On Broken Wings

by Francis Porretto

  He gestured them toward the door in a manner that verged on imperious. Helen and Father Schliemann rose again, said polite goodbyes, and exited.

  Before getting into Helen's car, they stood in his driveway and looked back at the house. The lights were already going out.

  "Looking after him is a trial, isn't it?"

  Schliemann nodded. "A privilege, but a trial as well. I've worried over him ever since his parents died. Fortunately, he has Christine now."

  She clamped her teeth on a rejoinder and opened the driver's side door.

  ***

  Schliemann held his silence during the trip. They had just pulled into the rectory drive when Helen asked, "Is there more we ought to know, Father?"

  He snorted. "I thought you knew about clerical confidentialty, dear."

  "I thought that was about secrets from the confessional."

  "Certainly it covers those, but it covers all other communicant-to-cleric disclosures as well. The profession decided long ago that the communicant needn't even ask."

  Though Louis certainly did. Trust him to leave me no loopholes. Yet the burden has been lighter than I expected, until now.

  "You could still tell me whether I ought to...well...?"

  "Ought to what?" Schliemann heard his voice become harsh. "Am I supposed to wriggle out of the obligations of my profession with casuistry? Strictly interpreted, clerical confidentiality forbids me even to admit that I've spoken to Louis. There are no margins, Helen. No yes and no questions, no inferences from admissions not made or confirmations not offered, no meaningful silences. I am a priest."

  He exhaled noisily. "Colleagues of mine have gone to the gallows rather than break that shield. The beneficiaries of their silence were not always the most admirable of men. I will not dishonor my cloth and their sacrifices to assuage your concerns. You may think what you like."

  "But if Louis is -- "

  "Louis is Louis." He strained to throttle back the severity of his tone. "You love him. Christine loves him. I love him as well. But the covenant among us who are considered adults is that each will be permitted the management of his own affairs. That is the meaning of respect. Love does not excuse a violation of that covenant. Even God will not do it. And Helen, who among your acquaintances deserves your respect more?"

  He opened the door and rose from the car, strode to the rectory entrance and passed within, leaving Helen alone in the darkness.

  Schliemann stood in the rectory hallway for a long while, reluctant to ascend the stairs and make for his bed, though he longed for the anodyne of sleep.

  There is so much I could tell you, Helen. And I want to tell you so badly. But I cannot break faith with him. When all is over, it will be the only thing he has ever needed from me, that I could give him.

  Schliemann buried his face in his hands and wept.

  ***

  Helen sat motionless in her car after Schliemann had departed.

  He told me more than he realizes. Something is seriously wrong. Louis has confided in him, and it's tearing him apart.

  Louis does have Christine. And he has Father Schliemann, and himself, and his damned stiffnecked pride. I'd probably be a fifth wheel even if I knew the full story.

  But I still want to know. And I'm not going to sleep tonight for not knowing.

  ***

  Christine and Louis lay in bed, nestled together spoon-fashion. Her arms were around him from behind, pressing him to her. She had to concentrate to keep from crushing him to her with all her strength.

  After their guests had departed, he had returned to their bedroom without a word and had begun to undress. She had followed suit.

  I hope he can sleep. I know I won't.

  How the hell am I going to leave him tomorrow to go to work?

  Only that morning, she could not imagine what there might be in the world for her to fear. Less than eighteen hours later, she could not imagine how she could have been such a fool.

  It was the first night in more than three months that they didn't make love.

  ***

  The last evening of the annual New York State Police Commanders' Convention was held every year at the Schuylkill Manor in Ossining, one of the finest hotels in New York. It was always a lavish affair. No detail was overlooked. No expense was spared. It was also entirely stag.

  Raymond Lawrence, Chief of Police for Onteora County, lifted his huge body from his chair with a meaningless nod to the nearest of his whooping and clapping confreres, turned away from the garish tableau of all-but-naked dancers posed in enticing but improbable positions, and strolled toward the balcony area, where enormous, floor-to-ceiling windows looked out on the Hudson River. In Ossining, the Hudson had the breadth and dynamism of a great river, and none of the metropolitan distractions that might keep someone from noticing how beautiful it really was. A hundred miles further north, it was little more than another country stream, but here, you could lose your cares in it for hours.

  I haven't learned a new trick at one of these soirees in three or four years.

  He tried not to let it occupy his thoughts. At least the convention was a diversion from his usual cares. If he hadn't learned anything to his personal advantage lately, well, there was still the array of amusements, and the chance to pal around with his peers, and the off-chance that he might pick up something new again, someday.

  "Gorgeous, isn't she?" Eric Smalley's voice came from behind his left shoulder.

  Lawrence looked over his shoulder and grinned.

  "How's life in Onteora?"

  "Dull."

  "But profitable, I hope?"

  "I suppose." Lawrence shrugged. "Business ain't doing so well in the center of the state, Super Honk. You can't push 'em any too hard, or they go under."

  "The goose and the golden eggs, eh, Captain Badass? Same shit in Buffalo, maybe not as bad as yours."

  Lawrence looked the other cop up and down. "You don't look like you've missed any meals lately. Is that a Rolex?"

  Smalley grinned. "None other. Got it less than a month ago."

  "Don't wear that to work, do you?"

  "Ray, where in the country can a district commander legitimately afford a Rolex?" Smalley admired the watch. "But I wear it damned near everywhere else."

  "Leave it in your desk?"

  "Where else?"

  "Aren't you afraid, that shithouse you work in, somebody might snatch it on you?"

  "Naah. I'd find out who did it and give him a bad review."

  Lawrence barked a laugh. "Wouldn't you just. But life can't be too bad out west if you got wampum enough for that."

  "Well, you know me, always pushing the outside of the envelope."

  "Tried anything new lately?" Smalley was the group's premiere innovator, often brilliantly original and just this side of recklessly brash. Maybe here, away from the others, Lawrence could pick his colleague's brain for something he could use to make his personal gravy train chug along a little faster.

  "Oh, a refinement or two. Nothing dramatic."

  The tone of the statement screamed that Smalley wanted to tell his colleague all about it. So Lawrence prodded him again, and Smalley demurred again, for form's sake. Lawrence prodded him just once more, very gently, and Smalley unloaded the simplest, cleverest, safest damned money machine of a system that Lawrence had ever heard of.

  That evening, Raymond Lawrence went to his rest with dollar signs thudding through his head like dancing elephants. The next day, the Chief of Police for Onteora County was stopped for speeding three times over the two hundred mile drive back to his home turf. It would have been six, had all the state troopers he rocketed past been awake and ready to chase him.

  ====

  Chapter 27

  "You're sure you're okay?"

  "Sure as sunrise, Chris, but if you don't get a move on, you're going to be late. Not good policy on the second day."

  Christine rose from the table, went to where Louis sat, and planted a soft, lingering kiss o
n his forehead. He smiled.

  "Go get 'em, Tiger." His eyes drifted back to the newspaper.

  "Louis?" She bent to pet Boomer, who lounged on the kitchen floor beside Louis's chair. The Newfoundland grinned and wagged his tongue.

  "Hm?"

  "Can I kick someone today?"

  She scooted out the door before he could recover from his spasm of laughter.

  ***

  When the sound of the Chrysler's engine had died away, Louis tossed the newspaper aside, rose from the kitchen table and began to pace.

  What do I have to finish and in what order?

  At least his major fears had not materialized. Christine was employed and as safe as she would ever be. Now that Malcolm had agreed to provide her with continuing instruction, he could consider the most important jobs done.

  As coldly as he could manage, he reviewed all his involvements and obligations. After several minutes of straining to remember, he was surprised at how few there were. One daunted him far worse than the others. He hated the very idea of it, but the necessity arose from a decision already made, one he could not reopen without losing what remained of his resolve.

  Do the worst first, champ. Don't succumb to the temptation to put it off.

  He went to his office and powered up the computer. The aging machine came slowly to life before him.

  This'll probably be our last dance together, Aries. Don't let me down.

  When the bootstrap sequence had completed, he brought up his word processor and opened a new document.

  Dear Christine,

  By now, you know that something is terribly wrong...

  It took shape slowly. He tried to force himself to type without editing. If it was poorly worded or awkwardly phrased, so be it. He would count himself lucky to be able to do it at all.

  He heard Boomer mount the stairs. The huge dog came to stand beside him and stared at the monitor as if he could read what it said. He didn't seem to like it. Louis stroked his head, and he settled onto the floor.

  The day passed in silence.

  ***

  To keep from thinking upsetting thoughts about Louis, Christine focused on her work with manic concentration. It helped that the task Rolf had set her was fascinating. She wasn't sure she could meet his accuracy criteria, but by two that afternoon she had a program that would run within the allotted time even with a 10,000 entry visual signature database to review, well in excess of the project requirement. She checked it over several times, saved her files to a removable disk and made for Svenson's cubicle.

  Wonder if I'll ever get used to all this gray.

  You'll get used to it. When it starts to get to you, think about black leather and greasy denim.

  Shut up, Nag.

  At least she didn't own a gray suit.

  Svenson, as usual, was hunched over his own machine.

  "Rolf?"

  "Hm?" He turned toward her, eyebrows raised.

  "Want to try it out?"

  His eyebrows knitted. "You're really finished?"

  "Well, yes. I'm not sure it meets the accuracy threshold, but I've got it running in real-time on a 10,000 signature database."

  He shook his head. "I thought you were kidding me yesterday. All right, where on the server is it?"

  She gave a directory specification. He stroked his keyboard, found her program, and fired it up.

  "All right, now how do I specify a pattern to be checked?"

  She leaned over his shoulders and put her fingers to his keyboard.

  "I've got a bunch set up for testing. Goes like this..."

  ***

  It was ten to five when Svenson decided that Christine's program had proved itself.

  "Four percent false positives, less than two percent unidentified. That's more than twice as good as we needed. Not a crash all day. You're sure you've never done anything like this before?"

  "Honest to God, Rolf."

  Svenson sat back, hands behind his head. "Louis Redmond trained you?"

  She grinned. "Yup."

  "No college or trade school?"

  "Nope."

  "That guy is worth his weight in gold. And so are you, by the way. Congratulations on the completion of your first project. Care to guess how much time and manpower we had budgeted for it?"

  "Maybe you'd better just tell me."

  "Four engineers, three months. A full man-year." While she absorbed the numbers, he rose and stretched the kinks from his lower back.

  Roger's going to like this. We've got ourselves a new Louis. And the new model's a hell of a lot more decorative. No offense, Louis.

  "Rolf? This doesn't mean you've got nothing more for me to do, does it?"

  He chuckled. "No and hell no! This department is swamped. We've got so many unassigned tasks it would take me a month just to read all the acronyms to you. You stay right where I put you and don't worry about a thing. I'll make sure to keep you busy."

  "Okay." She grinned.

  He admired her for a moment.

  Where have they gone, all those eager-to-please young ones who had all that energy and confidence? God grant she's not the last. She's so splendid.

  "Come on, let's get your purse and I'll see you out."

  "Oh, you don't have to. I know where the exit is now."

  He pretended to horror. "Nothing doing! I have to protect you. You could still get lost in this maze, or worse."

  "Worse?"

  "You could get kidnapped by another project. Well, it's worse from my perspective, anyway."

  She giggled, and he offered her his arm.

  After she had left, he returned to his cubicle, fished up the source code to her program and studied the implementation. The evening hours rolled by as he savored her work, one powerful mind caressing the product of another.

  Programmers have sharply individual styles, and their work always identifies them. Some are all flash and verve, like young acrobats eager to show off every move they've ever learned. Some are all control and order, austere classicists who prize predictability and never stray from standard techniques. A rare few strike out in new directions, trailblazers who strive to bring something new into the digital universe whatever the cost or risk.

  There was a lot of Louis Redmond's style in Christine's, to be sure. Throughout her program, Svenson could see the kind of elegant data structure design and emphasis on economy that had been the Redmond trademark. It was only natural. In teaching her his trade, Louis would have harped on it. But there was more.

  She had understood the problem, the informational and technological backdrop for the problem, and all the symmetries it contained. She had created a well enclosed solution that completely exploited the data and all those symmetries, but had no detectable side effects. Every part of her program did what she intended it to do, and no more. It was peculiarly gemlike.

  He was certain he would see the pattern repeated in anything else she crafted. She seemed to see things whole.

  This is the work of a major talent. This is star quality.

  Svenson knew his own quality. Before that day he'd met only one colleague who was his superior as a software artisan: Louis Redmond. Now he'd met two.

  I can still hate you for leaving, Redmond, but I guess I have to thank you now, too.

  Svenson laughed, powered down his computer, and slid into his jacket.

  ***

  Chief of Police of Onteora County Raymond Lawrence had the most opulent office to be found in any building north of New York City. His oversized desk, his credenza, his barrister's bookcases and his breakfront were all handcrafted from mahogany and teak. His high-backed desk chair and his two guest armchairs were upholstered in glove leather. His carpet was thick, fine, soft, and very deep. His awards and citations were framed to match the dark woods around them. Numerous decorative objets d'art in jade, pewter, silver and gold were scattered about.

  Wendell Magruder, commander of the Onteora First Precinct, and John Ashford, commander of the Second Precinct
, could have been two more statues perched in his guest chairs had they been attractive enough.

  "Well? Any reason why it won't work here?" Lawrence's eyes darted from face to face, daring them to object.

  Ashford was first to speak.

  "Jesus, Boss, if Smalley can make it play in Buffalo, I guess we can make it play here. But how hasn't he been found out yet by the other districts?"

  Lawrence shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe he has. Maybe there's an arrangement. We can come up with our own approach. What're you thinking about, Wendy?"

  Magruder's gaze rested on one of the jade figurines in Lawrence's display case. "It's got more than one angle to it," he said, slumping down in the leather guest chair. "We can fine-tune it to maximize both regular and under-the-table revenue. We'd still go after the unlicensed ones, right, Chief?"

  Lawrence nodded, wondering what Magruder had foreseen that he hadn't. The man was a major brain. Wasted in this kind of work, really.

  "And we'd want to limit the licenses, both in number and in scope, so that the good citizens didn't get the idea that we were useless, but rather that we needed more resources. So more money comes in from County Center, maybe from Albany, too. We'll have to bring at least a couple of the auditing staff in on it."

  Lawrence grinned and nodded. "I think we'll be able to afford a couple of accountants, once the thing gets rolling."

  Super Honk ain't gonna be the only one wearing a Rolex.

  "The problem's going to be marketing, reaching the customer." Magruder was still staring at the ceiling. "Our target customer won't come in here of his own free will. So how do we get him into the shop to hear the sales pitch for our new product?"

  Lawrence smiled. "How do we usually get him in here, Wendy?"

  Ashford looked over at Magruder. Magruder straightened up quickly, a grin spreading across his features. "Of course. Shit!"

  "Follow that a little further, boys. Attractive terms for every first-time customer, including being kicked loose and all his arrest paperwork getting misplaced. Misplaced but not lost, mind you, because we'll want it handy in case a customer should happen to miss a payment, won't we?"

  Ashford's face twisted into an incredulous one-sided grin. "Chief, you're a friggin' genius."