The Digital Dream

by Mike Cartlidge

  For a minute or so, all is silent. Then we hear the sound of breaking glass and, as we watch, all five men come back out of the little house. With a shock of fear, I realize that the man who was first to enter the cottage is giving orders and the others are starting to spread out in an obvious search pattern. I half-rise into a crouching position and pull at Kathleen’s arm.

  “I think we’d better make ourselves scarce.”

  We go back down towards the beach, hugging the edges of the dunes for cover. Back where we came from, we see two of the men emerge onto the mud flats and we pull back and kept still.

  “What are we going to do?” Although the strain is evident in her voice, Kathleen’s tone remains steady.

  I think quickly. “Earlier on, I saw someone bring a boat ashore along here. Perhaps if we can find it...”

  I am not sure what we’ll do if we do locate the small craft, but as a solution it seems preferable to sharing a beach with the violent-looking bikers behind us. The two men spend a minute looking up and down the lakeshore and then move inland again. Cautiously, Kathleen and I continue edging away from the scene.

  “There!” I point.

  We run, crouching, to the rowing boat. I quickly check it over: to my relief, the oars and the outboard motor are where they were left and the fuel tank is still half full. Glancing nervously over my shoulder, I drag it down the mud and into the water. Then I help Kathleen aboard and push off, paddling gently so as to make as little sound as possible. I set course at an angle roughly forty-five degrees from the beach, to take us out and away from the cottage.

  A hundred yards out, I decide that it’s worth risking the motor. By this time, we can make out the lights of the cottage and, as we watch, we see figures running around it. Then we see the figures move away quickly: the next moment, there is an audible swoosh of sound and the little house becomes a fireball.

  13

  Although Crieff has told himself to put the Ross case out of his mind, it continues to bug him. He’s a failure, he guesses. A sergeant at fifty-something, never going to go any higher. Passed over for promotion so many times that he’s stopped counting. No flair, his performance reports says. No initiative. Too fuckin’ gloomy, is what he figures everyone says about him behind his back. A miserable old bastard who wouldn’t have cracked a smile if Madonna had run into the station, ripped off all her clothes, and dived onto his lap.

  Just a street cop. But he’s an honest street cop. Today, he’s kept himself busy plying his trade. The tip from the pigeon has paid off and a real bad guy’s been taken. A dealer he’s had his eye on for a long time. Long arrest sheet. Extortion, assault, receiving. Now back in the cells awaiting bail. The wave of job satisfaction is muted by the knowledge that Crieff can expect to spend days in court while a multitude of charges against the small time wiseguy get processed. We got him, though. He’ll see the bastard get five to ten.

  Unfortunately, before that happy day arrives, he has a stack of paperwork to process. Paperwork ain’t exactly his strong suit.

  And the strange facts of the computer fraud case just keep coming back to him. He sits at the desk and ignores the pile of blank forms that sit in front of him. Fuck the arrest reports. They’ll get done in time. He tries to clear his mind and think logically.

  Ideas seem to come slowly to him, especially as he gets older. Once you’re past thirty, they reckon, the brain cells start to die off and aren’t replaced. Every drink of bourbon kills a few million more. His ex liked to tell her friends that she’d worked it out on a calculator and that Crieff only had three cells left in his head. Silly bitch.

  Eventually, an idea comes. Obvious, really. He takes the fuckin’ stupid glasses from his pocket and slides them onto his nose. He reaches for the phone and the internal directory.

  It takes him an hour before he traces the man he needs to talk to. Another old-timer, also a sergeant. Probably as pissed with life as Crieff is, by the sound of it. Yeah, he’d known McAllister when he was in the department. Hell, no, he wasn’t on the take. Another honest cop. That makes three of us in the department’s long history, don’t it, the old bastard jokes. No, McAllister was straight, everyone knew that, he’d tried to tell the powers-that-be after McAllister was busted but nobody was fuckin’ interested. He’d seen the old bastard from time to time since he’d left the force, shared the odd beer with him. McAllister hadn’t been up to anything bad. He’d stake his favorite nightstick on it. Ha ha. Too bad, about the hit-and-run. Deserved better, McAllister did.

  Crieff rings off. Puts away the glasses. Goes back to thinking. He wishes he could talk it through with someone. He just isn’t smart enough to figure it out on his own. Then again, neither is he smart enough to just walk away and forget the whole thing.

  He wonders just what’s going down with the case now. There may be a way of finding out. But there is a catch.

  He looks with loathing at the computer terminal that squats on a side table across the room. The new system is meant to contain all investigation and arrest reports. Progress reports into current cases all have to be entered as well. The idea, according to the guys who installed the system, is to allow them easier access to cases being worked by other precincts or cities. In theory, he can tune in to any case being worked by anybody in the country. And even those held by the FBI and Interpol.

  The only problem is that he can’t even turn the goddamn thing on.

  He can ask his new partner, he guesses. He seems to take to the system like he’s been using computers all his life. Probably has, the arrogant little shit. They even have them in schools nowadays, don’t they? But the bastard’d probably sneer at him if he asked. And he’d want to know why he, Crieff, is suddenly taking an interest in a case that is no longer any of their concern.

  No, fuck it. He has to find someone else to help. He goes back to thinking.

  14

  Several hundred yards from the shore, I cut the engine and hug Kathleen to my chest, ignoring the rocking of the little boat. We drift quietly, trying to collect our thoughts. Fortunately, the weather, though overcast, is settled, although I still feel anxious about being so far from the shore in such a small craft. The lake is often the scene of vicious storms and I’ve heard that this area of its coast is notorious for its sudden wind changes.

  What little wind there is blows us slowly back past the cottage, which is now burning steadily. As we watch, the heat ignites the gas tank in Kathleen’s car and it blows with a dull boom. Our charming guests have left, no doubt to be out of the way before the emergency services arrive, but as yet there are no fire appliances. I continue to hold Kathleen tightly in my arms as we watch for the first sign of the flashing red lights.

  The lights and sirens come a few minutes later. By this time, the cottage looks too burnt to be worth saving and the car’s a blackened shell. The little boat has drifted several hundred yards along the shore. I wonder miserably how I’m going to explain the loss of the house to my brother’s friend and I hope that it was well insured. On an impulse, I shift Kathleen’s weight and lean back to start the motor. I see her looking at me in the dim light.

  “What do we do now?”

  “First thing is, we get away from here.”

  We come ashore a quarter of a mile from the blazing house. By this time we can see that the fire department has arrived. Stick figures are hurrying around the blaze and connecting hoses to one of the appliances. No doubt this is the one that carries the water: fire hydrants will be in short supply in an area like this. On the land side of the house we can also see a small crowd of sight-seers. Despite our plight, we’re amazed to see car lights as people drive up to catch the spectacle. One man parks his car and climbs out, apparently wearing pajamas and a robe.

  Whatever else it does, the unexpected entertainment provides a valuable diversion for fugitives. We check our surroundings. We’re roughly in front of a large, two story house set among the uneven array of lakefront properties. Between this house and the next
is an alleyway leading to the road and we hurry down it and away from the muddy beach. On the road, we walk briskly away from the burning center of excitement, keeping to the shadows and hedge-rows and watching all the time for any return of the old cars—the Lincoln and the Ford—that brought the forces of mayhem to this quiet settlement.

  Half a mile from the cottage there’s a minor junction and we walk off the road for a moment and sit in the dark on a low grassy knoll to collect our thoughts. Kathleen is the first to speak.

  “I think we should head back towards the city, if we can. Maybe we can find a back-street motel where they won’t ask too many questions.” Seeing my questioning look, she continues. “My guess is that that’s probably the thing they’d least expect us to do. They’ll expect us to try to put more distance between us and them.” She looks around at the quiet houses. “Do you think we can steal a car?”

  “I wouldn’t have thought that was your style! But I agree with your thinking. The only thing is, I’ve seen people hot-wire cars a hundred times on TV but I haven’t the faintest idea how to do it.”

  She smiles grimly. “So much for my vision of you as the new James Bond. We’ll just have to see if we can find one with the keys in.”

  ***

  It takes a half-hour of creeping up and down the drives of houses. We encounter several cars that have been left unlocked for the night—this is the sort of community where such things still happen—but it’s not until the tenth drive we try that we find a late-model Toyota Corolla with a set of keys dangling in the ignition. The car is parked at the front of a cottage: the lights in the building suggest that the occupants are around on the shore side. Holding our breath, we ease the car’s shift into neutral and release the brake and push it slowly back towards the road. Fifty yards away, a neighbor comes out of one of the other houses and looks at us curiously. Quickly, we get inside the car, start it up and drive away, heading back towards the freeway.

  Four miles down the road, I drive up to a crossroads and brake the Toyota to a standstill as a truck hurtles past on a wide blacktop in front of us. I’m half-aware of the car lights pulling up behind and the door of the car opening. Peering through the windshield to see if it’s safe to pull out onto the busier highway, I’m distracted by a rap on the Toyota’s side window. I hear Kathleen gasp. Looking round, I find myself staring into a sinister, half-lit face. Recognition takes a second. The ugly scene in the park flashes into my mind. What’s the name? Sammy!

  The second’s hesitation is enough. Sammy shouts to the driver of the car behind and starts to open the door of the Toyota. I grab at the armrest and pull the door back, holding it for a moment with a gap of six inches between the door and the frame. Then I use my free hand to push the shift forward and slam my foot onto the accelerator pedal. Sammy’s hand jerks then flies free, the shouted obscenity clearly audible over the roar of the small motor. The car shoots forward across the junction straight into the path of another truck. I heave at the wheel to avoid the collision and bring the car, tires screeching, back under control.

  “Are you all right?” I risk a glance at Kathleen, who is holding tightly to the handgrip above the door.

  “Yes, I’m fine. Just concentrate on driving.” I can hear the shake in her voice.

  “We’re going the wrong way. I meant to turn left. We’ll be heading back towards town.”

  “This is no time to turn back. We’ll have to keep going.”

  I anxiously scan the rear-view mirror. There’s a car five lengths back that seems to be holding its distance. Behind it, I can see the lights of other vehicles. I switch my attention back to the road ahead, trying to think through a course of action.

  “We’ll need to find another route back to the city,” I say.

  “I think we should get rid of the car as soon as we can,” says Kathleen. “Maybe we can catch a train.”

  I’m about to reply when I notice the lights behind lurch to one side. Watching in the mirror I see another car overtake, pulling out despite on-coming traffic, forcing other cars to swerve onto the hard shoulder of the road. Car horns blare. I feel the fear rise in my gut.

  “I think we’ve got company again.”

  Kathleen turns in her seat to look back as I press my foot to the floor.

  “They’re gaining,” says Kathleen. “That old clunker they’re driving must have an engine five times the size of ours.”

  “Damn,” I grunt. “We came this way yesterday. Can you remember how much further it is to town?”

  “A couple more miles, I guess. What are you going to do?”

  I struggle with the wheel as the road goes through a tight bend between low hills. At least the big Ford drops back momentarily. The smaller car has the edge on corners. Back on the straight, the lights behind start to close the distance. I wish for my Morgan instead of the family saloon I’m driving.

  “I don’t know. I just think we’ll have a better chance of losing them in the town. Failing that, we’ll get to a public place. They surely can’t do anything to us with people all around.”

  Kathleen’s still looking behind. “They’re getting closer again.”

  I look in the mirror. The Ford is two car-lengths behind and getting nearer. I check our speed. Seventy. Back to the mirror. The Ford is now so close that the lights disappear beneath the top of the Toyota’s trunk.

  “They’re going to hit us,” I yell. “Hold on.”

  The impact comes, pushing the Toyota forward and towards the side of the road. I wrestle with the wheel, bringing the car back in line, over-compensating for a moment so that it heads towards vehicles coming the other way. I have a brief vision of white faces behind windscreens as cars swerve and horns blast into the night, then I bring the Toyota back into its lane. Glancing in the rear-view mirror, I see that the Ford has dropped back but is now accelerating and closing the gap between us once more. I notice that there are a few houses now, to the sides of the road. Outer suburbs. I pass a speed limit sign. Thirty miles an hour. We’re doing sixty-five.

  The impact comes again, the Ford smashing into the Toyota’s bumper then bouncing back. Again, I struggle for control, bring the car back into line. I sneak a look at Kathleen, my terror for her overcoming my fear for myself. She’s still clutching the handgrip with both hands, her eyes wide and staring ahead.

  Looking back at the road, I curse and brake as I come up behind a slower truck. As I pull towards the center of the blacktop looking for a way to pass, the Ford speeds into our trunk again. The shunt forward takes me to within a foot of the truck’s tailgate and the car skitters across the road before I again win control. I wonder how much more punishment the little automobile can take. Looking in the mirror, I see that the Ford has dropped back, as a precursor to another accelerating run at us. I pull back towards the middle of the road, looking for a way ahead past the truck. We are traveling now through an old industrial area of the town. A hundred yards ahead I can see a side-road that branches off to the right past a series of warehouses.

  The Ford starts its run again. This time the driver has given himself enough of a run to hit us with real power. I know that the impact will be enough to send us into the back of the truck.

  “Hold on,” I yell. As the Ford comes up behind us, I pull towards the center of the highway again. Then, as the side road comes up, I hit the brakes and wrench on the wheel. The Toyota lurches to the right and for a moment I think it will roll. I floor the pedal, hoping that the forward drive will stabilize the car. Tires screaming, the Toyota makes the turn. Its near-side wheels hit the curb with a sickening crack and the steering wheel jerks violently, almost shaking my hands free. Somehow, I regain control and straighten the car up. Looking back, I see the Ford speed past on the highway, moving too quickly to have any chance of making the turn. I drop speed, holding the wheel with one trembling hand and pulling Kathleen towards me with the other. She resists for a moment, still hanging onto the grip, then she moves across the seat and leans into me, sobbing
.

  “We’re okay now, I think,” I whisper. “It’ll take them a while to turn around.”

  I steer the Toyota into another side road, then another, jinking in and out of streets in an effort to make our progress untraceable to our pursuers. The car’s steering has developed a serious shake since we hit the curb and there’s the sound of metal scraping on metal from the rear.

  “What now?” Kathleen’s voice is still shaky but I can hear the familiar strength of character returning.

  “We need to dump this wreck. It’s bound to be reported stolen some time. And I figure it’s taken so much punishment that it won’t keep going much longer anyway. I suggest we find a small motel—the sort of place where they won’t have computer systems—and hide up for the night. Tomorrow we’ll catch the train back home.”

  We find the motel in another back street in a suburb to the west of the town. I drive the car another hundred yards, then park it down an alley off a side street and we walk back.

  Inside the hotel, the bored clerk looks at us suspiciously. I explain our lack of luggage by telling him that our car has broken down and that we just need somewhere until we can get a mechanic to look at it in the morning. The sight of cash in advance persuades him not to question our story too closely.

  15

  The old desk sergeant comes to Crieff’s aid. No problem. It’s a piece of cake. Surprised he hasn’t learned it already. No shame in it though. Old dogs and new tricks. The old fellow doesn’t even seem to notice the specs that Crieff pushes onto his nose as he peers at the words on the screen.

  Crieff astonishes himself. After fifteen minutes he has the hang of it, at a basic level at least. The system gives him access to the National Crime Information Center. The screen tells him he can access records on any arrest or conviction, anywhere in the States. He thanks the deskman and hunches over the terminal, slowly fingering in the key word it has requested. The system goes quiet. Some stupid light underneath the screen winks happily away. He curses it quietly.