by A. B. Jewell
“Elron. Good man. His idea?”
“Bono.”
He studied me. “The U2 guy? You met him?”
No, I explained. Bono’s song had started showing up on everyone’s phone to make sure the ringer was going. The more I saw of it, the more I realized people couldn’t handle being disconnected for even a second. I pulled Elron’s device from my pocket. “This thing is more dangerous than an AK.”
“I bet those liberal kooks will try to get it banned,” Terry said. “I’m kidding, mostly.”
“It is banned.”
“There you go.”
“WHERE ARE WE?” Terry asked.
I shrugged. It was the address sent by Veruca Sap—in a strip mall in Redwood City, a few towns north of Palo Alto. Same general area as the video-game training center but less fancy, really an old-school place, decidedly not gentrified. I let the cabbie go with a healthy tip, stuffed the gun in the back of my pants, and looked around for something that was supposed to be here.
“Over there?” Terry asked. He pointed to the right corner of this semicircular outdoor commercial development. A handful of people stood outside, a veritable standoff it looked like. I couldn’t quite make them out, but at the distance guessed I might be looking at Veruca and someone alongside her and, facing her, Floyd Chiansky.
“You want to wait here?” I asked Terry.
“Not if there’s a chance I get to see you exercise your Second Amendment rights.”
“This is no time for foreplay.”
He laughed. It was great to hear. Wasn’t much else that got me up and out of bed in this world.
Yep, I could see as we neared, Veruca, the world-beating lawyer, alongside someone I didn’t recognize. Opposite them stood Floyd. They eyed each other like wrestling combatants. Behind them a small retail establishment, looked to me like it said: PAST Office.
“Is that supposed to say ‘Post Office’?” Terry said.
“Not sure. It might be the Captain at work,” I mumbled.
“Who?”
Before I could answer, Veruca said: “Hello, Mr. Fitch, we’ve got company.”
If Veruca looked like a million bucks—and commanded it—Floyd looked like a wooden nickel. Sweatpants and sweat-stained T-shirt advertising the band Golden Hamlet. Even the other geeks would notice the rancid smell.
I said: “Anyone want to tell me what we’re all doing here—other than waiting for the cops to come arrest Floyd for murder?”
“Murder? I—”
“Right, Floyd, I should be more specific. And blackmail and other assorted sordid acts.”
“You’ve got the wrong guy!”
I held up the gun. “Keep talking, Floyd, by all means. Who is the right guy? Near as I can tell, you blackmailed Danny at Colester. Accused him of masquerading as David Skellow. Tried to get seed money for some nonsense project you were working on.”
“It’s not nonsense! Facial recognition is . . .” He paused, realized he was damning himself.
“Then you got out here to Silicon town and your eyes got wider and dreams bigger.”
“That’s not—”
Veruca interrupted him. “Can this wait? I’ve got a six thirty. I’d like to settle the matter at hand.”
Floyd wasn’t going anywhere.
“What’s the matter at hand?” I asked.
Veruca pointed to the small storefront with the sign PAST Office. It was little bigger than one of those boutique candy stores or a small corner flower shop. On one side, a gym and on the other, a vacant storefront. Inside the PAST Office, a very old man stood behind a counter reading a magazine. Behind him, the man, a post office box. Just one.
“I’ll bring you up to speed,” Veruca said, “while we wait for the others.”
“What others?” I asked. “Who is this guy?” I looked at the lackey behind her.
“First-year. Princeton, then Duke. He carries my devices. I’m pretty sure he has a name.”
“Phillip,” he said.
“You can talk after you’ve made junior partner.” She looked at me. “We’re waiting for the Donogue family. Should be here any moment.” She looked at the loose-leaf notebook pages in her hand. “So this paper you gave me, the pages that Captain Don allegedly wrote—”
“Allegedly?”
“I’ll stipulate for now that he wrote it. The pages give some instructions. The first instruction is to come here, to this address.”
“I was here first,” Floyd said. “But I think I should go.”
“Shut up and don’t move,” I said.
Veruca continued. She explained that the code described a mechanism for sending and receiving messages, just as she’d posited earlier.
“The system involves having users write messages in pen—”
“Or pencil would work,” Floyd said.
“Shut up!” Veruca and I both said. She continued: “And then sealing the message in another piece of paper using glue—”
“Or tape,” Floyd said.
“Shut up!”
“I’m just saying: it’s an open system.”
“I’m going to sue you for no reason,” Veruca said. “I’ve done it before. Anyhow, the message gets sealed up, and then—here’s the ingenious part—it gets handed to a courier or dropped in a sealed box and then hand-delivered to the recipient.”
I gave her the you’ve-got-to-be-crazy look.
“It’s the post office,” Terry said, exasperated. He looked at me: “For this you went to detective school?”
I watched Veruca closely. I could definitely see that she thought this was nonsense but she wasn’t going to say it aloud. Of course not: a client is a client is a client. In fact, she said: “It’s the PAST Office. Might be something new here. But we can’t really tell. Some details are left out, I think. We won’t know until we get inside.”
“So let’s go inside.”
“That’s what I say!” Floyd exclaimed.
“As I’ve explained,” the lawyer said, “the final instruction is that the Donogue family must be present. And, well, here they are!”
She was looking over my shoulder and I followed her gaze, and lo and behold: Tess and Lester and, walking from a separate direction, Danny.
Thirty
CAN WE GO inside?” Floyd said.
“We can go inside,” Veruca said.
“What’s going on?” Tess screeched. She looked at her son: “What’s he doing here?” Then at Floyd: “Who is that?”
“Floyd Chiansky.”
“Thank you for coming,” Veruca said.
“Floyd Chianksy. Is that supposed to mean something to me?” Tess asked. “Were you on one of the InEf missions? My God, you smell. I can tell from here. Are you in one of those video-game detox programs? You poor boy. Is this an intervention?”
Hard to get a read on this woman and her hysteria and non sequiturs, feigned or otherwise.
Veruca put her hands down in a calming manner, hushed the woman. Then, to the startled assemblage, explained that Captain Don had allegedly left a note for people to come to this place, and once so assembled, a security box would be unlocked with a final message.
“Final?” Lester said. “Like final final?”
Veruca shrugged. She told the rest of the story, just as she’d explained it to us, and I filled in with the piece about finding the message in The Selfish Gene and endured hateful looks from Tess Donogue. And we all packed inside.
STANDING ROOM ONLY, especially since there were no chairs. We looked at the man behind the counter, who hadn’t even glanced up when we all walked in. Never once did this gray-hair take his bespectacled eyes from a copy of a fishing magazine. Tall and lanky, he looked like he’d go over in a gust of wind.
“Ahem.” Veruca cleared her throat.
Nothing. No response.
After another minute, Floyd said: “This is ridiculous! The wait here is incredible. I’ve got half a mind to Yolp this thing and tell the world.”
No rea
ction from the codger.
“It really is the post office,” Terry whispered to me.
Veruca walked to the counter and rang a little silver bell. Still no movement from the old guy, and, then, about a minute after she rang it, he said: “Next!”
Everyone scurried to the counter.
“Who was next in line?” the man said. “We’ll be closing shortly.”
“I’ll handle this,” Veruca said. “I’m here to pick up a . . . to . . .” She looked at the piece of paper. “I think there’s a package or message for me.”
“Name?”
“Veruca Sap.”
“ID?”
She handed it over. The man studied it. “Nothing for you here,” he said. “Next!”
Everyone looked baffled. I said: “Let’s try another way at this. Do you have a package for anyone?”
“Who are you?”
Rather than answer, I said: “Do you have a package for the Donogue family?”
He squinted. “Are they all here?”
Murmurs and nods.
“IDs, please!”
Tess and Danny stepped up. So did Lester. They put their IDs on the counter. The old man scrutinized them, first on the counter, then lifting them and comparing them to the faces. Like the post office, as Terry kept reminding me with prods to the ribs, or perhaps like a none-too-quick security checker at the airport making a good show of his power. He put the IDs down, turned, put a key into the little box on the wall behind him, and pulled out an envelope.
He started to put it on the counter and then, as all the hands scrambled for it, he pulled it back.
“Sign here, please,” he said, and pointed to a ledger.
All three signed.
I bullied forward and took the envelope before anyone else could grab it.
“Hey!”
“Hey!”
“Hey!”
“I’m the only disinterested party here,” I said. Without further ado, I opened the envelope and discovered a piece of paper and a tiny box with a button on it. “Step back and I’ll read this aloud.” They looked skeptical and ticked off to the point of being murderous. So I added: “Or step forward and try to take it from my hands.”
“Read, then!” Tess said.
Dear Family and Ms. Sap (and your overpaid lackey),
I’m glad you found my little note. I’m sorry I had to take precautions but I had an inkling that this whole will and testament thing could be manipulated and then I had an even more jarring inkling that at least someone out there wanted to kill me—and has possibly succeeded. More on that in a bit.
Isn’t this great? All of you together? Can you feel the love?
“I think he’s being sarcastic,” Lester said.
“‘Be quiet, Lester,’” I read from the letter.
“How could he tell I would say that?” Lester asked.
Because we’re all so predictable. Let me finish. I have some good news and some other news. Let me start with the other news. To learn more about it, please press the button.
I looked at Veruca. She shrugged. I eyed Danny. Pale, shrunken, he stood near the counter at the far left. I felt myself glance suspiciously at his pockets, looking for signs of trouble—a weapon, I didn’t know what. Tess stepped forward, a look in her eye that said, May I press the button? Another shrug from Veruca.
She pressed the button.
From behind the counter there was a sound like POOF. And we all looked and noticed a bit of smoke rising from a cabinet.
“HI, EVERYONE,” THE Captain’s voice rang out from the little gadget in my hand. “Where was I? Right. Good news and other news. First, the other news. I am officially dead!”
“Daddy!”
“Shh, Tess. It’s for the best. Some people may even consider this to be the good news,” the Captain’s recording continued. “Regardless. I am dead. The second you hit that button, it sent a wireless signal that imploded whatever was left of me and the Spirit Box. I kept a program on a server at the PAST Office and loaded it with explosives and now it’s all gone. Speaking of which, did the Spirit Box work? I’ve no idea. I’m obviously not there to revel in the success or failure. I did think I had it figured out there, right at the end, just about the time I realized it was very possibly the worst idea that I’d ever had. I mean, first of all, let go. It’s time to let go. Me, all of us. Forgive me if I droned on about this before in the video . . .”
“BOOORING,” said Lester.
“You’re right, Lester, and you know how much I hate saying that. I am, though, deadly curious about whether it worked. Get it, deadly curious? I put the Spirit Box in place, a test run, one and done, to see if I’d send anything from beyond. Did it embody my essence, extrapolate from my previous statements, and adjust based on current conditions of the world to offer a digital version of yours truly? It really is a remarkable program in that it mixes me, or someone else, with all the data in the world so that my digital self can react to current events even though my body has passed on. Did I offer any insights or did I just drone on about how bad traffic has gotten? It has gotten very bad.” He cleared his throat.
“Now, let us move on to a related matter and some unfortunate business: my murder. This would be a good time for each of you to look around the room and leer at each other suspiciously. I’ll give you a moment.”
I watched as everyone did a seemingly impossible task: looked at each other while also trying to look at the ground.
“Did anyone blink?” the Captain asked. “Truth is, I don’t know who did it, if anyone did. And I’m not sure it matters. I had something or other and I was going to die anyway. It was imminent and I was done seeking treatment. If I was ever good at anything in my blessed life, it was pattern recognition. I saw a few things in my day and I could just feel the hostility building around me in those last days. It was easy to explain: I was headed for the beyond and everyone wanted the part of me that would live on, the money.”
“No matter where this is going, the landline is mine,” Lester said.
“Let him finish!” said his wife.
“You two really are meant for each other. Weirdly, I do hope you’ll work it out,” the Captain continued. “Anyhow, see, I can kind of feel the rhythm of life. So I could feel that someone wanted to kill me, or threaten me, and I can tell you exactly why. Before I go on, though, I should tell you that this part gets complicated. Is everyone ready?”
Nods all around.
“Someone wanted to kill me because they wanted to use the Spirit Box to keep me alive. They wanted to take it over.”
“That makes no sense!” Lester said. “I’m taking a nap.”
“If you’re wondering why someone would want me alive, there is a simple reason. When I’m dead, my patents go with me. Or rather, I no longer control the royalties and licenses. I’m sure Veruca told you all this. I am mortal and so are my innovations, and when we both die, so goes an income stream that could keep many people doing whatever you people do with money, which I never did care about or pay attention to. As an aside, do you realize the entire economy of Silicon Valley is built on patents? Oh sure, those patents represent innovation, but not nearly as often or as profound as the paper they are written on. Now, paper: that was an innovation. So in my genetic line, it ends with me.”
I looked over and saw tears running down Danny’s face.
“I could be wrong about motive here. I mean, after all, someone might’ve wanted to kill me just to get the Spirit Box technology and promise the world an afterlife. But, well, I clearly have made sure that didn’t happen. The Spirit Box is no more.”
This must’ve been the smoke coming from the cabinet behind the codger. The server had imploded with the push of the button. I looked at Floyd, who stared at the ground.
“Now for the good news!” The Captain’s voice sounded whimsical, to me at least. Tess looked earnest, her husband (-ish) sound asleep on her shoulder. “This place, where you are standing, is the future: the PAST
Office. That’s right, this is the way to send secure messages. As the kids say: Do you feel me? It is yours, all of it, the concept, the design, the patents, and Melvin!” He paused.
“I can stay on?” asked the man behind the counter.
Captain Don continued: “Electronic mail, who needs it?! Too easy to manipulate, steal, imitate. This is going to be our greatest innovation, my legacy, a system for face-to-face verification of missives. You can send something to whomever you want. You write it on paper and then leave it in a box and it gets picked up by a courier—real human person—who will deliver it by hand to a physical address of the recipient.”
“He is so fucking with them,” Terry whispered to me, right at the moment Tess said: “Daddy, it’s brilliant!”
I couldn’t get a read on Danny.
“There is one caveat, one critical caveat,” Captain Don said. “This is for Veruca Sap, who, fairly or not, is the center of the known universe.”
I looked at Veruca, who I discovered was doing push-ups but lifted her head and mouthed, I can listen.
“Counselor, please make sure that my daughter and my grandson mend their relationship. There is only family. Should these two continue to act like children, I will ask you to put the PAST Office into the public domain, where all my other patents have now found their final resting place. Veruca, recognizing your fee might not be covered by a twenty-year expected negative revenue stream from the PAST Office, I have left you several million dollars. You were going to figure out how to get it anyway.”
She smiled thinly. “Well, if that’s it, I’ll do some chin-ups and go.”
“That is about it,” the Captain said.
“William,” my husband whispered.
“Huh?”
“William!”
The audiotape continued: “This has been Captain Don, saying—”
“Fitch!” Terry implored. I followed his gaze out the window and there stood none other than Dutch Abraham. The muzzle of an automatic weapon pointed into the tiny shop. Then time slowed down as bullets screamed from the muzzle, the glass shattered, Terry dove to tackle me out of harm’s way, and everything went black.