Cole Perriman's Terminal Games

by Wim Coleman

  “Why do you wish absolution for your sins?” murmured the priest soothingly. “Your sins are what are finest and most noble about you. Let me prove it to you. It is easy to say, ‘Father, I have sinned.’ But can you say, with the same simplicity, that you have done something good? Is there a verb for committing a virtuous act? No, of course not. This is because we hold good deeds in utmost contempt—and rightly so. Would the lives of the saints be of the slightest interest without their sins? Does anybody really care about their eventual redemption? We revere the Apostle Paul less because he spread the Gospel than because he persecuted Christians, and his name would still be held in awe had his conversion on the road to Damascus never taken place. Our sins are holy, not our virtues. So confess to me your virtues.”

  The priest’s voice had changed from comforting gentleness to grim, quiet accusation. Dazed, Howard found himself unable to reason, or even think. He was seized with exhaustion—the same dizzying weariness in which he experienced his blackest fantasies.

  “Don’t toy with me, father,” whispered Howard desperately. “I am a dying man. I am in fear for my soul.”

  “Your soul is a fraud,” hissed the priest. “It is a sham of the ages. You are random bits of information, no soul. Don’t tell me that you fear for something which you do not have.”

  “I have no virtues,” Howard said at last, with a strange mixture of exalted pride and terrible regret.

  “You lie to me, my son.”

  “No.”

  “You have committed the grievous virtue of forbearance. You have shown shocking and unnatural restraint in not acting out your desires—in not perpetrating them in word and deed. Do you wish to die with such an appalling burden of decency upon your shoulders?”

  “No,” said Howard.

  “And do you sincerely repent the virtue of forbearance?”

  “I repent. I honestly and sincerely repent.”

  Then came the chilling sound of infantile giggling from the other side of the lattice.

  “Well, then, my dear Friar John,” said the priest, “I shall now absolve you.”

  Howard felt a shudder of surprise.

  “Who are you?” exclaimed Howard.

  The priest’s childish laughter continued. “Peace, my son. Be still. Leave everything to me. Father Auggie will take care of everything.”

  Auggie!

  Howard’s head whirled with exhausted confusion. What did he feel? Was it delight or dread? Or had he entered a realm of half-consciousness in which delight and dread were one and the same?

  The laughter on the other side of the lattice subsided with a sigh, and the unseen priest began to murmur softly.

  “May the angels lead you into paradise…”

  Those words.

  “… may the martyrs come to welcome you …”

  Why were they so familiar?

  “… and take you to the holy city …”

  Where had he heard them before?

  “. . . the new and eternal Jerusalem. “

  Then he remembered.

  Over my father’s corpse.

  And who had spoken them?

  The priest.

  Now he knew what words those were.

  A prayer for the dead.

  But for whose death?

  If it was for him, wasn’t it just a little premature?

  Howard was too sick and dizzy to think another thought. Thoughts were useless, anyway. A wild rushing in his veins dictated his every movement. It was similar to the rush he had felt when facing the young men on the street a short while ago, but it was far too intense, far too pure to be described as panic. Howard rose to his feet, swaying giddily but alertly. He shoved his fingers through the lattice holes and yanked. The lattice fell away with a rattling echo, revealing a gaping, black emptiness. Had the priest vanished into thin air?

  Then a small but intense light blazed in the darkness—a tiny penlight illuminating a ghastly, mosaic-like face composed of bits of white and red and black. It was a familiar face. It was Auggie’s face. And now another shape appeared in that darkness. It took Howard at least a second to realize that it was a gun.

  Howard’s eyes darted around the sanctuary. No one else was present, least of all God. His gaze settled at last on the garish, cloth-woven face and the looming gun barrel. The flood of adrenaline ebbed away. Only now that his terror was gone did he realize how frightened he had just been. But now he almost laughed at the idea of fear. He had just been absolved. Eternity itself could hold no terrors for him.

  With a last flash of idle curiosity, Howard wondered how much noise the shot would make in the echo-infested church. It seemed a pity that he might never hear it.

  10111

  RESEARCH

  “How many you got now?”

  Nolan flipped the pages of his notebook. “Six of them—all in different parts of the country. Any of these mean anything to you?” He read the list aloud:

  Rachel Morton, Atlanta, attorney

  Joseph P. Brookmeyer, New York, investment analyst

  Myron Stalnaker, Omaha, bank loan officer

  D. D. Rose, Chicago, owner of a major fashion outlet

  Ronald Sandusky, San Francisco, publisher

  Robert J. Owens, Detroit, auto industry VP

  Coffey shook his head. “Never heard of any of them. What’ve you got on them?”

  “Damned little. We’ve checked their recent travel, bank accounts, credit card use.”

  “The one in Atlanta is a woman?”

  “Yeah. So is D. D. Rose. But both of them were apparently right where they belonged the night that Renee Gauld was murdered. It’s the same with all the rest of them, too. None of them was in L.A. when either Judson or Gauld was killed.”

  “We’ve gotten some of these phone numbers more than once,” Clayton said.

  “Also, during the past two weeks, they’ve all been on Insomnimania using other alters—the ones legitimately listed in their membership data,” Nolan added. “We had the guys at Insomnimania check that for us.”

  “So what could they tell? Are these people meeting in Insomnimania? What do they say to each other?”

  “Maisie and Pritchard have been recording everything Auggie does, but they haven’t seen the clown interacting with any of these particular alters. As far as we know, none of these people have made any effort to meet each other, on the network or off.”

  “This is nothing, Grobowski,” Coffey yelled, slamming his palm down on the papers covering his desk. “This leaves us absolutely nowhere. What do you propose to do next?”

  “What I want is to tap their phones and search their houses.”

  “Oh, sure. Fat chance of finding a judge who’ll let you do that.”

  “I know that. We haven’t been able to get a single court order for a phone tap. And the cops in all those other localities sure aren’t interested in doing surveillance on an L.A. case. I can’t blame them. They’ve got their own business to take care of. I don’t think we’ve got a prayer of getting search warrants, either.”

  “The other departments think it’s a joke,” Clayton said. “They say whoever’s doing the cartoons probably has inside information—a friend right here in our department, something like that. We’re the laughingstock in at least six cities around the country.”

  “What about the hacker you found here?” Coffey asked.

  “Clay’s talked to him a couple of times,” Nolan said.

  “Yeah,” Clayton said, “I’ve been keeping in touch. And I’m beginning to wonder if he’s maybe some new kind of idiot savant. He’s apparently hot on computer systems, but he can be foggy or downright stupid about anything else. He wanders off in some pretty strange directions. I’d almost guess he’s heavy into drugs or something, b
ut Pritchard and Maisie both say he’s never been part of that scene.”

  “He admits creating Auggie but denies operating him now,” Nolan said. “And we’ve never seen his address come up in connection with Auggie.”

  Coffey fished around in his desk for another cigar. “The D.A.’s getting real unpleasant about the lack of leads on these two killings. And there’s pressure coming in from Chicago about Judson. Leave me a copy of that list. I’ll phone some friends in a couple of those cities, call in a few favors—see if I can get a little support.”

  “Friends?” Nolan joked at Coffey. “You mean you’ve actually got friends, Captain?”

  “In other cities, Grobowski,” the captain grumbled. “I make a point of not having any in L.A. Can’t afford the upkeep. Now make me a copy of that list and get the fuck out of here.”

  Nolan did so, then went back to his desk. He felt too good today to be bugged by the captain’s temper.

  At least one thing in my life seems to be working out. He had to squelch the chuckle he could feel rising to his throat. Last night he’d put in a call to Crazy Syd. Yes, the job was still open—Syd would send him the information and the application forms. With Syd’s recommendation, the job was practically his. And Nolan felt pretty sure Marianne would go with him to Oregon—not absolutely sure, but pretty close to it.

  Nolan realized that Clayton was standing by his desk, riffling through notes.

  “I take it you’re still convinced that all those good people are taking turns logging on as Auggie,” Clayton said.

  “Well, what do you think they’re doing?”

  “I don’t know. But your theory makes more sense to me than the idea of some superhacker using all those telephone numbers. The question is, why are they doing it?”

  “Dunno. Maybe it’s some new kind of club. Maybe it’s a conspiracy to overthrow the government.”

  Clayton shook his head.

  “Coffey’s right,” Clayton said. “We’re nowhere.”

  “No laughs,” Nolan agreed. “No threads. Nothing. Not even any suspects to work over. We’ve got two lousy cases, Clay. Or one lousy case, take your pick.”

  “It’s really getting on my nerves,” Clayton said.

  “One thing I’m wondering is, why a clown? If these upper-class citizens are playing some kind of Internet game, is there some reason why they all use a clown? I mean, I know clowns can be scary. Zoomer wasn’t the only kid in the world to be scared by one. But is that enough of a reason? Why that particular mask?”

  Clayton thought for a moment, then said, “Maybe it’s not a mask.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Nolan scoffed.

  “Just a thought,” Clayton said.

  “What are you saying? It’s a real clown?”

  “I’m just saying maybe it’s not a disguise. In some way we’re not seeing, Auggie might be exactly what he seems to be.”

  “That doesn’t make sense.”

  “I know it sounds crazy. It’s just a feeling. I wish I understood it myself.”

  Nolan stared at Clayton for a moment. Then he got up and shoved his papers into a briefcase. He put on his jacket. “See you later,” he said, and headed for the door.

  “Where are you going?” Clayton called after him.

  “To the library.”

  *

  Marianne steered her car along the highway to Santa Barbara in relatively light mid-morning traffic. I’m in love with Nolan Grobowski. She laughed, then said it aloud:

  “I’m in love with Nolan Grobowski.”

  She could picture him sitting at the kitchen table laughing, or reclining on the floor in front of the fire, glancing up at her with his eyes full of the questions that he had finally asked yesterday at the pier. Yes, it was definite. She loved him. She was in love with him. And things were going to work out for them.

  When Marianne got home, one of the messages awaiting her on her answering machine was from Evan.

  “Just wanted to talk to you babe, make sure everything’s going okay.”

  He was in the habit of checking in every two or three months, so the call wasn’t a surprise. What made Marianne feel strange was realizing that Evan apparently didn’t even know about Renee’s death—much less about everything else happening in her life.

  Marianne decided that Evan probably just wanted to tell her about his latest shows, and she didn’t feel like listening just now—much less telling him awful and confusing news. She would call him tomorrow. Or maybe next week.

  Leaving Evan had seemed to her like running away from an extended adolescence. But instead of progressing in any direction, her life had become like a closed loop, like the computer animation of Renee sitting in the bathtub, washing, bubbles rising. Somehow, nothing had happened. Until now.

  Something definitely is happening now.

  *

  The public library was quite busy that day. Although there were six computer terminals in the central lobby, Nolan had to wait in line behind seven people to get to use one of them.

  Guess that’s one thing the electronic age hasn’t gotten rid of. Standing in lines.

  When Nolan finally reached a terminal, he struck the search command for “subject.” He typed in the word “CLOWNS.” Twenty-five titles came up. Nolan jotted down the call numbers for the five most pertinent-looking books and went to look for them.

  As it turned out, most of the books were on the floor above him. As Nolan trudged up the stairs, he mulled again over the limitations of information technology.

  It doesn’t stop me from having to walk up stairs.

  Most of the volumes were bunched together on a shelf that also included books on circuses, cinema, theater, and stage illusionism. Nolan took down a book that appeared to be a history of clowns. He immediately turned to the index, looking for the name “Auggie.”

  The name was nowhere to be found.

  However, Nolan’s eye floated down the column just a little farther to where he found the name “Auguste.” Nolan eagerly turned to the pages where August was described. He found that Auguste was traditionally a patched and ragged character with a brightly painted face—a buffoon, a prankster, a drunkard, an oaf, a hobo, a mendicant. Nolan remembered Zoomer’s description of the clown he seen in his infancy—the clown upon whom he had based Auggie …

  “… a put-upon, battered fellow with a smashed derby and patched pants and a bright red nose …”

  Auguste, Auggie. Obviously the same character.

  The book went on to explain that Auguste served his spectators as a kind of surrogate, rampaging id—bringing all kinds of wish fulfillment to the audience by acting out of purely elemental, animal instincts. Sometimes Auguste was thwarted in his foolishness and sometimes he was successful, but he was ultimately indomitable and indestructible.

  Auguste’s nemesis was the White Clown, a comic symbol of authority, sentimentality, and respectability, who sometimes went by the name of Pierrot. Nolan remembered Zoomer also describing such a character ...

  “A white-clad gentleman with great red buttons and a silly conical cap,” Zoomer had called him. “He gave all the orders, and most of them were stupid orders. He acted just like my father or mother.”

  And indeed, that very quality was what made the White Clown such a successful butt to all of Auguste’s tomfooleries. Audiences identified the White Clown with bosses, parents, politicians, policemen, all the forces they futilely wanted to resist in real life, but could resist vicariously through the disobedient Auguste.

  Nolan skimmed the other books on clowns for information on Auguste, but they reiterated the same basic facts—that Auguste was the renegade, the rebel, the fool.

  Nolan remembered what Clayton had said just a little while ago:

  “Maybe it’s no
t a mask.”

  Deep in his gut, Nolan felt that Clayton was somehow right. But he didn’t know how. And he still couldn’t explain why a bunch of well-to-do computer users would rally around this particular image to commit simulated murders—much less real murders.

  But one of the web pages concluded its discussion of Auguste with a terse, perfunctory, but startling observation: “The Auguste continues an ancient line of archetypal tricksters.”

  Archetypal. Trickster.

  He hurried to the nearest dictionary and looked up the definition for the word “archetype.” The word was already reasonably familiar to Nolan, but he wanted to refresh himself. The first definition the dictionary offered was: “The original pattern or model of which all things of the same type are representations or copies.”

  The second definition consisted of only one word—“Idea.”

  “But that’s not all it means!” Nolan grumbled loudly enough to elicit a few irate “shushes” from some of the surrounding patrons.

  Nolan sat down on the nearest chair and tried to remember. In a psychological sense, an archetype was an idea shared by all people in what Carl Jung called the “collective unconscious.” Archetypes included concepts and figures like the Hero, the Child, the Earth Mother, Birth, Rebirth, Death. In theory, these ideas were not learned during a lifetime, but were an innate aspect of all people’s consciousness.

  So the trickster is an archetype.

  He headed to the nearest cluster of computers and again found himself standing in line. When he finally got access to one of the terminals, he struck the search command for “subject” and typed in the word “TRICKSTER.”

  To Nolan’s dismay, fifteen titles appeared—and from their call numbers, they seemed to be scattered all over the library. But even Nolan’s discouragement produced a small realization …

  This machine is playing the Auguste on me. It’s prankishly sending me on a wild goose chase. And I, the dogged, authoritative, and responsible White Clown, am the butt of all its jokes—just like I’ve been on this whole case.