Clean

by Tom Lytes

  “Oh, dear,” he said.

  He turned up the brightness on his laptop and tilted the screen. Adding Peggy Whitfield’s name to the guilty list must have allowed the computer justification to cut more corners than expected. Vortmit delved into the data.

  “Men and women with long hair that own Subaru Forester’s seemed to be particularly unlucky. Seven-hundred people and counting who ate Chinese take-out on March seventh and April fifteenth and paid with a Visa—”

  He closed the laptop.

  “Clean’s out of control. Completely out of control.”

  He’d dragged thousands of people into a death spiral, evidently, just trying to quietly eliminate her. Many more than expected, but oddly fitting for such an attractive woman? Under different circumstances, he might have pursued at least a physical relationship between them. He knew from experience that anything deeper, regarding relationships, didn’t work out. Focusing on work, Vortmit beat his feelings of attraction for Peggy into the recesses of his mind.

  He forced himself to spend the time to get Clean back under control. His Leonard persona could have cared less, but he overrode those impulses and tried to look after the long-term well-being of his actual self, of Vortmit. If he could stop the random carnage, it might mollify the portion of his brain that created his endless nightmares. Haunted sleep created from senseless death.

  He scoured the list of names, finding Clean’s “guilty” a parade of unknown, unwitting souls. The sheer number made them seem impossible to care about. He located Peggy Whitfield’s name… twice.

  “Wait a minute—”

  He looked more closely.

  Peggy Whitfield’s name could only appear on the guilty list after a manual input. He’d done that. To be there twice meant somebody else inputted her name manually, also.

  “Rube—”

  He closed the laptop and gazed out at the ocean.

  He needed to speed up his plans, again. All hell was breaking loose.

  Vortmit hesitated, thinking through the possible scenarios and ripple effects of the next phase of his plan. All he needed to do was type a few seemingly innocuous letters on his keyboard and press send. It seemed so simple, and yet he struggled with the action. He tried to tell himself the decisions were made long ago, and now was about execution. It was different now because of Peggy’s input into the program. He stopped himself. Was it different, or was he growing soft?

  “I might be,” Vortmit said to himself quietly, “but there will be no escaping the nightmares, I suppose, either way.”

  Vortmit typed a sentence and pressed send. It was done. A flurry of pre-conceived actions would become reality as a chain of events would unfold, per Vortmit’s instructions. He paused at the door before leaving to collect himself and give himself completely back to Leonard. When his mind was in the right place, he stepped out to get something to eat.

  “I’m hungry,” Peggy said, rejoining Finley.

  “Didn’t we just eat?” Finley said.

  “No, that was a long time ago.”

  “Oh,” said Finley, looking at his watch, his facial expression saying, “It wasn’t.”

  “Let’s go out somewhere casual on the island. We’ll drive straight there, and we’ll eat. If we go to Clemson later, we won’t want to be hungry.”

  “Good point,” Finley tucked a silver, dense looking computer into a carrying bag. “I’ve been working on a methodology to stop Clean once we can access it at its host computer. I’m still working through the details.”

  Peggy grabbed his wrist and all but pulled him out the door until they were strapping the seatbelts of Finley’s miniscule car rental, provided by the FBI’s per diem.

  They drove down Middle Street, and after a few blocks pulled along the curb in front of the basketball and tennis court facility. There were two teams of big men playing an athletic game of pick-up basketball.

  “I wonder if those guys live on the island?” Peggy asked as they got out of the car.

  “Probably some of them.” Finley put his arm around Peggy’s shoulder. She flinched but allowed it as they strolled down the block to a restaurant called Poe’s Tavern. “Edgar Alan Poe, the inventor of horror writing, stayed on the island a while,” Finley said, pointing. “I read about it on the plane down here.”

  “You mean the guy who wrote The Raven?”

  “That’s him, and The Tell-Tale Heart, which is my favorite. I can still lose sleep thinking about it. This place is named after him, and while his stories creep me out, this restaurant is supposed to serve awesome casual food.”

  Inside, the hostess greeted them and asked if they wanted seats at the bar. Peggy graciously declined for them and they settled into a booth underneath a movie poster featuring a mask with eyes and teeth spilling from it. They ordered seared tuna tacos and a hamburger for them to share.

  The food came quickly, and Finley moved the conversation along to the evening ahead.

  “I might need as many as two hours in the computer building before I’ll know if I can entice the program to enter the supercomputer. If I can, I need to work through the night inside there, without being disturbed, to neutralize the program.”

  Peggy said, “That could be a problem. Especially if we run into an alarm or silent security system. And wouldn’t they have security that would know you were messing around in their computer and alert somebody? We might be looking at staying undetected for a few minutes at most. A few hours could be way too long of a time.”

  “I can take care of the computer’s security. I’m more worried about getting into a facility which will be locked up tight, and probably have armed guards watching security cameras or on patrol.”

  “Okay,” Peggy said, “and can I ask you a question?”

  “Sure,” Finley said.

  “Is there a reason why the FBI isn’t more involved? No offense to you, Fin, but where’s all the other agents? Do we really need to sneak into a supercomputer, or can you have forty FBI agents storm the place and get this done?”

  Finley’s face turned crimson enough to see, even in the dim light. Jimmy Buffet’s song about blowing out a flip-flop played in the background.

  “The thing is—”

  “What?”

  “Nobody at the bureau believes me. I told them about my concern with the program. How Ms. Bourgeaux thought a computer hired her husband, but then I couldn’t find her.”

  “So, what you’re telling me, Fin, is that everybody at the FBI is having quite a jolly at your expense.”

  Finley shrugged, “They put hazmat seals on all my electronics, even my clock, my calculator, the electric toothbrush in my desk drawer. Whenever I walk by somebody, they pretend to be attacked by their phone or kindle or whatever.”

  Peggy stifled a guffaw, and it came out as a laugh. “You’re here flying solo, then.”

  Finley nodded as he ate a French fry. “My orders are to ‘find new avenues of investigation.’ I figured I could do that with you.”

  “Sounds a little kinky, Fin. I didn’t know you were so adventurous.”

  Finley smiled and looked away, “Hey, Peggy—”

  “Relax, nothing’s changed. This is all about stopping Clean and staying one step ahead of Leonard. It still seems as though our best shot is to try to lure it into the supercomputer.”

  “Right, so we’re back at obtaining access. Did Bobby Touro have any ideas?”

  “Not yet,” Peggy said. “I don’t want to count on him, but I don’t know if we can do what needs to be done on our own. I found out the Clemson supercomputer is located off campus in a town called Anderson, South Carolina.”

  “That’s probably good, right?”

  “Yes, and no,” Peggy said. “If it were on campus, I’d bet the place’s security would revolve around cameras and maybe some University Police. Neither would necessarily s
low us down much. Off campus could be a different story. On the other hand, the place might be deserted at night, way out in a small town.”

  “Keep in mind that a computer like that would cost millions of dollars,” Finley said, “and it could be even more valuable for its computations. It might be working on an answer to a genetic question involving massive amounts of data and calculations. The value of its work on the one question could be extraordinary as far as research money and time.”

  “Yeah,” Peggy said. She claimed the hamburger for her own after one bite. “I get it. It’s going to be tough. Man, this burger is good.”

  “Yup,” Finley said, smiling. He squeezed lime onto his fish taco. Little pieces of fresh pineapple were falling out of the ends. The taco looked like it was in total control as Finley contorted himself to bring it to his mouth without spilling too much.

  Peggy watched him for a minute and then asked, “Finley, you’re basically just a big kid, aren’t you?”

  Finley shrugged his shoulders. “I know two things. Computers, Peggy, and I thought we could work out okay.”

  Peggy put her hand to his face. For years, she had been tough and steadfast. She’d been fighting for her own survival against Bobby Touro-- and the judicial system too – caught somewhere uncomfortable between evil and what was supposed to be good.

  Her personal life imploded dramatically when Rhodes was sent to jail. It made her truly alone, and her life with horses ended at the same time. There was such a big hole in her life from the loss of both. She didn’t think it could get worse, but then she killed Doyle.

  When she fled to Sullivan’s Island, she felt optimistic despite the recent turmoil in her life. Maybe it was the change of scenery and people, or an island vibe, but she felt the optimism without being able to explain it. Bobby Touro was in her life again, but less aggressively and their interests seemed aligned. And even with the Clean program hounding her, she felt a lightness, a happiness. There were unsettling moments like now, when she longed for Finley and a stable relationship. She was afraid of having something with him that was more than sex, and she wondered if she could trust him. Did he tell her everything, or was he always holding back? But who was she to criticize somebody for having secrets, or for suppressing something going on in their life that they didn’t want to talk about.

  In the meantime, she reminded herself, she was happy. Finley was great company. Maybe it was time for the sex part of their relationship to resume. She could figure out if she’d let anything more meaningful develop afterward. Wouldn’t her past get in the way?

  Her fingers grazed Finley’s chest as she brought her hand back onto the table.

  She leaned into him and said quietly, “Let’s get out of here.”

  Finley looked like he’d flip the table with the speed at which he responded.

  Messing with him, Peggy said, “We need to get ready to drive out to Anderson. It’s a two-hour drive.”

  Looking crestfallen, Finley brought his mind back to the business at hand.

  “Yeah,” Leonard said. “I’m still worried about getting in and having enough time when we get there. That’s assuming I can figure out how to stop this program, which I may not even be able to do.”

  Peggy raised her eyebrows and punched his arm.

  “Just messing with you, Fin. We might find a couple minutes to set our heads straight before we lose ourselves in all that, huh?”

  “Uh,” Finley said, searching her eyes, confirming her thoughts. “Yeah.”

  “Let’s go,” Peggy said.

  Finley took Peggy’s hand and all but ran from the restaurant onto Middle Street. The evening was alive with people. Dining and hanging around the bars, tourists from the beach mixed with professionals stopping by after their work day.

  “You get what you want,” Finley said, laughing quietly. “Don’t you?”

  Peggy didn’t answer but took his hand and led him to the car rental down the street. Dozens of bugs, two inches in length, elevated on spindly legs just far enough off the ground to yield a shadow from the streetlights, scattered in nonsensical directions on the sidewalk in front of them.

  “Whoa,” Peggy said. “What the heck are those things, miniature dinosaurs?”

  “I think they’re called Palmetto Bugs,” Finley said. “Which is a euphemism for one hell of a big cockroach.”

  It was in that innocuous moment when Peggy felt contained in an almost perfect existence on the island that a brilliant, unnatural flash of light lit up the sky. It was followed by a “whumpf” sound that might be simulated by amplifying the implosion of a dozen watermelons inside of Finley’s rented Smart Car.

  “What the—”

  Seconds later Peggy and Finley stood still in the unnatural silence that followed the blast. The air around them felt vacuum-packed. An innate animal instinct made them unseen and unheard. The still, and the calm, and the quiet, lasted until the sound of a single siren pierced the night. Then more sirens joined the first and a police car sped by them. Peggy and Finley began to run in the direction the police car was headed. They ran a block, and could see the fire station ahead of them. It was a hive of activity and before long, a parade-like line of red vehicles went out of the big garage doors with their lights and sirens blaring. They left almost all at once, and Peggy couldn’t help but notice the department’s marvelous orchestration of emergency response. The abruptness of the moment faded as the sirens travelled away from them to the south. They possibly travelled as far as the end of the island before they halted movement. Peggy didn’t remember anything being down in that quiet, residential area except Leonard’s place, small streets and other houses (including Barbara Pelman’s brother’s house). What could have created the huge flash and deafening sound?

  “Oh, man,” Finley said. “Something big just happened.”

  “Yeah,” Peggy said quietly.

  28

  Peggy took off towards the rental car and Finley kept stride just behind her.

  When they arrived at the vehicle, Peggy yelled, “I’m driving, okay?”

  “Sure.” Finley tossed his keys to her over the roof of the car.

  Peggy caught them with one hand. Seconds later they were in the Smart Car, tailing a National Park Service pickup truck with flashers on its roof that pulled out of the Fort Moultrie parking lot. A block behind the pickup, they closed the distance fast when Peggy floored the vehicle. It jumped forward, despite sounding like a hot air popcorn popper. Peggy braked hard by the time they caught up to the truck, as it reduced speed at a beach path. The driver slowed almost to a stop, and Peggy watched the ranger look toward the beach. Evidently not seeing what he was looking for, he sped to the next. He slowed to look down that one too and sped to the next again. He was obviously looking for something.

  Peggy mimicked the start and stop driving, and the Smart Car lurched forward. Leonard hit his head on the windshield more than once.

  “Peggy, oh my…ow,” he said. “Slow down. Doesn’t the island end in a few blocks? There isn’t anywhere else to go. You’re going to end up driving us into the harbor.”

  They passed Leonard’s house. At the next beach access path, the Ranger’s pickup sped off the road and down the walking path. A plume of sand flew out from underneath the back of the truck in a rainbow of grit as one of the tires spun. Sand flew onto the windshield of the Smart Car reducing visibility to nothing.

  Peggy stopped short just off the paved road, “We’ll get stuck. I think we should leave the car here. Let’s go.”

  It didn’t take long before they were out of the car and running towards the beach. When they crested a small dune, Peggy, who was in the lead, saw enough to slow her down to a walk. Finley, still running with his head down, ran into her. They both fell into the sand. In front of them, a few hundred yards off the beach in the water, a massive cargo ship carrying thousands of shipping cont
ainers was completely engulfed in flame. The intensity of the light and heat made the night feel like day.

  There were small, nimble rescue boats retrieving men from the water that looked insignificant compared to the enormous spectacle of the burning ship. Peggy could see paint peeling off containers as fire licked around them.

  The Sullivan’s Island Fire and Rescue team worked to deploy jet skis into the water while several firemen talked into radios, and others set up a tent with oxygen tanks and stretchers to form what looked like a makeshift triage station. A red helicopter hovered above the scene as ambulances began to arrive at the beach path where they waited with their lights flashing. Flares were being set up on the beach and Peggy recognized a clear action plan being executed to perfection.

  Peggy ran to speak with Officer Pincus, who stood nearby and was talking crisply into a walky-talky.

  “Oh, my God…” Peggy said as they made eye contact.

  “God has nothing to do with it,” Officer Pincus said.

  “What happened?”

  Officer Pincus said, “Somebody lit that ship up good. No question about that. That’s what happened.”

  “How can I help?”

  “I figure another body would come in handy here, and I am supposed to keep an eye on you. You have first aid training?”

  “I’m an EMT,” Peggy said, nodding.

  Officer Pincus pointed Peggy to an area where officers were attempting to corral a small crowd of concerned island residents.

  Finley caught up to Officer Pincus.

  “Where do you need me?” Finley asked.

  “Does the ship have a flight recorder type black box like an airplane?”

  “I don’t know,” Finley said. “I can find out, and make sure the crews don’t do anything to compromise it.”

  Officer Pincus nodded. “Anything you can think of in those realms would be helpful. We don’t have the technological training locally to know what to look for.”