Clean

by Tom Lytes

  The room fell silent. The plan depended upon Clean staying in the same host computer. It required Finley and Leonard to monitor all of Rube’s computers and devices from afar as he checked the program’s status. Then it would be up to the virus.

  “Do you have the virus you’ll need?” Peggy asked Leonard.

  He nodded.

  Leonard spoke for everyone. “It’s worth a try.”

  “Yeah,” Bobby Touro said. “It isn’t bad. Might fucking work.”

  “So maybe you guys can write some email content we can send Rube,” Leonard said. “Something to really get the program’s attention. In the meantime, I’ll set everything up and see what I can do to start spying on his work and home computers.”

  “All right,” Bobby said. “How about, ‘Dear Rube, my dear, thanks for introducing me to all the safe-crackers. I loved it when we went and robbed the jewelry store with the neighborhood drug dealer. Thanks for the necklace. Did I mention I wanted to talk with you about killing my roommate?’”

  “Uh… I think you’re on the right track,” Peggy said. “I might edit it a little, but we’ll go with the gist of those themes.”

  46

  Vortmit needed to execute perfectly, but he felt surrounded, cramped in, by the strong personalities around him.

  For the first time, he thought Clean might never be contained. Forcing his Leonard persona to appear worried didn’t involve acting anymore. The input of Peggy’s name twice, and the subsequent addition of Carson and Santrelle to Clean did something more than skew its process. He couldn’t be sure yet, but their names seemed to go beyond redefining Clean’s mechanisms for finding guilt. It may have removed them completely. If he read the data correctly, Clean began killing randomly, having been taught to do so.

  He’d found out the information regarding Clean just as his Porsche became less of a sports car and more of a flaming afterthought. He’d stepped into the bathroom to regroup, only to emerge with Bobby Touro in his living room. What could happen next?

  Despite everything, he came up with the end plan. While it looked different from even minutes ago, he remained confident his goals would be reached. Variables might tweak the plan, like if Officer Pincus continued shooting missiles on the island. Unpredictable events couldn’t be planned for. Even Vortmit, who prided himself in expecting the worst in people, had no inkling Officer Pincus would go rogue so thoroughly and quickly.

  He typed at his keyboard and studied Finley, Peggy and Bobby with furtive glances. He pushed the tension from his temples and readied himself for what was to come.

  47

  Rube sat in his office. He threw out the papers that, up until yesterday, cluttered every counter surface and shelf around him. Consultant recommendations, donor lists, voter lists, an ‘I owe you’ list, and all kinds of polling data pertaining to the campaign filled the dumpster behind the building. His office, devoid of clutter, seemed spacious enough to spread out his lunch. And he needed space, having used the campaign’s credit card to order a deluxe sushi boat, octopus soup, and a bottle of imported Sake.

  His ringing phone became less insistent when he turned off the ringer. Even though it took the better of twenty minutes, he successfully altered its settings too, turning off voicemail altogether. No phones, limited email and unplugged from social media - Rube couldn’t be bothered by mundane tasks. It was all about the big picture now.

  With his phone on stealth mode, he didn’t immediately notice the eight emails that accumulated in his box, each from a different email address. Out of habit, he stumbled upon the long list of new emails a good way through the sushi boat, when he glanced at his phone absentmindedly. The first riveting email did little to prepare him for the others, and he coughed Fatty Tuna onto his shirt and pants. Wet sticky rice spatter did little to obscure the libelous words he read. Rube instantly thought about Clean and knew somebody was trying to mark him for death. Santrelle, or Carson, or both. They must have discovered that Rube added their names to the guilty list.

  Carson, four doors down from Rube in the campaign’s media room, would be at least another half hour. Rube could wait, at first. But by the time the seventy-third email arrived, something in Rube snapped. His vision blurred from stress, and the sushi boat soared off the table when he reached out to stabilize himself.

  Yelling into the office phone didn’t produce his secretary; he’d given her the rest of the week off after he cleaned his office. He needed to speak with Carson right away. He couldn’t wait for him to finish taping his interview.

  Ripping the lamp off the table next to him, he stopped to grab at the water pitcher his staff prepared for him earlier in the day. One in each arm, he stormed out of his office and through the media room door. An overly made-up woman in a blue dress laughed a little too hard along with the wonderful Carson Miller on a simple stage. She touched at his shoulder during the right moment, a response to something he said. The cameraman captured it, only looking up at Rube to see what could possibly be important enough to interrupt the fantastic video footage.

  Rube managed to put his finger up to his mouth in a hush gesture, and the cameraman went back to looking in the view screen atop the elaborate camera set-up. Rube didn’t hesitate to move into the room just out of the camera shot, and Carson and the reporter were too busy with themselves to look up at him. In a smooth motion, Rube poured the pitcher of water onto the metal floor of the media stage. Water puddled at Carson and the young lady’s shoes.

  Carson looked up at Rube and in an impatient tone said to him, “You need to wait outside, Rube. I can’t be bothered now.”

  Just off camera, and out of the harsh light of the media set, Rube became still. He dropped the lamp and watched.

  “I am so sorry for the interruption,” Carson said to the lovely lady in the blue dress. “Where were we?” He turned to the cameraman, “Splice out this section of the interview, okay?”

  The cameraman nodded back to Carson, and Rube stopped being able to hear. He saw the blonde woman respond with laughter and a dismissive wave towards Rube. She said something that must have been funny, because now Carson laughed too.

  Rube wanted to say nothing was funny, but he couldn’t articulate words.

  The interview flew back on track, evidently, because nobody paid attention to Rube anymore. Looking as though he might settle into the scene and watch, Rube ambled over to the side of the set. He leaned down and picked up one of the many thick black electric cords that wound around the floor, connecting lights and cameras to the large circuit breakers at the edge of the room. He unplugged the cord where it connected to a large square junction box, and the huge spotlights that lit up every inch of the room went dark.

  “Whoa,” Carson Miller said as he stood.

  “Uh,” the reporter said loudly, “what’s going on?”

  Rube ripped the connector off the junction box in a moment of rage-filled strength, exposing thick copper wires inside. He cocked his hand back and the thick cord gathered around his feet. In one swift motion, he hurled the heavy cord onto the stainless-steel stage in front of him. It took a few seconds to land in a whip-like motion. The copper end of the cord landed in the puddle of water at the feet of Carson Miller and the interviewer.

  An unnatural flash lit the room as the wire arced with electricity. The room sparked from the junction box on the other side of the room, finding an easy conduit to the ground through the elevated metal stage. Carson and the reporter’s hair stuck straight up while their bodies convulsed in a terrible arrhythmic jumble of movement. More sparks exploded as current overload couldn’t be contained in other junction boxes. The breakers finally blew, cutting the power off completely to the dark room. Rube waited a few seconds, enough time for the cameraman to jump from his elevated camera perch and silently run from the room.

  Rube strolled up to Carson, grabbed onto his head and twisted until he heard cru
nches, pops and snaps. He dropped the man he once idolized onto the metal stage. A member of the building’ security team pushed open the door. Rube didn’t even try to run; he was suddenly exhausted.

  48

  Santrelle took the call from her agent, Sergio. On the telephone, he proudly stated his first name and then, “from the William Morris Talent Agency in Los Angeles” with such fluidity that it may as well have been his last name.

  “Hi Vickie, there’s an email from Leonard. The job is over, and he gave you a generous bonus. The cash has already hit the books. Well done, girlie. I have to give you compliments. You nailed the complex, billionaire babe part.”

  “Over?” Vickie asked. “I’m not going to be Santrelle anymore? What about Carson Miller?”

  “No, you won’t be Santrelle anymore. It’s done.” The agent took a deep breath and infused his tone with compassion (real or otherwise). “Regrettably, Carson Miller has died.”

  “Died?” Vickie asked, “Of what?”

  “Uh, his campaign manager attacked him.”

  “Rube?” Vickie asked.

  “I wouldn’t know, dear,” Sergio said. “Now come back to Los Angeles right away. I’ve got something for you to do. A great out-of-town job. It’s a booking in Spain, on a soap opera miniseries. They won’t take no for an answer. It’s you they want, dear, and now.”

  49

  At that very moment, in South Carolina, Leonard twirled a pencil as he looked up from his laptop. “I’m cloning keystrokes from Rube’s computer. The next time he logs in, we’ll have the passcodes.”

  “Then you can end this?” Bobby asked.

  When Leonard nodded, Finley confirmed, “It should work.”

  “Leonard, you got a clean shirt I can borrow?” Bobby asked.

  Leonard said, “I might have a hooded sweatshirt that’s at least an extra-large.”

  He pointed behind him, and Bobby traipsed off to find it.

  Peggy followed and said, “I’ll help.”

  “You gonna show me where Boy Wonder keeps his clothes, Peg?” Bobby asked. “What’s that all about?”

  “Please, Bobby,” Peggy grabbed him by the arm and led him down the hallway where Leonard pointed. “I’m not interested.”

  “You see, Peg, I know that. But I also see how he looks at you, and it concerns me. Because whether you like it or not, I’m like a guardian angel for you. You don’t get to pick your guardian angel, either. So, it doesn’t bother me whether you want me looking after you or not. I’m gonna do it anyway.”

  “That’s both infuriating and endearing,” Peggy said. “Nothing would ever happen between me and Leonard.”

  “I’m telling you I’ve seen him look at you, Peg.”

  They were in Leonard’s closet, and Peggy reached up to a shelf with a Kiawah sweatshirt, and handed it to Bobby.

  “You know, Peg,” Bobby squeezed into the sweatshirt. “Nothing’s the same after this. There’s a chance Clean can’t be stopped, and we’ll be on the run from it.”

  “I’ve thought about that,” Peggy said. “It’s amazing how Officer Pincus is almost crazy to kill me. Whatever the program did riled him up, motivated him.”

  “Yeah,” Bobby said. “The program is just using human nature and manipulating us. Officer Pincus took a big risk taking out the Porsche like that. Hansel and Roger didn’t stand a fucking chance.”

  “And it could have been me in that Porsche. And Leonard and Finley, too,” Peggy said.

  “Damn right, and Pincus is out there now,” Bobby said as he flattened his hair.

  His phone rang, and he picked it up right away.

  “Is this important?” he said to his driver.

  His driver’s voice wavered on the other end of the connection, “Boss, we got a problem. Vito sent some boys over to the betting place, and at the same time he hit the money counting apartment over the restaurant, and your construction job downtown. They took all of it, and they rolled half a dozen of your guys in the street. A couple of them are in the hospital. The cops came and arrested a lot of your trusted men. He’s making a move against you.”

  Bobby blew air out of his mouth for a good couple of seconds. He sat on Leonard’s bed and looked at his hands. Gone was the big man swagger, the boss of men, and the leader of the depraved. Instead, Bobby Touro looked like a guy in a wicked tight sweatshirt who was having a tough day. His hands went up to his cheeks and Bobby rubbed his scruffy face. He looked out the window.

  “Get the fuck out,” Bobby said to his driver. “You got a small amount of time. You’ve got one chance to get out of town. Take whatever means anything to you and put it in my car and drive somewhere you’ve never been before. Go, and don’t tell anyone where you’re gonna end up, or you’ll be dead before the week’s end. You’re too close to me, and you know too much. They can’t let you just continue being up there until things settle down.”

  “Okay, boss. I’ll call you.”

  “Yeah,” Bobby said as he hung up. He studied the carpet. “This has to end.”

  Peggy nodded. She asked, “Everything okay?” as they walked back to where Leonard and Finley were intently typing on the keyboards of their laptops.

  Bobby shook his head, “Nah, Peg, it isn’t good. Vito moved on me. I can’t even fucking believe it.”

  Vortmit looked over the email he received from Vito. It was done. Bobby Touro’s reign over rural New York ended, and Vito said Rhodes, despite still being incarcerated, had taken control of everything Bobby built. Peggy looked lively, or at least alive, for the time-being, and who knows, thought Vortmit, maybe she’d survive. Either way, Vortmit would be paid handsomely. Soon, his Leonard persona would vanish forever. That good news felt tempered by what Vormit couldn’t control.

  Reorganizing his thoughts as Bobby and Peggy came back into the room, Leonard typed at his computer, surreptitiously signing into Clean and worrying about how quickly it spun out of his control. To clear his thoughts, he thought about the onset of the operation, He’d planned at this juncture to release the “kill” virus embedded into Clean, Theoretically, in a few days the program’s underlying code would break down as a result, making the program spin loops of circular thought that never created action. Meaning, Clean would become indecisive and incapable of making decisions. Now, Leonard couldn’t be sure his “kill” option would function correctly with the “thought” of the program circumvented. Clean had learned to kill at random.

  Leonard traced the root of the trouble to the entry of Peggy’s name to the guilty list, twice. Her instant appearance there became so unexplainable to the program’s logic, that Clean determined her death to be an appropriate, random act. When Clean repeated the process with other people, it became an expert at random killing. At that moment, Leonard lost control.

  And he hadn’t been able to stop the killing. No matter what he tried. Train crashes in New Mexico and North Carolina, fires in California, poisoned municipal water in Ohio, a tunnel collapse in Massachusetts, and the list of catastrophes kept growing.

  Leonard stifled his fears, and said, “I have good news. Rube signed into the program.”

  “What?” Peggy said. “Really? Can you find Clean?”

  “Yes,” Leonard said. “I’m tracking Rube’s online movements. He signed in a few minutes ago, and never signed out.” To distract the others, he shared, “Then it seems… he may have killed Carson Miller. There’s news coming live from Carson Miller’s campaign headquarters.”

  “What the—” Bobby Touro said. “I ate lunch with that guy, what, a week ago?”

  “Yes,” Leonard said, “he’s dead. Look at the news feeds on your phones. It’s unbelievable.”

  The headlines coming from New York speculated about the reasons behind the death of Carson Miller, as his demise grabbed the nation’s interest. Bobby looked over Peggy’s shoulder, at her phone.


  “I’m going to know in a few minutes if I can destroy the program,” Leonard said, as he went back to typing. “I’ll need a minute to work.”

  “Get it done,” Bobby Touro said dismissively, not looking up from the news. Peggy scrolled through story after story about Carson Miller’s life, political ascent and tragic death.

  No one paid much attention to Finley, probably because he’d spent hours feverishly glued to his computer despite everything else occurring around him.

  All that changed when he asked, “Leonard, is there somebody else?”

  “Somebody else?” Leonard asked.

  “What do you mean, Fin?” Peggy asked.

  Finley looked back at his computer and stood.

  “Is there an administrator built into Clean? Somebody doing more with the computer program than this Rube guy?”

  Leonard rethought every calculation he’d made regarding Agent Finley. In hindsight, Leonard should have instructed Ms. Bourgeaux to kill Finley in the woods that night when they’d gone to the river. She’d asked, and Leonard instructed her to keep him alive. What a mistake to underestimate the FBI Agent’s computer expert. Somehow, Finley navigated through the maze of gibberish Leonard gave him and found out somebody could control Clean at one point. Luckily, he didn’t know it was Leonard… yet.

  “Somebody’s manipulating the program, but only sometimes. They’ve obscured their location, making it appear as though they’re in Singapore, Budapest and once form Bismarck, North Dakota.”

  “Huh,” Leonard said, trying to look shocked, quizzical.

  Finley rubbed his bleary eyes. “It won’t be long before I determine the administrator’s actual location.”

  “Interesting,” Leonard said.

  Vortmit hit the button, and the “kill” virus began its work on the portions of Clean that were susceptible. Vortmit hoped if it would slow Clean down, but worried it would have the opposite effect, perhaps even pushing Clean to grow more random and efficient at killing.