The Reborn (The Day Eight Series Part 1) (8 page)

This wasn’t looking like it would lead anywhere, except possibly into deeper problems with the law. Trevor felt like banging his head against the wall. Maybe it would knock some damn sense into him.
The reasonable thing to do,
he thought,
would be to forget this.

But he couldn’t. Something nagged at him. There was one fundamental question that made all the others seem insignificant: Why would anyone ever identify their location by their computer’s network card ID? Especially a child? It made no sense... Unless! There must be something on that specific computer.

Something vital.

But what?

Envelope

T
revor Leighton awoke to a harsh, repeated clanging sound. He had incorporated it into the final moments of his dream where he stared down an oncoming locomotive. Its bell rang, growing louder and louder. His feet had been hammered into the track with large railroad spikes. Stuck. He had no choice but to let the train hit him.

Trevor roused from his dream moments before the engine reached him, but physically he felt like it had collided with him full-force, ten times over. His entire body ached from falling yesterday, the soreness of his muscles finally kicking in.

“Come on, already!” said a guard, who was rapping his nightstick back and forth on the bars of Trevor’s holding cell. The guard saw Trevor notice him and put his club away. He yanked a crumpled envelope out of his tight pants pocket with a meaty hand like an inflated surgical glove. He tossed the envelope on the floor in front of Trevor. “Some guy requested you get this.”

“Some guy?” said Trevor. “Who?” Who would know he was here?

“Uh, a man,” said the guard, “named Snowy... or he was from Iceland... or something like that.” He spoke as if each phrase took more effort than he cared to devote to it.

“Who? What was his name?”

“I told you, Snowy something,” said the cop, laboriously.

Who did Trevor know named Snowy? The only person that even knew he was here was Valerie Wint—Trevor jumped to his feet. “Winters!” he said. “Damon! Was his name Damon Winters?”

“Yeah, yeah, Snowy Winters,” panted the guard. “Probably says on the envelope.”

Trevor grabbed it from the floor. “Is he here now?”

“Could be,” shrugged the guard, and turned to go. “Think so,” he said as he lumbered away.

Trevor looked at the envelope. It said “
Trevor Leighton
” in blue hand-written ink. Inside was a single sheet of paper. A photocopy of a newspaper article dated December 22, 1998. Fourteen years ago. A black and white picture showed a man and woman in an embrace, looking at the charred, skeletal remains of a house. A fireman stood by a truck parked in the driveway, helmet hanging from his left hand at his side. A second photograph depicted a school headshot of a smiling, young girl with the caption, “Allison Winters.” The  headline read, “Fire Devastates Winters Family.”

The article explained that a fire started in a kitchen trash can from a cigarette butt Damon had thrown away. The fire had taken long enough to start that Damon and his wife, Valerie, had been in bed and asleep. They finally woke to the ear-splitting chirps of a smoke detector in their upstairs hallway; the one in their kitchen didn’t have a battery… they’d meant to buy one but never got around to it. Their ten-year-old daughter’s room was closest to the stairs, directly above the kitchen. Smoke accumulated so quickly that by the time Damon and Valerie ran into the hallway, they had to drop to their knees to see anything.

Damon had sent Valerie out, while he went for Allison. He couldn’t see anything at all in Allison’s room, but was able to follow the sound of her coughing. He’d found her hiding under her covers in the top of her bunk bed. Damon managed to carry her out, heroically, minutes before her room caved in to the kitchen.

It didn’t matter. Allison Winters died as a result of severe smoke inhalation shortly after being put on a stretcher, her parents gagging and wheezing at her side.

Their only child.

Taking a deep breath, Trevor leaned back against the concrete wall. He couldn’t help but feel horrible now, for a man whose stature had frightened him and his wife who’d had him arrested. And then, thinking about Allison and the stupid letter, he felt like an ass. The police must have questioned Damon about the strange letter and then realized it was meaningless. Damon must have subsequently sent Trevor this article so he would know what a fool he was being.

Trevor began to fold up the letter, then noticed there was a short sentence written on the back. In tiny letters along the bottom edge it said,
We need to talk – DW.

DW. Damon Winters!

What might Damon want to say to him? “You’re fired,” perhaps. Or some kind of lecture about staying out of his family’s business, and then, “You’re fired.” Or if he was especially unlucky, “We’re seeking the maximum sentence for you. Oh – and you’re fired.”

When Trevor heard footsteps, he crammed the article into his pocket, realizing as he did so that it was unnecessary to hide it since a guard had delivered it to him. Officer Fulton came into view.

“Okay, Trevor, let’s go.” Fulton slid open the cell door.

A Flash of Poetry

T
revor sat in a chair opposite Fulton at his desk. His was one of about fifteen in the room with various officers and assistants filing papers and barking into phones. A few ate sandwiches on top of flattened paper bags. Trevor noticed the hulking officer that had been with Fulton, now trying to cram the entire cross section of a lumpy meatball sandwich into his mouth. It must be lunchtime. Trevor’s stomach finally started to growl.

“Mr. Leighton,” said Fulton, “Mr. Winters stopped by earlier today. He informed us that you work for him, and that the computer systems at your company garbled much of their electronic documentation and paperwork recently during the mass internet surge. Actually, I’ve heard your company has been cleaning up quite a mess.” Fulton picked up a notepad and leaned back in his chair. He tapped his pen a few times.

“Anyhow,” he said, “Mr. Winters suggests the document that ended up in your possession was most likely the result of some of his personal files getting scrambled with output from a – let me get this right...” Fulton scanned the scribbles on his notepad. “…from an artificial intelligence poetry-generating program. He said he had loads of the stuff saved on his computer. At least, before the surge.”

“Oh,” said Trevor, shrinking in his seat. He knew a lot of work the company did was in artificial intelligence – AI – and various forms of speech generation.

At one point he had written a set of programs for Day Eight that could accurately diagnose many medical conditions by having a computer ask patients questions and then comparing answers to a large database of data archived by doctors.

Much of Trevor’s other work had been programming genetic algorithms that he handed off to the lab coats upstairs. He was usually told “good job” or “thanks” and then never saw them again – he would just promptly get a new assignment. Like a covert Delta Force operation – you didn’t know the big picture and you couldn’t ask questions; you just blindly did the task and did it well, satisfied that you were a small cog in a large, important machine.

That was the most frustrating part of his job – with all the levels of privilege and confidentiality, he rarely knew if his code was used, let alone what it was used for. Back when he wrote technical manuals for mathematical software, he found satisfaction in seeing his work in print. It had been boring as holy-hell, but it gave that modicum of fulfillment that his position at Day Eight lacked.

“So what this means,” Fulton said, “is that Damon believes you had no intention of harassing Ms. Winters about their deceased child.” Fulton glanced to a framed photograph he’d balanced on a pile of books on his desk. It was a photo of Fulton and a young boy and a younger girl, standing behind a large sandcastle on the beach, smiling. The little girl’s feet disappeared into the moat of the sandcastle and she held up a small plastic shovel triumphantly. The little boy was sitting on the other side, wearing a blue pail on his head like a helmet and sticking a handful of seaweed into his mouth. Between thoughts, Trevor found himself impressed with the spiky-haired cop’s apparent dedication to his family. The children reminded Trevor of his sister and him, when they used to hunt for crabs at the beach. He doubted he’d ever be as good a father.

“So...” Trevor said.

Fulton looked back to Trevor. “So he got Ms. Winters to drop the charges.”

Trevor leaned forward, nearly tipping out of his chair. “What? Well that’s great! So I can go?”

“Wait, I’m not finished,” said Fulton. “Despite your harassment charges being dropped, you still resisted arrest.”

He slouched back into his seat. “So I’m still going to jail.”

“Hold your horses, Mr. Leighton, I’m still not finished. Mr. Winters has also posted your bail. In addition to that, his personal lawyers are handling a settlement with the city on your behalf. He has some leverage around here. So you’re free to go for now, if you sign these documents to accept their services.”

Fulton handed him a contract stating that Mr. Winters’ lawyers would handle all pending legal issues for Trevor, free of charge. He shook the pen and signed with vigor.

Was Damon helping him because there was a possibility the company could be held liable for Trevor’s “pain and suffering?” After all, wasn’t it their fault he ended up with a scary letter and got arrested?

He handed Fulton the documents. Fulton gave them a once-over and said, “Well, you’re free to go, Mr. Leighton.” Fulton handed Trevor a plastic bag containing his confiscated belongings – wallet, keys, and watch. “But you aren’t free to go too far. Don’t leave the state until the settlement has been resolved.”

Trevor nodded, and started to stand when Fulton leaned forward and whispered, “But between you and me, I don’t think you have much to worry about. Mr. Winters made a surprisingly generous donation to the department this morning. I wouldn’t be shocked if your charges...” Fulton looked around and leaned slightly closer, “just went away.” Fulton leaned back and spoke in his normal volume again. “You have a clean prior record and seem to be an upstanding citizen. Sometimes the department will go out of its way to assure people such as yourself are treated accordingly.”

Trevor thanked him and walked out of the police department into the bright daylight. It felt soothing on his face. He stood on the steps in the same spot he had two days prior and let his lungs fill with a deep breath of crisp afternoon air.

It seemed like things were going to be okay.

That notion dissolved when he woke to a sharp knock on his door at 5:30 am the next morning.

The Winters Estate

T
revor woke to a knock on the door. He sat up, momentarily confused. It was dim outside. He looked at the cheap digital clock on his bedside table. 5:30 am. He’d gotten in bed for a nap, but slept  sixteen hours. He felt refreshed, although his muscles still pulled painfully as he slung himself out of bed.

Another harder knock. Trevor crept quietly to the peephole. His door sat at the bend of the floor’s L-shaped hallway; he loved that he could see all the way down toward the stairs and spy on his neighbors while they came and went.

Trevor peered out. Damon Winters stared back with a bulging face, distorted by the lens.
Damon? What the…? It’s Damon Winters!

Trevor called out, “Just a minute!” as he clambered back to his bedroom. He grabbed pants from the floor, wriggled into them, and finished clothing himself in a flurry from his dresser. He smacked a lamp to the ground while hopping around on one foot putting a sock on, but didn’t bother to pick it up; he just hit the wall switch to turn it off as he left room.

He opened the door.

“Hello Trevor, we’ve never formally met. I’m Damon,” he said, extending a strong hand.

They shook, and Trevor couldn’t think of anything better to say other than, “I know, nice to meet you.”

“I’m going to get right to the point,” said Damon, “You owe me.”

~

Damon took a seat on Trevor’s couch directly under the Einstein poster. He picked up a
Cosmopolitan
from the coffee table, glanced at the cover, looked at Trevor with a raised eyebrow, and tossed it aside.

“Listen,” said Damon, “I know you created a hole in our firewall. It allowed some of our equipment to flood the internet.”