Requiem for the Bone Man

by R. A. Comunale

  “A woman never really quits work—she just stops getting paid for it!” The grimness of Friday’s death watches gave way to a Saturday lit with sunshine. Galen took advantage of the lovely morning, walking through the yard before the first patients arrived and thinking once again that maybe he could get in some flight time later in the day.

  It’d be great—doing a little cross-country hop in the aviation club’s Piper.

  He walked back in to the office, called the club scheduler and discovered he had lucked out. He had called early enough to be the first one requesting use of the plane.

  Okay, today I get in some sky time!

  He became wistful as the usual companion thought crossed his mind: He’d feel closer to Leni and Cathy up there.

  “I’m sorry, Dr. Edison, we only have a Cherokee available. That’ll get you to where you want to go in South Carolina. Hell, if the parking lot of the company is long enough, old Sam can even land you right where you want to be!”

  Great! My pilot is going to be one of the Wright Brothers!

  It was VFR all the way, that perfect, clear kind of day when you could almost see forever. Galen had gone through his preflight check carefully, filed a cross-country route south toward the Carolinas, made sure his fuel was topped off, and checked the aviation weather forecast: no storm fronts anywhere along the Southeast coast.

  He shook his head in wonder. Was it five years ago when one of his agency friends had cajoled him into taking flying lessons? How he had resisted at first. Now, other than his peaceful forays in the garden and the daily numbing routine of his patients—though he needed that numbness to keep the demon of memory from sending him into depression tailspins—he squeezed every spare moment into the air.

  He was certified for IFR, instrument flying, but there are times when seat-of-the-pants sky blue is the most enjoyable. As he taxied down the runway, he could make out the air traffic controller in the tower giving him a wave. He knew them all.

  “Piper 2874J you are cleared for takeoff.”

  “Roger, tower. Keep ‘em in the air, Joe!”

  He noticed the Cherokee, a small charter plane, taxiing up behind in queue.

  Not a bad plane to fly. Maybe the club will get one someday.

  He held the brake in check as the engine RPMs built up and he could feel the tug of the prop as the plane wanted to roll.

  Off we go!

  No matter how many times he had done this, he always felt exhilaration as the plane began accelerating and the nose lifted off the runway. Quickly he and the little Piper were airborne. He banked left and headed south by southeast toward the coast. This was the scenic route—and one of the purest forms of solitude he could have.

  The growl of the single engine, the forward thrust pressing against him—yes, this was the escape he needed. He had dedicated his life to his patients, spent entire days listening and talking, but especially listening. He didn’t wear clerical robes, but what his patients told him … no … needed to tell him, included bits of personal information no less sacrosanct than those spoken in the confessional. There came a time when he simply wanted to hear no more.

  An hour into the flight he noticed the Cherokee again on a similar heading. It was faster than the Piper, with more range.

  Must be going farther south, but by all rights, it should have been well ahead by now. What’s going on?

  Then he spotted it: a stall out! Was this an instructor teaching a student about stalls?

  “Cherokee 29371K, Cherokee 29371K, this is Piper 2874J. Everything okay, guys?”

  The voice of the other pilot quavered as it came on.

  “74J, I think we’re out of fuel! The forward gauge is reading empty. We must have had a leak.”

  “71K, check your fuel tank switch, Switch to auxiliary now!”

  Silence, then he saw the prop turn over and the plane begin to pull out of the stall. Then he heard the pilot’s voice again, sounding sheepish.

  “74J, this is 71K. Thanks, man! I plumb forgot about the auxiliary. I owe you one!”

  “Roger, 71K, do you have enough for destination?”

  “More than enough. Over and out.”

  Galen frowned. He would have to check up on the pilot later. That type of dangerous mistake never should have happened.

  Wonder who did his last flight physical?

  Back over the airfield, Galen circled and made a smooth all-point landing, taxiing to the hanger with no waiting. All in all, it was a nice day and a productive flight. But what would tomorrow bring? What would it be like not having to worry about tomorrows?

  He could almost hear the Fates laughing.

  “It’s got to be some kind of an omen, Nancy. First the food then that idiot in the plane. I thought my guts were going to go through the windshield when we went into freefall. Good thing that other pilot saw us and knew what to do. Now I know for sure. I want out!”

  She sat in the corporate headquarters of the bank and stared at the generic painting on the wall of an ocean scene.

  Probably not even real, just a print—though that thick piled rug and cherrywood wall panels sure do look real.

  The secretary to the CEO sat impassively staring at her monitor screen, periodically pressing the answer button on the switchboard and speaking softly in monotone into her telephone headset microphone. It made her look like some weird insect with abnormal mouth parts on one side only.

  What am I doing here? Dollars to donuts it’s something I warned them about and they ignored, and now it’s come back to bite them on the ass! Fools!

  She hoped it was true, but then changed her mind, because she remembered that in any corporate structure the scapegoat becomes the person who issued the warning, not the one who ignored it.

  The human insect spoke.

  “Mr. Frederickson will see you now, Mrs. Edison.”

  Nancy rose slowly, took a deep breath to steel herself against the impending idiocy and walked toward the heavy paneled door. She pushed it open and found herself in the CEO’s suite.

  I could fit most of our house in here!

  She walked across the ankle-deep rug to the pedestal that elevated the CEO’s desk above the height of mere mortals.

  He was watching her, hoping, she thought, for any sign of fear or weakness.

  Well, Bucky, not this little girl! Let’s get it on!

  He rose from his imperial-looking leather swivel chair and moved to shake her hand.

  “Hello, Mrs. Edison. Good to see you. I trust that your trip into New York wasn’t problematic?”

  “No, Mr. Frederickson, it was a pleasant drive.”

  Right, and I slit my wrists for fun, too.

  “Please sit down. We need your input on a sudden and rather serious problem at the bank.”

  He pointed to a heavily stuffed high-back leather chair that, when she settled into it, made her feel as though she was a one year old sitting in her highchair.

  Bet it’s computer security. That’s the last one they ignored.

  “Mrs. Edison, the bank has just received a ransom note.”

  Before she could react, he continued.

  “Yes, a ransom note. No one is being held hostage—or, I should say, all of our customers using our credit cards are being held hostage. Computer hackers have broken into our system, and now they’re threatening to release all of the credit card numbers and their PINs across Europe unless we pay their price.”

  He rambled on but she had heard enough already.

  Just the scenario I raised with them two years ago!

  Now that the horse was out of the barn, what did they expect her to do? She had told them about the inadequacies, the downright criminal laxity of the bank’s computer security, and the entire board had laughed at her as though she was carrying a raging case of paranoia. Now, they actually wanted her to come up with a solution, fail miserably, and then be used as their incompetent little scapegoat.

  No way!

  “So, Mrs. Edison, what would you
recommend that we do? The board has decided to set up a committee on computer security, and all of the members think you should chair it.”

  Not this time, Buster! Not me. I’ve played your game too long not to recognize a setup.

  She smiled at him like someone about to lay down a winning hand.

  “Mr. Frederickson, the first thing I would recommend is that any unusual credit card activity be noted and the card holder called about it. I doubt if these hackers are going to wait for the bank to agree. I would put as many employees as possible to work on it. You can tell the card holders that the inquiry is routine to monitor unusual purchases and that the bank is always working to protect their security.”

  She had to restrain herself from bursting into a guffaw at that comment.

  “For those who note something wrong, cancel the cards and issue new ones. Those that don’t can be watched carefully. The alternative is to cancel all of the cards and replace them on the pretext of ‘improving service.’ Either way, the old numbers are no longer valid. The bank may have to eat some loss but it will be worth it to avoid the bad publicity. Oh, and be sure not to try to blame the customer. That will backfire on the bank.”

  “I can see that the board made the right decision in selecting you as security committee chairperson, Mrs. Edison.”

  “No, sir, I’m afraid that they didn’t. You see, my husband and I are planning to retire very soon and I would not be able to give the time such an important committee would require.”

  Gotcha!

  She saw his face drop as he realized that the intended goat had refused to enter the slaughterhouse gate.

  “Dr. Galen, your bank is on line one.”

  Your bank is on line one? Why do these calls always seem to happen on Mondays?

  The way the day was going, the news didn’t surprise him. The waiting room already was full, the call-back list was at four pages, and it was only 11 a.m. But there shouldn’t be any overdrafts.

  What’s going on?

  “Dr. Galen, this is Mr. Stevenson from the credit card security department. Periodically we do checks on purchases to protect our customers and we noticed some purchases that don’t quite fit your profile. May we confirm these with you?”

  Profile?

  He should have expected that. Everyone knows everything about everyone. Well, not quite everything.

  “Go ahead, Mr. Stevenson.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Galen. We see a purchase from a company called Herrenhaus. Did you make a purchase from them?”

  “Herrenhaus? That sounds German, and the name doesn’t ring a bell. I know that name translates to “Men’s House.” What was I supposed to have bought?

  There was a long pause, conveying the embarrassment of the caller.

  “Uh, sex toys and videotapes, Doctor.”

  Galen started to laugh out loud. Should he be upset because his profile didn’t consider him to be a sex object, or should he be upset at someone using his card to buy such stuff? He decided that the latter was worse.

  “No, you’re right, Mr. Stevenson, that definitely isn’t me. How did this happen?”

  As he listened to the explanation, he realized that the bank representative was reciting a big pre-scripted lie.

  “Most of this happens when our customers are careless in throwing out receipts or making telephone purchases, Dr. Galen.”

  Galen felt his temper rising. He was very careful about such things.

  “Mr. Stevenson, that is impossible with me. I will do some checking on my own. In the meantime, cancel the card, issue me another one, and I will check back with you in 24 hours. You do realize that I expect no charges or penalties because of this.”

  The bank representative’s voice quavered as he agreed. Galen hung up.

  The rest of the morning offered the usual chest pains, fatigue, earaches, bladder infections, and one soon-to-rupture aortic aneurysm that he quickly ordered to the hospital for emergency surgery.

  Then he made some calls. It was still good to have certain contacts. One of them confirmed what he had suspected: Eastern European computer hackers had broken into the bank’s security system and stolen tens of thousands of credit card numbers and PIN verification data.

  Interesting how the bank was trying to blame the victims.

  The next day he called Stevenson. Even with the card canceled, charges of over $37,000 had been attempted all across Europe. The bank security man repeated the big lie about customer failure but Galen erupted.

  “Mr. Stevenson, maybe even you don’t know the real story, but I do. Your bank security was breached by hackers who stole the numbers from your computer. It will be a matter of hours before this news reaches the media. Do you really want to continue with this lie?

  Several days later, he read about the resignation of the bank’s CEO “for health reasons.”

  Nancy did a quick scan of the financial section of the paper before leaving for work. Soon, she thought, this would end. And then she saw the notice:

  “J.T. Frederickson, longtime bank CEO retires for health reasons.”

  She smiled and uttered aloud, “B-a-a-a-a!”

  Edison walked into the breakfast nook and saw her grinning. She didn’t say anything until she put the finance section in front of him. Then she repeated, “b-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a,” and they both burst out laughing. No scapegoats here!

  “Bob, we can do it!” She looked at him collapsed on the sofa. He’d had a rough week, saddled as he was with two communications center revampings down in the Washington area, one at the Pentagon, the other across the Potomac at the CIA. Massive constructs like modern-day pyramids to man’s technical skills, they required the complex cohesiveness of an advanced communications system. And that was his baby.

  “Six straight days away at this. Now they want me to do a review of the cell network at the World Trade Center, that mess they’re trying to reconstruct. I’m ready to call it quits.”

  “I told you, we can do it. Look at the spreadsheet. We’ll have enough and more. The only question is where we should go. How about somewhere in the mountains?”

  “Nancy, the only affordable mountains around here are in Pennsylvania.”

  “Okay, when you get back from Lower Manhattan, we’ll head off to see the mountains!”

  Galen always had liked trains. And it had been a long time since he had made that trip down across the Mason-Dixon Line. Now he was heading back up to present a paper on genetic linkages to death rates. He just wished it wasn’t in New York.

  Maybe do a bit of sightseeing. Haven’t seen Ground Zero yet. Too bad they had to knock down all those surplus electronics stores we liked to haunt when we were kids. Sweet God, how long has it been since I went with Edison … now why did I just remember that name … on the train into New York to get parts for our experiments? Wonder what he’s doing?

  The steady rocking of the car and clickety-clack of wheels on rails lulled him to sleep.

  Edison stood looking through the chain-link fence that had been erected to keep visitors from falling into the five-story-deep hole in the ground where once had stood two of the world’s tallest buildings. Now, the heavy equipment and the army of workers had succeeded in removing all but a tiny pile of rubble from the site.

  God, what people are capable of doing to one another!

  He remained with other silent onlookers, trying to take in the scene, trying to imagine what it would have been like to be here on that horrible day. Then, for some reason, he experienced a sudden flashback to his less-burdened days as a high school student.

  How many times had Galen and I …?

  He caught himself.

  How many years has it been since I’ve seen the big kid? He must be getting old.

  He turned and walked away the same way he had arrived—in silence.

  Galen walked past Virginia’s desk headed to the office kitchen to make a cup of tea. When he returned she held out a slip of paper.

  “Here are some more calls to make
, Dr. Galen, but two of them don’t make any sense.”

  Virginia was a very straightforward and commonsense woman, and she usually could elicit enough information from even the most reticent caller that he could prepare himself for the conversation. Working thirty-seven years for a federal agency, she so often put it, “if you don’t learn to deal with idiots in the government, then you can’t work there.” But now she seemed truly frustrated at being unable to tell him what the phone calls were about.

  “What did they say?”

  For the first time he could recall, he saw exasperation in her face. She shook her silver-coiffed head.

  “Still doesn’t make sense,” she half-muttered. “One called himself Babyface and the other one Scarecrow. Said they knew you, and not to worry about calling back until later in the day. Both left phone numbers, out of state by the looks of them. Sounds like a scam to me.”

  Galen started to laugh out loud at the improbability. It was the first time Virginia had seen him laugh, much less smile. She stared at him, hoping that he hadn’t finally snapped from dealing with what he did on a daily basis.

  He quieted down and looked directly at her.

  “Don’t even try to understand,” he said. “It’s just two old friends from school. I haven’t heard from them, I guess, since Cathy …”

  Then he stopped and returned to his office. She knew enough not to pursue the matter.

  He sat at his desk, staring at the names and their corresponding numbers.

  Dave, Connie, Bill, Peggy—the four of them had visited him only twice, the first for Leni and the second for Cathy. It had helped to have them here both times, the four of them sitting and talking, carefully trying to distract his mind from the brooding darkness that had overwhelmed him.

  He hoped it wasn’t an emergency for either of the couples, but then, he thought, they wouldn’t have called in that manner if something bad had happened. He tapped the phone buttons for the first number. It rang four times before he heard the pickup click and the all-too-familiar Virginia nasal-twanged voice: “This is Dr Nash. Who’s calling?”