Eddie needed a favor; he ignored Stan’s bad bedside manner and tried for common ground. “So, is that Doom you’re playing?”
Stan rolled his eyes. “It’s Doom II, a classic, one of the most important games in history, and it came out long after the original Doom.” He shook his head at Eddie’s ignorance.
Eddie watched for a minute. “Wow, you’re really slaughtering them. Computer monsters everywhere shall come to fear you.”
Stan made a sour face. “Real funny,” he said without smiling. “Who writes your material? Does he still have a job?”
So this is why they call him The Bitter Comic. Eddie stood by as Stan continued his game. Maybe he’d be more receptive once the universe was safe.
A robotic spider gunned Stan to death. He slammed a fist on the keyboard. “Damn!”
“Stan?” Eddie said.
He looked at the guest in his office. “You’re still here?
“I have to talk to you about computers, and I guess I need a favor.”
Stan swirled a finger in his ear. He withdrew the digit and inspected the results. No wax. He frowned at the finger that had failed him. “Of course you need a favor,” he said. “You want to ram some dumb computer project down my throat.”
Eddie forced a chuckle to make another try at common ground. “Good one,” he said.
“Huh?”
“Ram it down your throat. Computer memory is called RAM. I get the joke.”
Stan perked in his chair. “You do?”
“Though it’s more of a pun than a joke, right? I’m no expert.”
Stan’s eyeballs parked for a moment in the left corner of their sockets as his cranial circuits computed what had just happened.
“You’re Bourque,” he said.
Eddie nodded.
“I thought so.” There was cockiness in the way he said it, as if the name was something Stan was not supposed to know. “People say you’re funny, Bourque.”
“People say lots of things,” Eddie replied. The conversation began to feel like the stare down across the saloon before they drew their six-shooters.
Stan blurted, “I’m socially awkward.”
“Really?”
“But I want to be funny.”
“Well, we all do, I guess.”
“No, Bourque,” Stan said. “I want to do comedy on stage. I want to do it as a job.”
“You do computers for a job. I hear you’re a genius.”
Stan sneered. “I hate computers. I hate people who need help using computers even more.”
“That’s a bad quality in the field of tech support, isn’t it?”
Stan ignored him. “I’ve studied the great comedic minds, from Bennett Cerf to Bill Cosby. I’ve written gigabytes of original material, and polished my delivery, night after night, in a mirror.” Stan looked down to his canvas sneakers. “All while trying to ignore the obvious.”
“Which is?”
“Everybody is funnier than me.”
“I’m sure you’re funnier than you think,” Eddie said, convinced that the glummest guy in the leper colony was probably a laugh riot compared to Stan.
“Make me funny, Bourque.”
“What?”
“Make me funny and I’ll grant your favor.”
Stan could have asked Eddie to topple the Cross-Point office towers with his bare hands. At least then there’d be some hope.
“Uh, I don’t think I’m qualified—”
“Then I don’t think I’m qualified to help you with whatever computer problem you have.” He crossed his arms over his chest. The window of opportunity was closing.
“But that’s your job,” Eddie protested.
“No. If it was my job, it wouldn’t be a favor.”
“All right,” Eddie said with a sigh. “I’ll try. But I can’t make you funny. I can only try to unlock your—er, natural inner funniness. And no guarantees.”
Stan considered the offer, and then stuck out a pudgy hand. They shook on it.
“Let’s get started,” Stan said.
“First, you tell me everything you know about computer viruses.”
Stan took to the task with genuine enthusiasm. He lectured Eddie on what viruses can be programmed to do, and how they hide. He described how they replicate, and what may trigger them to execute their commands.
Eddie told him what had happened when Detective Orr checked Nowlin’s computer.
“Sounds like a logic bomb,” Stan said.
“What’s that?”
“A virus set to trigger by an event, or series of events. It can sit dormant on the hard drive, or in the RAM, for days or months before it’s triggered. You could open your email fifty times without a problem, for example. But the virus is keeping track. And on the fifty-first time—bam!—it drops its payload and reformats your hard drive, or sends a thousand filthy emails to every person in your address book.”
Dabs of pink pooled in Stan’s white cheeks. “These are often Trojan Horse programs—technically not viruses because they don’t replicate. But they can be just as destructive. The Trojan Horse appears to be a benign application, until the trigger event.”
“So why did it garble the text? Why not just erase it?”
“Because your saboteur is smart, that’s why,” Stan said. “Standard deletion doesn’t actually destroy files, at least not immediately. It just tells the computer not to list that file anymore, and gives it permission to reuse that storage space on the hard drive. The computer doesn’t actually write over the spot until it needs the space for something else. It could be months, depending on your use, before the file is completely written over.”
Stan’s breathing grew heavier. He forehead was shiny. “By garbling the files—presumably with a randomized algorithm to prevent any pattern that could be decoded later—the Trojan Horse has eliminated any chance they could be recovered.”
Eddie digested the explanation, and then asked, “How did it get on Danny’s computer?”
“That’s the tricky part.” Stan pointed to a metal box impaled with fat gray wires. “That’s our firewall. All data coming into the building from the Internet must pass through it, and it’s programmed to destroy any whiff of a virus.”
“So the virus couldn’t have come from the Web?”
The flush in his cheeks spread, as if by osmosis, over his face. “I can’t guarantee the network is always clean—nobody can—but our firewall is strict,” he said. “And the anti-virus software on every computer in the building is set to execute local disinfections at three o’clock every morning. I probably could write a virus to defeat our defenses. But even with my knowledge of the network, it might take weeks.”
“Then how would the virus get to the newsroom?”
“I’d say it took the elevator.”
“Is that a computer term?”
“Somebody walked into the newsroom and infected Nowlin’s computer directly,” Stan said. “Either knowingly or by accident.”
“Who would know how?”
“It wouldn’t take a master hacker to load a virus,” he said. “Anyone with access and opportunity could do it if they knew our system. It would have to be somebody who knew Nowlin’s password—either because he told them, or because they saw him type it. Or maybe it’s somebody who knew him well enough to guess it.”
Eddie admitted, “Nowlin told me his password on the phone a few months ago. He was home, and needed some numbers from his electronic address book. I don’t know if he ever told anybody else.”
“Reporters work odd hours sometimes, with few people around,” Stan said. “So you could have delivered the bomb.” It was an observation on his part, not an accusation. “And, since I maintain password lists for everyone, so could I.”
“Could somebody have lifted Danny’s password from your lists?”
Stan shook his head hard enough to disturb his blond wisps. “No way. I store them off-networ
k. They’re hidden under false names and encrypted with code I wrote myself. A hacker would need days of uninterrupted time in this room to even find them. And I assure you, nobody but me spends much time here.”
Something in Stan’s tone acknowledged that he was generally a bastard. Eddie listened for a hint of regret, but didn’t hear any.
“If you and I didn’t do it, then who?”
Stan wrenched back his fingers and cracked his knuckles one by one. The last pinkie needed three good yanks before it gave up the pop. “There’s one person besides us who had both access and opportunity,” Stan said. “That’s Daniel Nowlin himself.”
Eddie had thought the same thing. But why would Danny destroy his own notes? Maybe he knew he was in danger, and left the virus to sanitize his files in case something happened to him. Was he protecting someone? Or protecting his own reputation?
The conversation had reached its natural end and Stan was eager to change the subject. “Now for your part of this bargain,” he said. “Make me funny.”
“Fair enough.” Eddie paused to consider where one begins when tunneling to China with a spoon. A radio test crackled over the police scanner. “Turn that damn scanner off,” Eddie ordered. “And then let’s start with your smile, the cornerstone of humor.”
“The smile’s important?”
“Are you kidding? You can’t tell a decent joke with that vinegar puss. You look like a guy getting the hernia test from his elderly mother.”
Eddie’s logic computed, and Stan nodded. He turned down the police scanner—down, not off, but it was a start and Eddie let it slide. “Let me see you smile,” Eddie said.
Stan formed a bug-eyed, jaw-clenched grin. Creepy.
“You look like a serial killer with constipation,” Eddie said.
“What’s wrong?”
“Goddam, man—everything.” Eddie polished Stan’s toaster with his sleeve. “Watch your reflection. Keep it natural. We can’t go any further until we get this right.”
Stan smiled into the chrome. With coaching, his grin grew a little less scary. You wouldn’t run screaming from him, though you’d still want a restraining order.
“A little better,” Eddie said. “Make sure you practice in your spare time.”
Eddie turned to leave. Stan jumped up. “Bourque! How much should I practice?”
“Oh, try five sets of twenty smiles, three times a day.”
“Three hundred a day?”
“We gotta overcome years of facial inactivity and build muscle strength. Stick to the program. I’ll be in touch.”
***
Back in the newsroom, Eddie found it nearly impossible to work with the dull ache behind his eyes. He distracted himself by checking his voicemail.
The message chilled him, like a recording from Fear herself—it was the chant he had recorded in the old triple-decker, minutes before he had fallen through the floor.
Who were those people? What did they want with Nowlin’s hair? Eddie wondered if the police had found them. He called the station and spoke to the detective’s bureau—no new information on who might have attacked him and thrown him in the canal.
Eddie hung up and listened to the chant again. This had to mean something. He transferred the message to a micro-cassette. Then he searched the Internet for college courses in the Khmer language, and picked one in California, near Long Beach, which had a sizable Cambodian population. The professor’s office number was in the on-line campus directory. A teaching assistant answered. She was happy to help. Experts loved to help journalists; it proved they were experts. She listened to the chant three times, left the phone for a full five minutes to look something up, and then offered a translation:
Temples of stone wear to dust in the wind, and so too this body gives out. But the lessons of goodness stand forever against time.
“What the heck does it mean?” Eddie asked.
“Just what it says,” she said. “It sounds like a Buddhist death chant. A monk would repeat the verse to comfort someone near death.”
“And if they’re already dead?”
“Then the chant could continue to help free the dead one’s energies while the body is prepared for the funeral fire.”
He double-checked the spelling of her name, thanked her and hung up.
The mystery woman with the red mittens had her own funeral for Nowlin? Eddie wondered if there could be an innocent explanation to account for how Danny knew that woman so well.
Who is she?
Chapter 15
General VonKatz met Eddie at the door. The cat’s snout flexed as he sampled a scent in the air. He had detected the pastrami Eddie had picked up on the way home, in a bag with two bulky rolls. Eddie scooped up the cat and rubbed his head. The General’s eyes closed and his purr sounded like it came from deep inside. Eddie could win a Pulitzer or lose his job; it wouldn’t matter—the General purred when Eddie rubbed his head.
Eddie reviewed the battle frozen on the chessboard. He had been playing this game against himself for a month, but it had seemed trivial since his canal ride on the ice gondola with a frozen rat. He forced himself to see the game through. He advanced a pawn one square into territory thick with the enemy. It was a suicide mission, with high reward. A knight and a rook from the opposing army were trapped. Either piece could escape, but the pawn would claim the soldier left behind. Eddie spun the board around, leaving Sophie’s Choice for tomorrow.
His Aunt Therese’s voice was on the answering machine. He pictured her lips, caked in pink lipstick, and the way her mouth seemed to roam all over her face when she talked, like she had been painted by Picasso.
“Edwaaaard?” She stretched his name. “I have a ham planned for Sunday. Would that be all right? If you come before eleven, we won’t be here. We’ll be at Mass. You could come before ten, if you want, but from ten to eleven your Aunt Victoria and I will be fulfilling our Sunday obligation.”
Real subtle. His aunts were always after him to get back to church.
There had been no life-defining incident that drove Eddie away from religion, no anger at God over a cosmic injustice. Eddie still believed, not in all the rituals, but he believed. He had simply come to think that the man in the collar—who was twice his age, never had a date and didn’t pay rent—was no longer speaking to him. It seemed too convenient, anyway, to go running back to church right after somebody had tried to drown him.
Eddie realized that he had not prayed in the old triple-decker, or in the canal. He had been inches from slipping off the ice to drown, and probably minutes from freezing to death, and he did not pray. Was there something wrong with him? Or had living three decades in comfort and safety clouded his perception, making life seem stouter and more lasting than it can ever be?
General VonKatz squirmed out of his hands. Enough affection—it was time to eat. The pastrami boiled up tough. Eddie’s head throbbed when he bent to put the General’s share on a paper plate on the floor. Eddie slathered his portion with mustard and ate it on a roll.
Dinner ended abruptly when the lost moth fluttered into the kitchen on powdery brown wings. The General’s pupils swelled. He sprang at the beast, smacking it in midair with one paw. The moth flapped backwards to the living room, staggered like a prizefighter who had walked into a left hook. General VonKatz peeled out on the linoleum, and a reckless chase ensued in the living room. It sounded like somebody bouncing turnips off the walls.
Eddie cringed and yelled, “Watch the chessboard!” The chase ended with a thump, a pause, another thump, and a hiss of frustration. The moth was back on the ceiling, pumping its wings as if exercising with an itty-bitty Thighmaster. The General crouched below, tail twitching.
“You got closer today, General,” Eddie said, scratching the cat’s ear. “But you just can’t seem to get your paws around it, can you?” The cat assumed a sentry position on the back of the recliner, facing the evil Mothra. He licked his paw and pretended he wasn’t
interested anymore.
Eddie got the lone can of Guinness from the fridge. The beer flowed dark and creamy into a mug, with a head thick enough to pitch a tent on.
The General followed Eddie into the bathroom. The cat perched on the vanity to monitor water dripping from the faucet, while Eddie ran a shower. Thundering water pressure was the one perk of Eddie’s rickety living quarters. He sipped Guinness and leaned backwards into a spray just shy of scalding hot.
He wiped fog from the shower door and watched General VonKatz through the glass. The cat’s eyes had narrowed to diagonal slits. Eddie envied the General, who could sleep anywhere, anytime. A single untamed thought about a news story would give Eddie insomnia. Not tonight, though. Not with a belly full of fatty meat, a mug of stout in his veins, and a hot shower.
Suddenly the General perked. His ears rotated like radar cups. Eddie chuckled. “You sure hate that moth,” he said.
But, no, that wasn’t right. The moth was making noise?
Eddie set down his mug and shut off the water. The General hopped off the vanity without a sound and clawed at the edge of the bathroom door. It opened six inches and he stalked out to the living room.
Eddie’s front door squeaked shut.
Fear rubbed cold hands over the slick of soap bubbles on his chest. He sensed movement in the next room and strained to hear. Stiff carpet fibers in the living room inhaled under the weight of a shoe, and exhaled when it lifted away.
Eddie grabbed a threadbare towel from the vanity and wrapped it twice around his right hand. He could swing as hard as he could without breaking his fist, if he got the chance.
The footsteps went past the bathroom door. Eddie got out of the tub. He tensed, hands shaking, and reached for the door. Naked and armed with a towel, he could only hope to land a clean punch and get away. He yanked open the door and stormed into the living room.
Jesse Nowlin was there, snooping in the old newspapers that Eddie kept in the piano bench.
She wore a tight sleeveless dress, maroon, with a slit up the side, black tights and heels. Her hair was teased up. Her lips matched the dress. Eddie had never seen her so dressed up, so stunning.
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