Take the Fourth

by Jeffrey Walton

  “Aunt Gracie, you really can’t mean that?”

  “Looking back at it after all these years… I think I really do… but I cannot complain, I’ve had a good life, I have lots of family, though no children of my own, I always considered you my daughter. I was able to watch you blossom into a great sophisticated woman… . your mother would be so proud… . I’m so proud of you Jorja,” seemingly holding back the tears.

  “Aunt Gracie…,” Jorja so wanted to ask more questions, deeper questions, but she could see her aunt was trying to not cry, so she reached across and grabbed her hand.

  “It’s alright child… like I said I’ve had a good life… . I have loved in this life… maybe I feel a tinge of regret because I have not been loved the way I always dreamed of… but…”

  “But Aunt Gracie… I do love you.”

  “Yes I know, I know child, I love you too, so very much… it’s just that…,” and the tears started to roll down her cheeks, as though she just had an epiphany. She stood up to grab a tissue from Floyd’s desk and Jorja stood up as well. The hugged each other for awhile and neither said a word until Aunt Gracie caught her composure. “I still have much to tell you about your mother and what a wonderful person she truly was.”

  “Another day perhaps?”

  “Some day real soon, my child.”

  “Aunt Gracie… . thank you… . thank you for always being there for me… I know I don’t say it enough… I do love you… I love you like a mother.”

  “Thank you for making me feel so proud, I love you too,” and with that they each wiped their eyes and headed back out to the family room where the rest of the family was still hanging on Uncle Floyd’s every word.

  Now Jorja had a lot on her mind. She had a beyond a reasonable doubt that just maybe, just maybe her uncle was her father, especially learning of their romantic involvement. She could easily see two people being such in love, were always going to be in love with each other, then one day out of the blue they reconnect. She also had in that analytical mind of hers the fingerprints on the boat. Why were my uncle’s prints on that boat? Only one person really knew the answer to that and she would eventually have to talk to him.

  . . .

  Chapter 12

  She started to stir and he watched through a full length one-way mirror. He was watching ever since he locked the door. His watching room was like a little closet, very dark with the only illuminating light coming from her wicker lamp in the pink room. There was an air vent from her room to his room which permitted audible sounds to enter in both directions. He had a dining room chair with a thin burgundy striped cushion and a box of tissues and some bottled water. There were no other comforts of home in his watching room. From his seated position he could see almost every inch of her room… even into the bathroom for there was no door on that room. He watched her closely and again she stirred. Within 15 minutes her eyes were open. She didn’t move. He could tell she was confused.

  “Mommy,” just as faint as could be.

  No answer of course. He just sat there watching ever so intently.

  “Mommy,” just a little louder this time.

  Still he did nothing, just watching like a cat watching its prey. She sat up but barely, as she used one arm for support. She wasn’t just confused she was nauseous and her forehead was scrunched from her pain. This time the “Mommy” was a bit loud; it startled him. He assessed his wise investment in sound proofing the walls. It wasn’t any fancy sound proofing that one would buy at a high-end audio/video store, it was just a bunch of rubber mats and some sliced up used tires wedged in between the studs and ceiling joists. He was satisfied that no sounds could be heard for he did an earlier test with the record player turned onto its maximum setting. It could barely be heard from the bottom of the cellar stairs. Again, “Mommy,” even louder than before, so loud it caused her great pain and she began to cry. She made her way off the bed with tears rolling down her cheeks and went to the first door she saw. She opened it. It was the closet. Her confusion deepened. She glanced in all directions and found what she was looking for—another door. She approached the steel door and moved the handle, it didn’t budge. “Mommy,” again as more and more tears were streaming down her face. She knocked on the door and it echoed a hollow thud. She knocked again to no avail. “Mommy, mommy… . mommy,” in between sobs and a sniffling nose. He could tell she was in pain and that is was a headache which he assumed was from the chloroform. Her eyes were starting to grow puffy and red as wails of pain and confusion did not dissipate, even for a minute. He wanted to help, he wanted to hold her, tell her everything was going to be all right, he knew he had to wait, he knew he had to wait for love to take its course. Her crying, sobbing, and sniffling went on for another thirty minutes all the while he sat in silence and just watched. Finally she made her way back to the bed and fell asleep from deep exhaustion and pain. He took this opportunity to open the door and place a few items of food on the bureau. He placed an apple, a banana, a box of animal crackers, some peanut butter cookies, bottled fruit juice, and a bag of pretzels, then turned to look at his precious little girl, he briefly thought about another kiss but decided against it—there was plenty of time for that in the future. He walked out the door and clicked all three locks to their locked position. His little girl was safe at last; his little girl was home at last.

  He made his way upstairs to tidy up a bit. He fixed himself a nice dinner which consisted of chicken Marsala and asparagus and poured himself a generous glass of cheap chardonnay. For a time in his life he worked in a restaurant. Started out as a dish washer and because he never took a day off and was always on time they moved him to food prep where he never took a day off and was always on time. From there they made him a line cook and there he stayed. He wasn’t the best, especially in busy times but he held his own. He was good at pasta, his secret being adding a ton of butter just at the end of a sauce for a creamy rich finish, even though butter was never a key ingredient explained to the customers—they loved every bit of it—no questions asked. He always had to laugh because most customers just assumed pasta was on the healthy side, especially if a bunch of vegetables were thrown into the mix but with about a quarter stick of butter in each dish, this was highly unlikely. After the new owners moved in, they cleaned out the kitchen staff and started from a clean slate, so he was without a job. He tried to find other jobs as a cook but no such luck, so he fell back to construction work in which he learned during the summers while still in high school. He hated it. He hated the outdoors, the hot sun and sweaty days. He didn’t last long and he found a job away from the sun and at night… he now cleans offices after closing hours.

  He clicked on the evening news and as expected one of the top stories was indeed the little girl, Ripley Newenberg age five. He learned her name. He learned her age, then he learned the most shocking news yet… as the news reporter stated—“Earlier today Ripley Newenberg, age five was taken from this Forest Park recreational park, just slightly before eleven this afternoon, right before she was to have lunch with both parents. Ripley Newenberg is from Fort Valley and is the child of Benjamin and Lindsay Newenberg. Benjamin is the borough manager. Police are doing everything in their power. If you have any information regarding the missing little girl you are urged to call immediately… .” Whatever the reporter said after that fell on deaf ears, for all he could dwell on was the town Ripley was from, Fort Valley, that town was the next town over… “son-of-a—bitch” he said aloud, then thought, everything went so well and now this. Then a picture flashed on the screen, a pencil drawn sketch more like it and he heard the words from the reporter, “walks with a limp”. He was shocked… . and relieved, the picture looked nothing like him… . so he thought.

  . . .

  Chapter 13

  With that free cup of Joe in one hand and adjusting her frames with the other, Jorja started to glanced over the daily budget for the 8th of April; there was such a thing as a daily budget, even though it was a Satu
rday, even though it was her birthday she was in the office, working, not off, not with her family or what was left of her family, not with friends, not opening any presents, not blowing out candles, but working; there was no birthday celebration for Jorja. She had an invite to her uncle’s but it just didn’t seem right to be there, something in the back of her mind was churning and she knew she would ask the wrong question or questions during dinner so she took the safe bet and opted out with the work excuse. She really wasn’t into work and her mind drifted to her mother, her father, her past and all those nagging questions she had yet to ask. She remembered her mother’s favorite dress, it was yellow, she was trying to remember the last time she saw her mother in it and before she knew it she was lost in a distant memory. When she refocused her mind she found herself looking at the yellow sticky attached to the corner of her twenty-one inch LCD screen. The yellow sticky had just a series of numbers, ending in twelve dot one six eight. She wrote this number down just before or after the shootings at the mall, she couldn’t remember when. She completely forgot about the sticky, it just became part of the monitor, along with other various fruit stickies from apples, bananas, and oranges. They were cheap decorations, a little collection of hers which simply faded into the bezel of her monitor. Then she started to remember why she wrote this IP address down in the first place, and quickly started wondering, wondering where this IP address led. There was some phrase amidst the back of her mind, something about a cat, something about curiosity, as she opened a DOS prompt and tried to communicate with the IP address. A simple command really: ping. Ping and the IP address and hit return. So ping she did and to much surprise she received a reply, very much like dialing a phone number, listening to it ring, and then someone picking up—basically proving that the number was indeed valid. Her answer was returned—three lines on the screen, each with the same exact IP address in return—meaning she was able to reach the computer, the computer that owned that IP address. The IP address ending in twelve dot one six eight. The IP address as of several months ago she herself personally locked down. The IP address that was somehow magically opened without her knowledge. The IP address that she couldn’t find the owner. The IP address that shouldn’t exist. The IP address ending in twelve dot one six eight.

  She dialed up the report server and ran a report. The same report that was once her responsibility; the same report she ran on the day of the massacre, the same report that showed the IP address; she just couldn’t leave well enough alone. She ran her report for December 24th and it showed nothing. It didn’t show the IP address in any of the back logs since the massacre. No one seemed to have hit the IP address which was a good sign, a good sign until she ran the report for today, for her birthday. Again the report showed not one hit. “How is that possible?,” she questioned herself. She had just pinged the IP address and it returned an answer. Unsure of herself she double-checked and pinged again. Same reply, same exact three lines on the screen. She was able to communicate with this computer and the hit should have registered on the daily report. She ran the report again and again and still nothing. Then she ran it for the day of the massacre. “Strange,” the IP address didn’t show, it seemed to vanish into thin air but she saw it with her own two eyes just a few months before. She blocked it and wrote it down on a yellow sticky which she affixed to her flat screen monitor, yet that IP address didn’t exist on the report when she reran it for the day of the massacre, the 23rd. She quickly went back to her saved report from that day. Sure enough, the IP address was correct. The IP existed on this old, saved report yet somehow magically disappears when she reran the report for the 23rd at this present time. She should get the same results. It is like it didn’t exist, yet she was able to ping this computer, she was able to see this computer, so it did exist. So instead of dealing with the report server she went directly to the router’s interface, the piece of hardware that helps communicate between computer and computer. She redid her steps to block the IP address again, basically denying access again to anyone who would want to communicate with this machine, just like she did on the day of the massacre at the mall. Again she couldn’t leave well enough alone. Again she pinged the machine and again it came back with a reply. “Impossible,” she thought. “Impossible,” she just blocked that IP address at the router level yet she was still able to communicate with the machine. No one should have access, not even herself. “Odd,” she thought, “Very odd indeed.” Perplexed she just turned around and stared at her orange and blue eye on her wall and was hypothesized for a brief moment. She went to refill her coffee cup and stared some more, thought some more. The coffee got the best of her and she made her way to the lavatory. While rinsing her hands she noticed the fine wood, then she noticed the nice marble floor with inlay, then she noticed the stalls, how each unit was closet like, more private, she noticed the lighting was a bit dimmer, the towels just a little thicker—it was almost as good as home. She felt strange in the sense she was here before yet never noticed, in and out so to speak. Then she realized, “the restrooms on other floors are not like this”. They were the usual metal stalls, tile flooring and walls, very bright, and cheap paper. “Ah, the perks of an executive, this is nice.” Then it hit her like a piano falling from a five story building. “Access level.”

  She made her way back to the computer and brought up the security protocols. She brought up her security level and it read level two. She could not change her own even though she was the top guard dog of security. She was at level four before her promotion. This could explain a few things but not all of them. Again she went to the report server this time bringing up a report entitled “Security Clearance for Reports”. This one stated all the report names and the security levels of each report. On her IP Address report, FULL ACCESS was granted to only the level one security holders, LIMITED ACCESS was granted to level two and below. “A wall… . dammit!” She had the same level access as when she was a peon in a cubical. But just like that old pair of roller skates she refused to throw out from the eighth grade, she dove into her old pile of junk, aka, her hard drive, searching for buried treasure, a clue, an old report. After several minutes of digging, she found the same report entitled “Security Clearance for Reports” from over a year ago. The report of reports showed a level two for FULL ACCESS, and not a level one for the IP Address report. Between this report of old and the report of new the level access was changed by someone, good money on the “when” was placed on within the last several months. Now that would explain a lot but not the “why” or the “who”. She reached for the phone and dialed Greg’s extension knowing all too well he would answer, even though it was the weekend.

  “Happy birthday, Jorja.”

  “What…” and caught her off guard.

  “I said happy birthday, your last year in your thirties I do believe.”

  “Um… . thank you but . .”

  “Come on, you really don’t need to ask that now do you? I know lots of things.”

  “Yeah, I know but…”

  “Listen I could tell you where you ate dinner last night and even make an educated guess as to what you had for dessert, but why did you really call?”

  “Reports,” finally getting to her but.

  “What about them?”

  “Who has access to change their access level?”

  “Well, you for starters but you know that, well only the ones you have full access to, then there’s Mike or Pete, that’s probably about it… . oh and then there’s me of course.”

  “You?”

  “Jorja, you should know by now I can hack my way around even the best laid CIA’s securities.”

  “Which brings me to the point of this call, can you do some snooping?”

  “Sure thing, name your poison but I bet it has something to do with report access.”

  “I need you to find out who and when changed the access level on the IP Address report. I have one from a year ago which states a full access by level two and above, but when I ru
n it for today it shows only level one has full access.”

  “That’s strange to say the least, that report has always been level two, ever since the day I created it.”

  “Then I’m taking to the expert.”

  “You sure are, I’m on it, shouldn’t take long… . and by the way, home and nothing.”

  “What?”

  “Home and nothing, the answers to the questions where did you have dinner and what for dessert.”

  “You know me so well.”

  “That’s the plan.”

  “Well then, thanks for my birthday greeting.”

  “You’re welcome, and by the way, I have a present for you… . nothing much mind you.”

  “What?”

  “It’s just that I will refuse to end this conversation with a Simpson’s quote.”

  “Well thank you, that was a gift from the heart, now remember, I want the answers now or eventually! Facts are meaningless. You could use facts to prove anything that’s even remotely true,” and she quickly hung up knowing all too well there was a man sitting in front of an array of monitors that was flabbergasted.