Paths

by David DeSimone

  There was no point in arguing. He only wished it were closer, but apparently open MRIs are hard to come by out in the boonies. The closest was in Warwick, twenty miles west from where they lived. The service road covered fifteen of those miles. Drew preferred taking the service road. He liked the trees, hated all the construction and traffic on the Interstate, which only seemed to be getting worse. They started early giving them extra time to enjoy the scenic route and Eva thought that was okay. She was in no hurry to get there.

  Her cellphone went off with a digital piano rendition of Yesterday, a sound that always inspired a cringe from Drew. She took it out of her purse, looked, and groaned.

  Drew glanced at her, “What?” She shushed him and then said, “This one’s becoming a real pain in my ass.”

  “I thought it was a pain in your neck.” He cracked a smile.

  She rolled her eyes. Eva tapped the screen to talk, and put the phone to her ear.

  “Hello,” she said with the cheeriest voice she could muster. A pause. “Yes, this is she...”

  A long pause.

  “You’re kidding. But I already told the broker we were closing!”

  Pause. “I thought the money was in escrow... What? You said three forty-five... They’ll never go for that. You will lose the house.”

  For the past eleven months, the damned house, a five bedroom Colonial, had been floating on the market in limbo because the sellers refuse to believe that they overpriced it for the location. It was in a modest town ten miles from the coast called Byrnham. Had the Colonial been set half the distance from the water, it could have sold for double its asking price, $375,000; but in Byrnham, population 19,412, where the average per capita income is just forty-five thousand dollars, that price was just a wee bit high. Just a bit.

  The owners, a couple in their mid-sixties who wanted to downsize to a condominium, drove the sales broker (and Eva) to ruminations of homicide. After so much time on the market and a lot of back-and-forth haggling, the seller finally decided to bend and accept an offer for $345,000. Closing day was just a day away when the sellers changed their mind, and reject her client’s offer. Eva had a name for this type of client. Flip-floppers.

  She explained this to Drew after she got off the phone with the sales broker. She began massaging her neck, which throbbed like a sonofabitch.

  “I can’t deal with this right now.”

  “I don’t understand. They’ve just rejected a great offer. It doesn’t make sense,” he agreed.

  “Welcome to my world.”

  “Do you need an anti-inflammatory?”

  “No. I think the Valium is starting to work.”

  “Okay.”

  As she tucked the phone away in her purse, her eye caught something odd in the rearview mirror. A large pickup truck was driving perilously close to their car. She could make out only a headlight and part of the grille. She turned around, saw the chrome insignia F-O-R-D on the front of the hood. The odometer showed they were going forty-five in a thirty-five zone.

  “What’s up?” Drew asked.

  “You haven’t noticed the truck riding our bumper?”

  He checked the rearview, trying not to panic.

  Drew brought the car up to fifty. The truck fell back, but before the Fairwoods could breathe a sigh of relief, the gray Ford had once again closed in on them.

  He was now getting worried.

  There were plenty of opportunities for the truck to pass on this country road, but it didn’t want to do that. It was content with riding the white Acura’s tail.

  But why?

  Drew didn’t think he did anything to piss anyone off. When the truck driver reached another passing zone, Drew waved to him to pass. In the rearview the driver showed no indication he saw the waving hand. He wore a red baseball cap and sported a straggly beard. He looked like a crazed lumberjack. This stuff only happens in movies, Drew thought as he tried to make sense of a situation that was getting out of control by the second.

  They approached a sign that showed the speed limit to be 35. Drew rolled down the window, stuck his arm out and jabbed a finger at the sign. The maniac returned with a dismissive flick of the wrist, as if to say fuck it.

  “Why doesn’t he pass?” Eva asked.

  “I don’t know,” Drew replied, his voice was low and shaky.

  “Can we pull over?”

  “No. There isn’t enough shoulder.”

  The only course of action, he decided, was to continue driving, but on his own terms. He kept the Acura at a steady 45 mph and would be damned if he was going to let some angry yokel bully him into driving faster and putting them in peril.

  He was scared, but also angry. Very angry. The steering wheel grew slick under his clenched hands. His eyes darted continually from rearview mirror to the road ahead. Eva said something, but he didn’t hear her. His concentration was committed to the road and to the maniac.

  When he noticed the needle had climbed to 50 miles per hour, Drew let up on the gas. The pickup drove maddeningly steady, as if fixed to a rail, giving Drew the unnerving sensation of being locked in: Deviate from the center of the lane by just a little, or lower the speed by a few miles per hour, and he would risk sending the Acura careening into a ditch.

  Is that what he was trying to do? Drew wondered. Trying to run him off the road? Jesus Christ!

  Eva took out her cellphone, said, “Should I call the police?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She considered for a moment, staring at the phone as if expecting to find an answer there.

  “I’m calling the police,” she said at last. Eva loaded the keypad, tapped 9-1-1, and put the phone to her ear.

  “I don’t need this shit,” Drew hissed.

  CHAPTER 2

  DREW

  1

  After over a year of rumors and hearsay, the director of Operations, Morris Raynard, officially announced his retirement. Raynard was only fifty-eight but had done well in the stock market to afford an early retirement. Drew saw himself as the rightful heir to the director’s throne, since they had worked closely together for years, and had considered the older man a friend. When Raynard pulled Drew into his office on Friday afternoon - of course it would be on a Friday – to tell him he had not been chosen as replacement, the news struck him like a battering ram. Raynard decided, instead, to go with his niece, Cynthia Lourdes. Cynthia was eight years Drew’s junior. This betrayal left Drew without words. He struggled to look unfazed.

  Here was a man who stood at his wedding, made a touching speech at the reception; a man he drank beer with, and shared dinners with their wives. A man who assured Drew that he was the most qualified person to fill his shoes. It was too unbelievable to accept that their relationship, both in and out of work, the collaborations and assurances, meant nothing; and to be overlooked for someone much younger than he, with hardly any leadership experience, was the ultimate in humiliation.

  Lourdes had come from Systems’ Citadel, an electronic security company that specialized in the development of multi-platform surveillance software for small businesses. Systems’ Citadel won the Dr. Dobbs Jolt Award for the most innovative software of the year and CNET gave it a nod for Editor’s Pick. Much of these laurels were attributed to the tireless work done by the company’s R&D, which included, in no small part, Cynthia Lourdes. Grober System, Drew’s employer, had its own share of awards, most notably the prestigious ACM Software System Award. When Raynard spoke with Grober founder and CEO, Paul Grober, telling him that his niece came from award winning competition and was looking for greater opportunities elsewhere, the old man took the bait.

  Raynard tried to explain, “I’m sorry, Drew,” he said, his eyes cast down on the floor. “The Board has decided they need new blood.” It was bullshit. When it came to loyalties, blood always came first.

  To his credit, Drew kept his composure, but in his mind he saw himself picking up a chair and throwing it at the old man’s head.

  When Dre
w walked out of Raynard’s office, it was more than just a door of an office he closed.

  He had some big decisions to make.

  Should he stay? Can he adjust to the new younger boss sitting confidently behind the director’s desk? Perhaps it was it time to dust off his resume.

  He couldn’t remember ever being in such a dark place. Before then life was pretty good. Not great, but compared to millions around the world who live day to day worried about getting shot and/or finding food, his life was pretty good. There were a few curve balls thrown his way, sure, but nothing that would cause him to have such intense rage - as he had now. It scared him.

  2

  Eva took her phone out to call 911. She dialed, looked at the phone for a moment, turned to Drew and said, “I’m not getting anything.”

  “What? Nothing?”

  “No. Nothing.”

  Drew reached into the side pocket of his black leather jacket and pulled out a cellphone.

  “Here,” he said holding it out to her. “Try mine.”

  She tried it and got the same results. Nothing.

  He checked the rearview mirror again, and for a second he thought he saw something dark, long and thin poking up from the bottom edge of the rearview mirror. It came and went so fast, he wasn’t sure he saw it at all. Before Drew could process any more of it, he noticed something else, and his attention was grabbed at once. The maniac appeared larger in the rearview as if the truck was even closer now. Drew wondered how much closer could it possibly get before making contact with his bumper. In spite of this worry, Drew kept a steady cruising speed of forty-five miles per hour.

  Eva craned to have a look behind. “I can’t make out his license plate,” she said. “He’s too close!”

  She tried the cellphone again and cursed, confirming a third attempt failed.

  “Maybe he’s using a cell blocker,” Drew said.

  “A cell blocker?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s crazy,” she said.

  3

  Drew didn’t think a cellphone blocker was such a crazy idea. He knew firsthand how effective those things could be based on personal experience. As part of Grober’s programming team and his role of Project Supervisor, Team Fairwood was tasked to redesign the company’s flagship software’s firewall with more sophisticated Internet traffic control.

  His team consisted of three other programmers, one of which was Frank Sloan, Assistant Programmer.

  Sloan, though twenty-six, spoke like a teenager. Everyone to him was ‘Dude’. But what annoyed Drew the most was Sloan’s love affair with his cellphone.

  The man was never off of it. He was either texting, chatting or uploading to Facebook while at same time hammering away at code. It was an impressive display of multitasking but it was also annoying, distracting and, for Drew, counterproductive.

  Drew had tried a few times to get Sloan to give the phone a rest, with which he had only temporary success. Even reporting it to Raynard proved ineffective. Sloan was a coding wizard and cherished by the top brass. He was essentially given carte blanche on the floor as long as his collaboration with Drew was consistent and on-schedule. And, to Drew’s unending frustration, it was. Before too long, Sloan would be back on the phone “liking” and “dude-ing” until Drew reached a breaking point.

  4

  The idea of a cell jammer came one night when a commercial on a rodent repellent device promising to “permanently get rid of those pesky mice” using “our patented ultrasound technology!”

  The idea of using waveforms to block something took hold of him and wouldn’t let go.

  He spent countless hours of free time scouring the web collecting information on cellphone jammers. Not feeling at all intimidated by the federal warnings that continuously splashed across the results screen about unlawful interference with radio communications, Drew went ahead anyway and purchased the best jammer money could buy.

  It was smaller than he expected, about the size of a brick, with an LED toggle switch. Four D batteries as the power source allowed him the freedom to hide it anywhere. He bought electrical tape and a roll of Velcro, to mount the jammer.

  According to the user’s manual the range was supposedly able to cover a radius of up to two hundred feet. Although he didn’t know it yet, this declaration lived up to its promise.

  The jammer had to be in a location that enabled maximum range, yet ensured that it would not be found.

  The first place he considered was the underside of Sloan’s desk, but then decided against it, fearing that Frank just might look under his desk and find it by chance.

  There were the cubicles of other staff, but again putting it so near people’s workspaces is just inviting trouble. He considered hiding it somewhere in his own office, but then he didn’t want to seriously compromise the usability of his own cellphone.

  After days of quiet deliberation, he decided on the one place where he was sure no one would ever look. The ceiling. Specifically, behind the long metal cover of a fluorescent light, one that aimed straight down on Sloan’s cubicle and near newly-appointed Director Lourdes’ office.

  He phoned Eva to say he’ll be late… and waited. It took an hour for the remaining staff to leave, but he was patient. Drew spent that time diligently working at his computer - well, actually, he was playing Plants vs. Zombies.

  From a nearby storeroom Drew took a stepladder and crossed over to Frank’s cubicle. He unfolded the ladder and pushed it snugly against the modular wall that separated Sloan’s desk from a short crosswalk between two main aisles. After scanning the area one last time for people, he climbed the ladder, reached up, pushing open a ceiling tile and placed the jammer inside the lighting fixture, hoping the Velcro would hold it in place using the electrical tape for extra support.

  He flipped the switch, the red light came on.

  The Jammer was activated.

  Drew replaced the ceiling tile and climbed down from the ladder. With both feet now firmly planted on the floor, he stared up at the ceiling picturing the device humming softly in the darkness, not quite believing what he’d actually done. For a brief moment he almost changed his mind, but instead quietly left the building.

  He didn’t have to enter the building the following morning to know he messed up. The realization hit him when he peered through the plate glass windows. He gazed at Sloan standing by his cubicle staring at his cellphone appearing noticeably concerned. Sloan dialed a number, put the cellphone to his ear, pulled the phone away from his ear and stared at it ponderously.

  Sloan wasn’t the only one. Others were left scratching their heads over their inoperative cellphones. People across the entire ground floor as well as the mezzanine level reacted with the same concerned look as Frank.

  In some areas people formed tight groups of three or four, their lips silently expressing protest or looking to each other for answers.

  Drew worried if he walked in all eyes would be fixed on him if only for a second, but that would be enough to see the guilty look on his face.

  Drew got out of Dodge. He sped home and called in sick. In a way, he wasn’t lying.

  Later that night, like a felon returning to the scene of a crime, his crime, Drew Fairwood drove back to Grober headquarters. Once again he climbed the same step ladder as before, opened the ceiling tile above Sloan’s cubicle, took out the jammer and drove until he found a dumpster in the back lot of a large department store. After removing and pocketing the batteries, he threw the jammer away.

  5

  Very few cars passed in the opposing lane. Those that did just kept going. Drew had trouble seeing cars in the rearview mirror since the truck obscured most of the view. Nothing but forest and scrubland on either side of the road.

  The next exit was eight miles away.

  Whether or not the maniac was using a cellphone jammer or that the stretch of road was a dead zone, he knew what he was doing. This was his turf, his trap, and the little fly in the shape of a white Acura
was caught in it.

  Drew stepped on the accelerator.

  She screamed, “Stop!” He glanced over, noticed her arms extended bracing for impact.

  “Drew, slow down!”

  “No.”

  As the road in front of her dipped and curved, Eva felt her body shifting along with it. One moment she was pushed against the door, the next against her seat, or jerked forward.

  Drew wasn’t slowing down.

  The pull of a downward curve also made the car feel like it was going a hundred miles an hour, even though it was actually more like sixty-five.

  “For God’s sake, please slow down!”

  “No!”

  “Drew...”

  “No! Not until I get that maniac is off our ass!”

  “You’re gonna kill us!”

  “No, I won’t!”

  “Yes, you will!”

  “No, I won’t! Now, please, Eva, LET ME DRIVE!”

  Shaken and teary-eyed, Eva’s lips began to quiver. She’d never seen him like this before. He seemed almost as crazy as the maniac.

  The Acura pulled away from the Ford, winning much-desired breathing room, but the Ford’s eight cylinders roared with renewed fury, and the massive pickup regained the ground it momentarily lost.

  Another glance in the rearview showed the long barrel of a rifle leaning against the trucker’s arm.

  “Shit!”

  He quickly went over his options, either continue to drive fast putting them at higher risk of an accident but also cutting time to the next exit or slow down to a safer speed and prolong not only insufferable torment but a very real chance of being shot. Neither one was acceptable.

  Drew let up on the gas. “I have an idea.”

  Eva wiped her eyes. She turned to him.

  He said, “If he’s using a cellphone jammer-”

  “Drew, I-”

  “Let me finish! If he’s using a jammer then I’m going to try something that might put us out of range. Depending how fast you can dial, we may have just enough time to get the call to 911 through before he closes in on us again.”