by Tim Downs
“Why are you watching the PharmaGen Web site?”
“I’m not,” Leo said, “Lassiter is. I have our spyware configured for remote viewing; whatever Lassiter is looking at, we’re watching in real-time. You’re seeing what he’s seeing right now.”
“That’s a little creepy,” Riley said. “Anything out of the ordinary? I tried not to call for a few days—Nick said to give it a rest.”
“He should talk—Nick never gives anything a rest. Don’t worry; I check the keystroke logs every hour. There’s been nothing of interest to us so far.”
Riley stopped, took a deep breath, and bent over slightly.
“Are you all right?”
“I carried those bags up three flights of stairs,” she said, stretching her back. “I have to be careful about that kind of exertion.”
“Do you need to sit down?”
“I’m OK. I just needed to catch my breath.”
In the kitchen, Nick gently patted the sides of the white plastic bags until he came to one. “Bingo,” he said, tossing it to Leo.
He tested it himself. “I think you’re right.” He laid the bag down on the kitchen counter and carefully slid a knife up the side; a tangle of paper strips bushed out through the slit. Leo turned and gave Nick a beaming thumbs-up.
“But it’s shredded,” Riley said. “What good is that?”
“Shredding is good,” Leo replied. “Shredding tells you that they have something they want to hide—something that might be worth looking at.” He reached into the slit and carefully pulled out a handful of paper. “See this? This is approximately five documents, and they can be reassembled manually in about ten minutes. That’s the beauty of strip-shredders, Riley. They only create the illusion of security. They separate a document into narrow strips, then they drop them side by side into the waste receptacle. It doesn’t take a genius to put them back together again. It doesn’t take a computer specialist either,” he said, turning to Nick. “You can do this yourself.”
“Come on, Leo, I’ve got things to do. Don’t you have some work-study kids you can give it to? Besides, we’re definitely going to need you for this.” He handed Leo a second bag. He felt along the bottom; it was filled with paper, too, but it was much heavier and more compact. He carried this bag to the kitchen table and carefully slit along the bottom. Thousands of tiny white-and-black squares poured out in a soft mound of paper confetti.
“Don’t tell me you can put that back together,” Riley said.
Leo looked up at her with a pained expression. “Still you doubt me. Still I must prove myself to you. Of course I can put this back together. It just takes a little longer—and it does require a computer specialist. Fortunately for you, I just happen to be one.” He shook the bag until no more came out, then carefully searched the inside of the bag for tiny pieces clinging to other objects. Then he began to spread the bits of paper evenly on the table so that no two were touching.
“Next I lay down sheets of a special transparent plastic,” he said. “The bits of paper adhere to them. Then one by one I place the sheets on an optical scanner and scan both sides of each sheet. The program does the rest.”
“What program?”
“I originally developed it for the FBI. It looks at the image on each bit of paper, and it also notes the exact shape of every edge. Then the computer goes through millions of permutations, matching images and edges until the original document is restored. It’s like working a hundred-thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle at warp speed.”
“Your family would be proud of you,” Riley said.
“But even at warp speed, this will still take a little time.”
“How much time?” Nick asked.
“The rest of the day should do it. And what if this should turn up something—something that confirms this theory of yours? What happens then?”
“Then we call Special Agent Santangelo. We tell him what we’ve learned, and we turn over the physical evidence—that should speed up his investigation.”
“He’s not going to like it,” Riley said. “He told us no more poking around.”
“He said no more poking around in Lassiter’s affairs—I always listen very carefully when people are threatening me. And we’re not poking around in Lassiter’s affairs anymore.”
“We’re still monitoring his computer activity.”
“Yes, but the FBI has no way of knowing that—all we’re doing is watching, just like they are. And all we did this morning is snatch someone else’s trash. That’s perfectly legal, as long as the trash is curbside.”
“Nick, we’re reassembling shredded documents. What would the FBI say about that?”
“They’re using Leo’s program—what could they say? Look, Riley, you’re the boss here. We can stop what we’re doing right now and leave the rest to the FBI. Would you be happy with that?”
Riley thought for a minute. “No,” she said. “With the FBI, it’s always going to be a ‘need to know’ basis—even when their investigation is over. They might not ever tell us what was really going on here.”
“I don’t want to interfere with a federal investigation,” Nick said. “I just want to finish what we’ve started. We can’t call the FBI with every little detail we come up with; if we do, they’ll tell us to back off for sure. I think we should finish what we’re doing here, and then turn over what we have—because the next time we call Santangelo, we’re finished.”
Nick and Riley stood by the table, watching Leo sort and arrange the thousands of bits of paper into an enormous, miniature mosaic. He looked up at them.
“Don’t you two have things to do?”
“Right,” Nick said. “I should get going.”
“It is my day off,” Riley nodded. “What’s left of it anyway.”
Five minutes later they were still watching.
Leo walked around the table, took both of them by the hand, and led them to the open window.
“Look out there,” he said to Nick. “What do you see?”
Nick shrugged. “Pittsburgh.”
He shook his head in disgust and turned to Riley. “Please, rescue this lost soul. Look out the window and tell him what you see.”
“Life,” Riley said.
Leo threw both hands in the air. “A heartbeat! Faint, but barely audible. For you, there’s hope. Your friend here has no pulse at all—he may be beyond resuscitation. You know the problem with you two? Your whole existence is work, and you’ve forgotten entirely how to play. You find you have a few precious hours off, and still you hover around my table like two old prisoners afraid to leave their cells. Go on, get out of here while there’s still some hope of redemption for both of you. And you,” he said, pointing a finger at Nick. “Don’t come back here until you feel something. Help him with this,” he said to Riley, “even if you have to defibrillate him.”
He ushered both of them to the doorway, gave them a solid push toward the stairwell, and returned to the apartment.
They stood in awkward silence for a moment.
“He gets like this,” Nick said. “He won’t let us back in for a while.”
“How long?”
“It’s hard to tell. Maybe the whole evening.”
Riley nodded. “Might as well go, then.”
“Might as well.”
They slowly turned to the stairwell, with no idea where they were going next.
You make a mean kielbasa, Mrs. Polchak,” Riley said, pushing away her plate.
“All Polish food is mean,” Nick said. “Just give it a few hours.”
Mrs. Polchak looked at Riley’s half-finished plate. “This is how you eat?” she said disapprovingly. “No wonder they think you are a fellow.”
They took their coffee in the tiny family room. Mrs. Polchak settled into an upholstered rocker that dominated the room like a throne. On her left was a small taboret, a maple magazine rack, and a portable writing table; on her right was an end table and a reading lamp with a moveable arm. The only ot
her seat in the room was a small love seat directly across from the recliner. Nick and Riley took a seat side by side and stared silently into their cups. Mrs. Polchak turned the reading lamp until it cast its light directly on them.
“So tell me,” she said to Riley, “how are things going with you two?”
“Uh—” Riley looked at Nick for help.
“No way,” he said. “She asked you.”
“Oh … well, things are … they’re sort of … things are kind of—”
“She doesn’t like me, Mama,” Nick said. “God knows I’ve tried.”
“That’s not true,” Riley said. “I do like him.”
“Nicky,” Mrs. Polchak smiled, “there is a nice lemon torte in the refrigerator. Go and fetch it for us, that’s a good boy.”
“Why don’t we wait awhile before we—”
“Fetch it for us. Slice it up for us in nice little pieces. Take your time.”
“Mama, Riley doesn’t really like—”
“Nicky!” she said with a quick glare. “Go away so I can talk about you behind your back.”
Nick set his cup on the coffee table. “I’ll get the dessert,” he said. “I may never come back.”
They both watched until he disappeared behind the swinging door, then Mrs. Polchak turned to Riley again.
“We have a nice walnut tree,” she said. “Do you like walnuts?”
“Walnuts? Yes, I—”
“Walnuts are a lot of trouble. The shells are very thick, and they stain your hands. But they are worth the trouble, don’t you think?”
“Mrs. Polchak, it isn’t your son, it’s me—”
“It’s him,” she said, shaking her head. “Women take too much blame. When a man does not love us, we say, ‘It’s me.’ When we cannot love a man, we say, ‘It’s me.’ Sometimes it’s them. Nicky is hard to love. I know; his father was hard to love.”
Riley set her own cup down. “Mrs. Polchak, what happened between Nick and his father? Can you tell me?”
“Nicky’s father was a very strong man, but he was ignorancki—he was not very bright. Nicky was just the other way; he was very smart, but he was weak—his eyes, you see. It is hard for men to have sons; they are like little mirrors. I think Stanislaw did not like what he saw in Nicky’s eyes.”
“That’s so very sad.”
“What about you? Do you like what you see in Nicky’s eyes?”
Riley slowly nodded.
“Me, I like walnuts,” Mrs. Polchak said. “But it takes time to open them up. It takes a big hammer too.”
“I wish I had the time,” Riley said softly.
“You young people! Is your time so short?”
“I’m afraid it is.”
“Then use the time you have.”
“Mrs. Polchak, I want to be fair to Nick. I don’t want to lead him on.”
“And why not?” she said indignantly. “I led three men on, and then I picked the best of them. Stanislaw was the lucky one, and the others survived. What do you think men are, little pastries? Life is not fair; love is not fair; but time, as you say, is short.”
Riley considered her words. “You know, I think you’re right—Stanislaw was the lucky one.”
Just then Nick reentered the room with a small tray containing plates, forks, and a badly mauled lemon torte.
“Why do you embarrass me?” Mrs. Polchak said, grimacing at her beautiful dessert. “You can slice open those little worms of yours, but you can’t find the center of a lemon torte? What did you cut this with, your elbow?”
“It’s OK, really,” Riley said. “I don’t think I could touch another bite right now. I could use a walk first.”
Mrs. Polchak brightened. “A walk is just the thing. Why don’t you two take a nice walk, while I go in the kitchen and throw two hours of hard work in the garbage?”
“This is what’s known as a ‘guilt trip,’ ” Nick whispered to Riley. “C’mon, let’s get out of here.”
They left by the back door. Twenty yards away, tucked in the trees against the hillside, the greenhouse glittered like a faceted jewel in the passing moonlight. They followed a well-worn path toward the greenhouse door.
Nick glanced over at Riley. “So what did she say about me?”
“She said you’re a nut, and if I want to open you up, I’d better have a big hammer.”
“That’s better than I hoped for,” Nick said. “Wait here a minute.” He stepped into the greenhouse and emerged a moment later with two shining objects. He handed one to Riley; it was a small mason jar with the lid ring holding a coffee filter in place across the open mouth.
“Come on,” he said. “I want to show you something.” He turned and headed for a second path that curved slowly uphill and disappeared into the woods. Riley followed him to the edge of the trees, stopped, and peered into the darkness.
“Where are we going?” she called after him.
“This way. You’ve got to see this.”
Riley took a deep breath and plunged into the shadows after him, where strips of bright moonlight illuminated the path in a zebra pattern. She caught up to him at a place where the trees suddenly gave way to a great, open meadow.
They walked together to the top of the rise. “Welcome to my world,” he said.
The hill sloped gently away from them to form a vast, shadowy meadow that seemed to rise and fall like the ocean at night. Thin pockets of mist lay in the hollows, and around the edge of the woods, thick stands of locust and maple stood guard in uniforms of deep blue and violet. And everywhere, as far as the eye could see, were the gentle, silent, floating green lights of a thousand fireflies.
“It’s beautiful,” she whispered.
Nick reached slowly into the air and clapped his hands together once.
“Look.” He opened his hands to show a glowing smear of light across his palm. “Luciferase. It’s the enzyme that produces their light. Did you know that 95 percent of the energy used by an incandescent light bulb is given off as heat? A hundred years of technological advancement and that’s the best that your species can do. But this little guy gives off almost 100 percent light. Incredible!”
He reached his arm into the air again and a moment later brought it back, holding out the edge of his hand to show a single black insect, tipped with orange and glowing with soft green light. “You’re looking at the state insect of Pennsylvania,” he said. “New Mexico’s is a wasp. Fireflies are really beetles, not flies at all. In a few weeks, they’ll all be gone.” He slowly extended his hand to her. She held out her own hand, and Nick took it, allowing the tiny creature to crawl off of his hand and onto hers. But Nick held her hand a little longer.
They waded forward into the ocean of soft green lights.
“I’ll bet I know how to tell the males from the females,” Riley said. “It’s the eyes. The females see everything going on around them, and the males are all clueless.”
“Nice try. The truth is, every one you see is a male. Most people have never seen a female firefly.” Nick dropped to his hands and knees and began to search through the thick grass. “Look—here’s a female.”
Riley saw a tiny green glow coming from the tip of a blade of grass.
“The females stay on the ground. Each species of firefly has its own flash pattern. The females flash their signal, and the males fly overhead and flash back. When there’s a match, that’s amore—most of the time.”
“Most of the time?”
“See that one?” He pointed across the meadow. “That’s a Big Dipper firefly—a Photinus pyralis. He lights his lamp, dips, and then curves up again—see? He writes the letter J over and over again. Now, somewhere in this meadow is a female Photinus—but there are also a few Photuris ladies too. They’re much larger than the Dippers, and they’ve learned to mimic their flash pattern perfectly. If the male Photinus picks the wrong lady, it’s dinnertime—and he’s dinner.”
“Love is a risky business in the insect world,” Riley said.
“In the human world too. Get attracted to the wrong female and you can get eaten alive.”
“Is that your personal experience or just a scientific observation?”
Nick removed the lid from his jar and began to move among the tiny lights, reaching and bending and scooping at the air.
“At the beginning of the firefly season, there are hundreds of males for every female. The male soars over the meadow, flashing, searching, like Diogenes with his lantern. He spots females everywhere, but none of them are for him. Suddenly he sees it—can it be? Yes! It’s his signal! After endless miles of flying and thousands and thousands of flashes, he’s found his ladylove. He soars down into her waiting arms,” he said, with arms extended, “and she bites his head off.”
“Why do you think they keep trying?”
“Because they have brains the size of pinheads,” Nick said. “What’s our excuse?”
Riley sat down now and watched Nick as he moved about the meadow. Sometimes he stretched and sometimes he stooped. Sometimes he stood perfectly still and waited. Then he would start again, almost running across the field, arms sweeping back and forth before him. Riley smiled, imagining that even after the fireflies were gone he might come to this field late at night and run, like a child, for the sheer joy of movement.
The moon was bright, but the sky was littered with clouds. At one moment she could see him perfectly, a cobalt figure with a gleaming glass jar. An instant later he was only a silhouette, barely visible at all.
“Riley,” he called out. “Where are you?”
Riley sat perfectly still.
“Riley!” he called louder.
Silence.
“So that’s the game,” he said, and began to retrace his steps back across the field toward the rise. There was a flash of moonlight and he whirled around, taking a quick accounting of every potential shape and shadow—then darkness again. Riley sat in a small hollow, blending almost perfectly with the ground around her. He was now very near, and once he passed so close that she could hear his breathing, so close that she felt the hair stand up on the back of her neck. Still she said nothing.