Blind Instinct: A Tess Barrett Thriller

by Michael W. Sherer

  Matt’s version of the game wasn’t infected, but something about it was different. The program Derek had written would compare the source code of the game on Matt’s phone with a copy of the real deal. It would find all the snippets that weren’t part of the original game and list them.

  While the notebook hummed, Derek started up the game on Matt’s phone where he’d left off. The more he played, the more worried he got. Along with his concern, however, came a tingle of excitement. The game anticipated his every move. No, not move, but mood. He varied his style of play, first attacking aggressively with a reckless, take-no-prisoners attitude. The game didn’t try to beat him so much as lead him into more situations that would require a similar style and challenge his skills. When he switched to a more defensive posture, the game immediately changed tactics, too, again drawing him in. He almost felt as if the game could read his mind.

  Artificial intelligence!

  Derek had already built logic capabilities into the app. The game learned from tactics that players used so it would constantly challenge them as they got better. This was different. This app did more than add to its logic base. It sensed the emotional state of the player and used that as part of its strategy. Derek took several deep breaths and forced his heart rate down. He closed his eyes and envisioned an empty blackboard, a little exercise he called his “Jedi mind trick,” a way to calm himself and take emotion out of the equation.

  When he felt ready he opened his eyes and tried a little experiment. He played the game for a minute or two with normal gestures, noting the response of the game and the tactics the app employed to keep him on his guard. Without changing his breathing or calm state of mind, he swiped and jabbed the screen more forcefully, as if acting angry or aggressive. The game changed.

  He stopped play and set the phone down. This was mind-blowing stuff. Derek was the best coder in the company, but he’d never come up with anything like this. This was the kind of software guys at DARPA and the NSA would love to get their hands on. And there was only one man Derek knew of who had the smarts to pull off something this brilliant—James Barrett, the founder of MondoHard. The only problem was that Barrett was dead.

  Maybe.

  Derek rolled his chair up close to the desk and opened an email program on the notebook computer. Someone claiming to be Tess Barrett’s dad James had been in contact with him only a week or two earlier. He still remembered the address of the last email drop box the mystery man had used. He typed a quick message:Never Bittengot bit. You? His hands hovered over the keyboard for a moment. This was crazy, expecting a cyber-ghost to know anything about whatever had happened to his app. His app. Two years of Derek’s life.

  He hit “Send.”

  Chapter 17

  Doug and his buddies hadn’t shown themselves for the past day, and Austin didn’t know what to make of it. He’d expected to be waylaid in the halls or ambushed in the boys’ bathroom, but he hadn’t seen hide nor hair of any of them. “Hide nor hair…” That was good. Maybe it should be “neither wing nor fang.” And just maybe now that he’d shown them the power of Wolfsbane, his alter ego, they wouldn’t mess with him anymore. He actually skipped down the hall at the thought and glanced over his shoulder to see what Huey and Dewey, his Secret Service detail, thought about that. Austin refused to use their real names—Hugh and Dennis—just on principle. He didn’t need babysitting every second of the day. They didn’t seem to mind, or even notice the nicknames he’d given them. Expressionless, they trailed behind at a respectful distance, but not so far that they couldn’t be by his side in mere seconds if a threat materialized.

  With the end of Rothbottom’s history class only minutes earlier Austin was finished for the day. The last bell of the school day always lightened his mood immeasurably, and now he made mental plans for what to do with the remainder of the afternoon. That new girl, Laura Snyder, a transfer from a day school in New York City, had been showing some interest lately, even going as far as slipping him a piece of paper at the beginning French class on her way to her seat. Austin had surreptitiously opened it, astonished to see that she’d given him her Facebook handle with the words, “Message me.” He figured he’d do just that once he retrieved his book bag and laptop computer from his locker.

  Halfway down the hall he slowed, gaze caught by the sight of something dangling from the bank of lockers on one wall. Like white ropes, or streamers. He drew closer, his heart in his throat and a chunk of lead in his stomach. No, not rope, but some sort of thick, creamy substance that slowly dripped down the face of the lockers in strings. He broke into a run, heart hammering, fear gripping his intestines and squeezing until he thought he’d double over in pain. He didn’t want to see…

  “No-o-o!” he howled.

  Footsteps pounded down the hall behind him as he pulled up in front of his locker, the face of it coated with dripping white foam that oozed through the vents. He could smell it now—whipped cream. He spun the dial on his lock, shaking so badly that his fingers flubbed the combination twice before the cams inside lined up and the hasp clicked open. He yanked up the latch and pulled the door open. A flood of whipped cream whipped cream gushed from the opening, landing onto the floor in large plops and splashing his shoes and clothes. The goo had soaked into everything in his locker—books, notebooks, backpack, and his laptop. He stretched a hand toward the computer.

  “Don’t touch anything!” a voice said behind him. “That’s a crime scene.”

  Austin whirled on the Secret Service agents and screamed, “Where were you when this happened? Everything’s ruined!”

  The agents stood motionless, stony-faced. Austin knew perfectly well where they’d been—camped outside the door of his classroom, protecting him. From what? They hadn’t intervened yet in any of the bullying and harassment Austin had received at the hands of Doug, Blaise and Donnie. What was the point of having an armed security team if it didn’t keep him safe and unhurt?

  He howled again, in pain and rage, the sound opening classroom doors and attracting curious students and teachers into the hallway. Dewey murmured into his shirt cuff, already reporting the incident to his superiors. Austin groaned inwardly. Within minutes the Secret Service would inform his father, an interruption in the great man’s day that Austin would hear no end of at home later.

  “Big Ed” Thorson, the corpulent dean of students, waddled toward him as fast as legs the thickness and length of tree stumps would allow, giving him a rolling gait that made Austin think of the blow-up punching bag he’d had as a kid that kept popping back up after he hit it.

  “What’s going on here?” he blustered as he came up to them. His gaze roved across the two agents to the cream-filled locker that now resembled a squished Twinkie, and finally settled on Austin. He pursed his lips and his breath wheezed in and out like a bellows. His eyes narrowed. “Did you do this?”

  Austin snorted. “Like I’d trash my own locker. Give me a break.”

  “Watch your tone with me, young man,” Thorson said. “Do you know who did?”

  “Of course I do, but I can’t prove it.”

  “Calm down, please.” Thorson leaned toward the open locker, nose wrinkling in distaste.

  Huey put an arm out chest high. “I wouldn’t get too close, sir. It’s a crime scene now.”

  “What? A little prank like this? Messy, I grant you, but a crime?”

  “The boy’s laptop is in there,” Dewey said. “Looks like it’s a total loss. Given its value, this isn’t just an act of malicious mischief. We’ve called in some of our investigative support personnel. We thought you’d prefer we handle it that way than call in the District police.”

  “What are they gonna do?” Austin said.

  “Check for fingerprints to start,” Dewey said.

  “In that mess?” Austin yelled. “You can’t get fingerprints off of whipped cream!”

  Huey fixed him with a hard stare. “No, but we might pull some off the locker door.”

  Austi
n turned away in disgust and muttered, “Whatever. How long do I have to stay here?”

  “As soon as forensics gets here and we brief them we’ll be able to drive you home.”

  Thorson nodded as if he had a clue then frowned when he realized that students and teachers still crowded the hallway.

  “Back to your classrooms, everyone!” Thorson said in a loud voice. “There’s nothing to see here. Go back to your classes, people!”

  As if a spell had been lifted, the corridor suddenly swelled with the murmur of voices and sounds of shuffling feet as milling students slowly funneled back into their classrooms. Gradually, the noise died down, leaving the hall quiet once more.

  “Okay, fine,” Austin said. “I guess I have no choice, as usual. Can I, like, wait in the library or something?”

  Thorson swept his suit jacket away from his big gut like tent flaps and put his meaty hands on the shelf where his hips should be. “If you have no more classes today, that would be acceptable.”

  “Great,” he said with all the enthusiasm of a root canal patient. “That’s where I’ll be.”

  Dewey threw a look at his partner. Huey caught it with a nod and trailed a few paces behind Austin toward the school library. Austin tried to ignore the footsteps on his heels, and once inside the library he slipped into the stacks and quickly weaved through the rows of shelves, leaving Huey parked near the entrance. Finding an empty study table, he slouched into a chair, shoulders sloped and head bent by the weight of the foul mood that blanketed him.

  He pulled out his phone and turned on the game app that had frustrated and enthralled him for the past few weeks. Playing furiously, he moved his avatar through the urban terrain, picking up weapons and fending off attacks by roving bands of werewolves, dive-bombing vampire bats and leering zombies. But no matter how quickly he moved, no matter how many weapons he collected, each time he tried to better his record he got bitten by one of the creatures in the game and died.

  About to give up after one particularly grisly battle with a horde of creatures from all three monstrous species, he noticed that the game hadn’t ended. Instead of the life-force bar draining to zero as his avatar, Wolfsbane, lay dying in the street, blood pouring from his wounds, the bar pulsed faintly with a dim green glow. The other creatures had left him for dead. Austin watched the screen with bated breath, certain that Wolfsbane would suffer one last killing blow. A swipe of a werewolf’s clawed hand. The rush of wings and fangs of a vampire. The swing of an axe from one of the gruesome undead. But nothing happened. Until the life-force indicator blinked brighter and more strongly.

  He rubbed his chin. The object of the game was not to get bitten. Once bitten, you were as good as dead if death wasn’t instantaneous. He’d never seen anything like this before. Austin hit “Save” and closed out of the game to think about what had just happened.

  Chapter 18

  Does anyone understand teenage girls? I didn’t. Since my exposure to the species had been limited I turned to the Internet for advice. I read about changes in the adolescent brain, about puberty, about the psychological and social development of teenagers, their sense of identity and self-esteem. I learned about how their capacity for relativistic thinking improves along with their cognition and hypothetical and abstract thinking. I boned up on their sexual development as well as the formation of their sexual identity, their relationships, both romantic and with peers, and their culture.

  The wisest bit of information I came across suggested that pre-adolescent girls are like puppies. But once girls become teens they turn into cats, and gradually, as they head into adulthood, some of their feline traits moderate, and they slowly become mostly human once again. The research left me no closer to understanding Tess than I had before, but rather with a bunch of useless facts and suppositions that I was doomed to recall every time I became frustrated with Tess’s behavior.

  I gave up and went to bed. Sometime during the night, I woke in a cold sweat from a dream. I hit the replay button before the details sank back in the depths of my subconscious and recalled Tess getting angry with a host of faceless men, picking up Matt’s gun off the floor and shooting each of them with unerring accuracy. Falling back to sleep took a long time.

  The alarm woke me again at six. I debated rolling over and ignoring it. The events of the past few days, not to mention the dream, made me less than eager to spend time with Tess. And while I needed a job, surely safer and saner jobs existed out there. Flipping burgers, maybe.

  A sharp rap on the door cut short my mental job hunting. I glanced at the clock again, thinking I must be imagining a visitor at this hour. More likely a neighbor bumping against the wall, but the knock came again.

  “Hang on!” I yelled, swinging my legs out of bed. I grabbed a pair of jeans off the floor and yanked them on, hopping on one foot to maintain my balance. I peered through the peephole as I zipped them up. Farouk, one of my landlords.

  He peered at me, shifting his weight when I opened the door.

  “Farouk, do you know what time it is?”

  He looked indignant. “Of course I do. I’m on my way to class.”

  For the first time I noticed the strap slung across his chest holding a heavy bag behind him. Farouk was a medical student at the university. He and his roommate Farid, both of them from Dubai—or was it Abu Dhabi? I could never remember which—had used family money to buy the big house to live in while they went to school. A previous owner had divided the house into apartments which were popular with students like me. Though Farouk and Farid weren’t related, they looked as if they could have been brothers. To tell them apart, I’d heard several people in the building call them Frank and Joe, which I assumed was a reference to the Hardy Boys. Though rude, the nicknames were apropos. Both of them loved to snoop.

  I put my hand up to my mouth and tried to stifle a yawn. “What can I do for you, Farouk?”

  “I want to be sure you aren’t late with the rent this month.”

  I frowned. “I’m not late.”

  He nodded impatiently and scrubbed an imaginary window a foot from my face. “Yes, yes, you are not late now. And you won’t be, of course. Which is why I am asking you to pay early.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense. I’ve always paid you on time.”

  “But this month there is damage to the door. I’m thinking maybe you are having troubles.”

  “What do you mean? What kind of troubles?”

  “Money troubles.”

  “I said I’d pay for the door.” I couldn’t argue the damage—someone had kicked it in and ransacked my apartment a week earlier. “What makes you think I have money problems?”

  “You haven’t enrolled for next semester, and your faculty advisor says you haven’t T.A.’d in weeks.”

  “I’ve been busy.” I liked Farouk, but it rankled that he was asking for rent nearly two weeks before it was due. I’d never been even a day late. But that was before an attorney had called me to let me know the trust fund that financed my education, my very existence, had been sucked dry by my profligate grandparents.

  “Besides,” I went on, “I have another job that pays more than the T.A. position. Lots more.”

  Farouk’s very black, thick eyebrows rose. His intelligence had been good, but not infallible, apparently.

  “And what is this new employment?”

  “Personal assistant.”

  He stifled a laugh. “You actually assist someone?”

  “A blind girl, whose family is very, very wealthy.”

  He dismissed the thought with a wave and a sneer.

  “Your kind of wealthy.” The comment brought him up short.

  “I doubt that,” he said. His expression didn’t match his tone.

  “The girl’s father is—was—the founder of MondoHard.”

  He appraised me for a moment as if the lighting in the hall had just changed dramatically. “And you assist this girl. With whatever she needs.”

  I nodded. “In fact, i
f you keep me here much longer, I’ll be late for work.”

  “Of course. I’ll expect your check as usual then.”

  He actually bowed. Well, not obsequiously, but he definitely inclined his head in a show of respect. Before I could respond, he turned and hurried down the hall. I shut the door resolving to drop the Barrett name more often.

  A glance at the kitchen wall clock brought me back to sober reality. As I’d told Farouk, I had a job, a better job than a minimum wage gig in fast food. And I had to hustle to get there on time.

  Light traffic on I-90 across the lake gave me room to maneuver the BMW around the slower moving cars. Even in the best of conditions, Washington drivers found reasons to slow down. I pride myself on being a careful driver, even with a 450-horsepower twin-turbo V-8 under the hood, but too many drivers on the road guided their vehicles like prissy schoolmarms, cautious to a fault. Courteous, too—you’d never hear a native honk the horn, only those from out of state—which often led to dangerous situations. In manners lay madness. Rules of the road were proscribed for a reason. I made good time, anyway, without busting the speed limit—maybe cracking it, but not shattering it.

  With the remote for the gate, I breezed right in, for a moment thinking how easy it would be to breach security. All someone had to do was follow me, take the remote and… Before I could follow that line of thought to its logical and probably painful conclusion I spotted Luis patrolling the grounds and instantly felt better. Security appeared to be just fine.

  Alice stood at the stove as I let myself in the door from the garage. She glanced over her shoulder at me when she heard the door then leaned over and shoved a plate in the oven. She pulled off an oven mitt and laid it on the counter.