his chair. “It’s only a virus if the result is undesirable.” His voice trailed off.

“You think worm code was introduced?” Doug said.

“Perhaps. It may have been the trigger that launched the old agent tracking code. The information on Doug’s reports are clearly residual from before the upgrade.”

“Go on.” Chester said.

“So the worm code gets launched. It does its thing and then as all good worms do, it covers its tracks. Some replicate, some erase themselves along the way so you never even knew they were there. That’s the plan. But in this case, it launched the dormant tracking code and landed those ten lines on Doug’s report. It didn’t mean to, I’m guessing. In theory, it didn’t finish its mission, and there may be some portion of the worm code that hasn’t been erased.”

“Can you find it?” Natalie said.

“This is pure conjecture.” Simon spun his pen. “But, if—, and that’s a damn big if—if the conjecture is correct, then, yes, it is possible.”

“The upgrade applications would have been rigorously tested.” Doug stood to stretch. He checked to see if Natalie watched him. “Why wasn’t the code found then?”

She didn’t. He slid back in his seat.

“You can only test for what you can anticipate as input.” Simon fidgeted. “You can’t test for endless possibilities. It’s not practical.”

“Wouldn’t that trigger have to be part of the worm code?” Doug said.

“Not necessarily, it depends on what portion of the code remains. You may have a map to go from New York to LA, but if you don’t start in New York, you may not end up in LA after all. Code being such as it is.”

“So based on current procedures, we’re not talking about a communication error or breakdown with an agent, but a set of worm instructions that ran amok. Is that our working theory?” Natalie said.

Simon’s head swayed from side to side. “It’s a reasonable working theory if you want us to proceed on that basis.”

“Any better ideas?” Natalie surveyed the room. “Done.”

Doug said, “I still don’t understand how we got a worm in the first place. You think we got hacked?”

Simon brushed down his pant leg. “Hacked implies external. No, we didn’t get hacked. With the electronic razor wire we have around this place, we’d see blood.”

“You’re saying it was an inside job? Even that’s hard to do, right?”

“Not if you set it up from the beginning. Say you leave a back door into the system, then send a little present when you wanted. It wouldn’t be easy, but it could be done. After 9-11 we had contractors crawling around here like a mound of pissed off ants.”

“Natalie, if one of our officers is involved,” Chester said, “I want that bastard’s head on a stick.”

She wrote something down. “We’ll get one sharpened for you, sir.”

Clint left his recently un-impounded truck on the main road and trotted down the hill towards Beth’s house with Louie in the lead. The dog’s morning stay as the mayor’s guest left him eager to roam through the green. Louie bounded to a clump of ferns and staked his claim.

Maybe Clint couldn’t go to the police, but he could still go to Beth’s. If they were already there, looking for clues, dusting for prints, making molds of any tracks, well, all the better. But even without the assistance of Clement’s finest, he couldn’t ignore Beth’s strange disappearance.

Though appropriate for Todd’s choice of restaurant, the worsted-wool clothing he brought Clint were unsuited to the misty headland. Clouds hung within reach, washing the landscape in blackened blues and calling a brisk wind to the coast. Clint pulled his collar closer to his chin. The cold frosted his bones.

From the side of her house, Janet Raffety waved to him, a tangerine apron cinching her tie-dyed caftan. She wielded a hoe, and Clint tried to imagine what she might be growing this far under the canopy but decided not to ask. Janet perpetuated the stereotype of an aging hippie. He walked over to her fresh patch of dirt and gave Louie more leash, trying to act casual.

“Hey, Janet. Have you seen Beth around?”

When he got close enough, he read the concern on her face.

“No.” She leaned on her hoe like a weary shepherd. “Is she all right?”

He put his hands deep in his pockets and leaned forward. “Why do you ask?”

“She’s had a few drive-through visitors since you were here last.”

His interest revved. “What kind of visitors?”

“A man cruised by in a taxi about an hour after you left.”

“What did he look like?”

“He’s grey, about my age. Looked tall, even in a car. He’s come by before, but he’s usually driving a dark blue sedan.”

Abe.

Her face pinked up. “I haven’t seen any sign of her. After our chat yesterday, it made me wonder.”

“I understand.”

She flipped her long braids behind her back. “I don’t want to be the clueless neighbor interviewed on channel seven when they find Beth chained to a bed in the basement.”

His thoughts must have shown on his face.

Janet touched his arm. “Oh, I’m sorry. I don’t think she even has a basement.”

“She doesn’t. What else?”

“I went over to her side of the road and down into her woods far enough to watch the taxi. It crept by her house but didn’t stop. It went right out the other side and left.”

“You said ‘a few visitors’. Who else was here?”

“Her parents came by last night around nine-thirty. They drive a red Mercedes and usually wave, but it was too dark for them to see me. I’d been checking the temperature on my kiln and was heading back to the house. They turned onto the road and then into Beth’s drive.”

Louie returned to Clint and lay down at his feet.

“Did you go over there?”

“Not onto the property, not at night. It’s a bad idea to surprise people at night. I went to the edge though. They got out and knocked hard on the door.” She stuck her hoe into the dirt. “Her mother sounded upset. I didn’t actually hear her words, but there was a certain pitch to her voice. I think they went around to the back of her house because there wasn’t any sound for a while. They stayed about ten minutes and then got in the car and left.”

A Mourning Cloak butterfly skittered in the passing sunlight that skimmed between the trees. It alighted on the petals of an eager snow crocus.

“Clint?”

“I’m sorry, Janet. What did you say?”

“You’re worried about her. What’s happened?”

Happened. If something happened, there should be evidence. He didn’t have any evidence, only a boatload of suspicion.

“Maybe nothing. Her family says she’s fine. Everyone keeps telling me not to worry.”

“Which only makes you worry.”

“Have you seen any white delivery vans on the street?”

“Can’t say that I have, but it might have come from the winery.”

Clint pulled a business card from his wallet. “This is the marina where I live. If anything comes up, please call me at this number. They’ll get a message to me.”

She dropped the card in her apron pocket.

“I guess I’ll let Louie romp before leaving. Thanks.” He tugged the leash. “Let’s go Lou.”

Louie stood and snapped at a passing fly. Clint left Janet to her dirt and thought about the recent traffic at Beth’s house. Abe must know something was wrong. What about her parents? The only action he’d seen anyone take landed his ass in jail.

While the afternoon sun bloomed, the white van still rumbled in his thoughts. He could ask about it at the winery. It was worth a shot. He headed toward the end of the peninsula, the brisk walk providing fresh air but little peace. The perfect day to hit a tasting room.

At the end of Beth’s road, a classic Cape Cod structure housed the Searchlight Winery on the fifty acres of rolling coastland. Clint and Beth talked about coming in for a taste—the winery produced some notable Pinot Grigios and a respectable Merlot—right after her doctor pronounced her slate clean. He hadn’t bothered to come on his own. Until now. He lashed Louie to a post and went inside.

In the tasting room, a handful of people sat at the bar swirling, sipping, swishing, and spitting. A black man of NFL proportions managed the room. Former tackle, maybe. He lifted a chin at Clint as he poured from a bottle of red. Clint chose a stool away from the pack. The tasting room manager came over to Clint with a glass. His nametag identified him as Tiny.

“So glad you could join us. Would you prefer to start with a white?”

White. Red. Blue. Any color.

His headache angered at his short memory. He massaged the base of his skull. “Thanks, but, I’m here to see about a van that made a delivery here yesterday morning.”

“We don’t take deliveries on Tuesdays. We take deliveries on Monday and Friday only.”

“Do you know if anyone tried?”

Tiny shrugged. “My brother’s in charge of the warehouse. Hang on.”

He poured another sample for a pasty-faced woman wearing all black. A spider web tattoo draped her elbow. Then he made a brief phone call.

“Jumbo will be right out.”

Tiny and Jumbo. Clever. Parents with a sense of humor.

Clint browsed the tasters while he waited. One of the patrons at the other end of the bar sipped significantly more than he spit. He struggled to stay on his stool and didn’t see the elbow-webbed woman confiscate his keys.

“May I help you?”

Clint spun around to greet a man’s belly. He moved his head up, scanning the rest of the torso for some time before he reached the top.

He put out his hand to the man. “You have got to be Jumbo.”

The pleasant face erupted with a smile full of Chicklets. Jumbo returned a hand that could palm a dinner plate. Fortunately, his handshake was pure geniality.

“Starting from the womb, according to my mama.”

He thought of Paige and their baby. They could never have one this big.

“My name’s Clint.”

“I know who you are. Jumbo Patterson. It’s good to meet you.”

“Tiny told me you don’t have deliveries on Tuesday, but I’m trying to find out if a white van came here yesterday at about six in the morning.”

“I didn’t see one. I’m always the first one here, and I rolled in a little after six.” He leaned on the bar and still looked down to Clint. “Wait, there was a white van pulling into our neighbor’s place about then.”

“Which neighbor?”

“Nice little, white gal lives up the road. Looks like a snow angel.”

Pressure intensified his headache. He could only mean Beth with that description.

“That’s my girlfriend.”

“Sweet.”

“Did you see the driver?”

“No. I barely saw the van. I ran over a hubcap or something in town and needed to check my tire. The fog was patchy, so I didn’t want to stop in a place I might get bashed. I saw the van in my rearview mirror.” He leaned in to Clint. “Is everything alright?”

“That’s what everybody keeps telling me.” Clint got up from the stool. “Thanks, Jumbo. Thanks a lot.”

Outside he found Louie under a hydrangea bush sniffing at a small dead animal. A baby squirrel perhaps. Or a chipmunk. He untethered Louie’s leash.

The van. Maybe she was in it. Could’ve been the same one out at the marina, but the plates were different. Not that those were hard to change.

He ran the quarter mile back to Beth’s place with Louie at his heel. The fog had completely lifted. Once at her road, his hurried pace ended. He’d rushed the last time, and now guilt reminded him to take care. Even if she were in the van, he couldn’t have stopped it. But he had to find her.

This time he wouldn’t settle for peeking through the garage door. He thought about checking above the doorsill for a key, but Beth was petite, she’d never reach it on her own. He searched the surrounding area for anything that might contain a key. The river rock at the corner of the garage could be a decoy. He hoisted it up. Nope. A real rock.

The grounds around her home were intentionally low maintenance. She decorated with small statues, iron sculpture, colorful glasswork, anything that appealed to her cheerful style. The damn key could be anywhere.

He tried to remember if he’d ever seen her retrieve a key from outside. She didn’t like keys and carried as few as possible. He pictured her regular key chain. And the fob.

A cloisonné butterfly.

He scanned the yard to see if any others alit in her yard. It would fit her particular sense of logic. Keys? Oh, the butterflies were in charge.

At the side of the house, closest to the garage, a treble-hooked bird feeder pole pierced the ground. A stained-glass swallowtail butterfly teetered at the top. At the bottom of the pole, looped onto one of the ground spikes, Clint found two keys.

He entered the garage. A workbench on the left supported a flowered vase under repair. The pegboard on the wall displayed an orderly array of hand tools. Her small utility vehicle, efficient and reliable, was unlocked and completely empty inside save a Massachusetts road map. Beth didn’t like clutter. Nothing suspicious here. Though he wasn’t convinced he’d know a clue even if it bled on him.

Clint tried the second key on the kitchen door. He knew she didn’t have an alarm system. She talked about getting another dog. Her fourteen-year-old setter, Daisy, died before they met. Her doctor recommended she wait to get another dog until her treatments were finished. Louie served as her surrogate pet. The key slipped in, and he opened the door.

He ran back to the bird feeder and slipped the key ring onto the spike. He raised it high overhead and stabbed the ground sinking it deep beneath the dirt. The stained glass swallowtail fluttered on top of the flexing rod as if uncertain of the perch. He watched it quiver to a stop before returning to the kitchen.