Stomach tight, he paced, passing on the seat Dad offered. “Just tell me.”
Dad’s eyes held his for a moment before he sighed and fell into a chair. “I need your help.”
Of all the things he expected his dad to say, this wasn’t it. “Me? Why?”
Leaning forward, Dad spun the laptop on his desk to face them. It was the same page Matisse had found on his computer and in the public library. The code for the new software.
“Do you know what this is?”
“It’s your new software,” he answered.
“No,” his dad said. “Read it carefully.”
Sitting in the chair next to his dad, Matisse pulled the computer closer and began to read through it, line by line. He was right. This software differed subtly from the one he’d seen last night. It was better, actually. The small changes would offer speed and less glitches. “You fixed it.”
His dad shook his head. “No.”
He leaned back and pushed the laptop away. “I don’t understand.”
“This is software developed by one of our employees, on company time, with my resources. And this—” With a push of a button, his father called up another page with the software he’d seen last night. “This is the software we patented.”
He was missing something.
“This is Rene’s idea, my code, my company’s work perfecting the code. Except it’s not. Because my employee stole the code, stole the idea, and patented it.”
He listened quietly, trying to understand what his father was telling him. “You mean, someone stole your software, fixed the glitches, and patented the glitch-free version?”
“Yes.”
“Isn’t that illegal?”
“Yes, but the problem is, Tisse, he patented his software before ours.”
“So?” Filled with indignation for his dad, Matisse still didn’t see why he needed to know about it. There wasn’t anything he could do about it.
“So...” Dad repeated. “The future of our company hinges on this control software. We put everything we had into its development. This revolutionizes technology. The company who releases this platform could be the next global leader in quantum computing. But this is the first step. Before we invest in superconductors and semiconductors and nanowires, we need this. Without it, we’re merely a fancy factory, churning out motherboards.”
Matisse understood the implications his father talked about, but he didn’t understand why the company’s future seemed so shaky.
“What is everything?” he asked, wondering if his father would actually tell him.
“Everything is every penny. Trusts, stocks, everything.” Dad’s voice trembled, and Matisse stared at him.
It came together slowly. He wasn’t a businessman, but he understood math. “You sank everything into developing this, marketing it, hiking up your stock prices with the promise of it, and now it’s not yours.”
“Exactly. Except it is mine. This man took our work and stole it and patented it.”
“I’m sorry, Dad.” What did he want his help with, though? Telling his mother? His sister? How could he possibly help out?
“Last night, Matisse, you got through our company firewalls.”
His face heated, and he stared at the floor. “I did.”
“That’s why I need your help.”
He peered up, trying to get a read on his father, but the man’s face was stony. “It’s your company. You can go wherever you want.”
“I can. What I need your help with, Tisse, is getting into the patent office.”
His brain stuttered to a stop. “The U.S. Patent Office?”
“Yes.”
The coffee he’d sipped earlier burned his stomach, the acid threatening to make a reappearance, and he swallowed hard. Dad wanted him to hack into a government site, and do what? Delete a patent?
He drummed his fingers nervously on his knees then folded his hands together. It wasn’t enough to calm his nerves. He stood up to pace around the room. At once, the leather, the hum of the air conditioner, even the fan in the computer, was too much for him to take. Another second inside, and he’d go mad.
He didn’t see where he was going. All he knew was he needed to get away from all of it. Before he realized what he was doing, he was on his bike, peeling out of the garage and down the drive. Downshifting, he roared through town and to the interstate as fast as he could go. With the wind roaring past him, he swerved between speeding cars, and his mind finally slowed.
Dad needed his help, and Matisse would give it.
15
Matisse
If Matisse could have sped away, left Mississippi, he would have. But his father needed him, and he’d never asked Matisse for anything. Like any father-son relationship, it had a top-down flow. He needed something; his father gave it. Matisse got in trouble; his father fixed it.
While speeding through traffic, it occurred to him. Why didn’t Dad fix the patent? He was as skilled as Matisse, probably more so since he’d practically designed the technology that kept people out of places they shouldn’t be. His mind dwelled on the question. Each time he tried to shut it down, the thought intruded. Why me?
As he slowed, easing down an exit ramp, the answer came to him. It didn’t matter why. All that mattered was Dad asked, and he could do it.
Without bragging, Matisse could honestly say he was the smartest person he knew. A few more years in the tech world and he’d surpass his father and Rene. The future Dad was promising filled him with excitement. Quantum computing would change everything. Men won Nobel Prizes for theories on it. Encryption, the shield keeping the bad guys out of places they shouldn’t be, would need to be completely reworked. And the company, if what Dad said was true, would be spearheading these advancements.
Unless the employee was allowed to get away with cheating and stealing.
Matisse pulled into a gas station. Using his heel, he kicked down the stand and sat back to rake his hand through his hair and yank on the knots the wind had whipped it into. The sun beat down on him. Without the wind, the humidity and heat reflecting from the pavement were overwhelming.
His decision was made; there was no reason to dwell on it anymore. No more information or explanations were needed. He got on the bike and pulled back on the interstate and sped toward home.
Dad’s car, along with a few others he didn’t recognize, were in the driveway. Knowing the crisis the company was dealing with, he could safely assume these were more work people. Once inside, he zeroed in on the raised voices coming from his dad’s office. He paused for a moment. Should he interrupt? Let them know he was onboard and ready to fix things?
No. He didn’t know what Dad had told his partners and employees; it would make the most sense if he hadn’t said anything. What was the old saying? Three people could keep a secret if two of them were dead?
What he was about to do was illegal, no doubt. He could morally equivocate, but patents were first-come-first-serve. This guy, whoever he was, had patented the idea the company hinged their future on first.
Taking the stairs two at a time, Matisse hurried to his room. Paranoia made him close and lock his door behind him. Laptop humming to life, he sat and drummed his fingers.
There were a lot of things to figure out. He wasn’t sure he could do this from home. If this was a multi-billion dollar idea and it disappeared, people would come looking.
Hiding his presence was a given, but he’d have to bury it under layers and layers of shit. He’d have to make false leads, trails. Add worms to the system.
So much to do.
Mind whirring, he surged to his feet, and paced the room.
Lists and plans.
He had to be a ghost. Leave no trace of what he’d done. What happened in a patent office? Did people file in person? Was there a paper trail? If there was, this plan was moot. No way he could break into the patent office, wherever that was, and Mission Impossible away any evidence of the false patent.
Fir
st thing was first—gather info. This he could do from home.
His mind worked impossibly quick, and his body hummed with anticipation. Never had he felt so challenged and excited. All his anxiety and worry disappeared in the wake of this task. It didn’t overwhelm him—it invigorated him.
That day passed by in a blur. Furiously working at his computer, he mentally compiled all the information he needed about patents and how they worked. Patents were digital. There would be no written proof his dad’s employee had filed it.
Matisse placed orders for parts he needed. It would give him the speed and space needed to write a program to get him in and out of the government office with no one being the wiser.
The moon rose, and his mother knocked on his door. “You haven’t come out all day.”
Immediately, he closed the window. Slower, he spun in his chair before standing to unlock the door. “Sorry.”
“Can I come in?”
His neck itched, as if his computer had come to life behind him and broadcasted his plans, but he kept himself from glancing over his shoulder. Somehow he knew his mother had no idea what his father asked of him. He couldn’t see Nicole going for it. She’d never approve of anything illegal. And this? This was very illegal.
“Sure,” he said.
“There’s dinner if you want it.”
He wasn’t hungry. His body was full of energy, all of which he wanted to focus on this project. Eating and sleeping would only slow him down.
“I’m good,” he answered, tapping his fingers against his knees.
“Okay.” Nicole narrowed her eyes. “Come downstairs and get something to eat, and then you can bring it back in here. I’ll get your dishes before I go to bed.”
Annoyed, he shook his head. “I’m really not hungry.”
“You’ll eat, and then you’ll come back in here. Or you can come into the kitchen, and I can watch you eat. You’re too thin as it is.”
He disagreed. He was fit—his body strong and lean. He might be interested in computers and books, but Davis Prep required physical activity. He played club sports, which he hated.
“And your hair is getting long,” Nicole added.
“Are you going to cut my hair while I make a sandwich?” he asked snidely.
Perfect face creasing in a smile, she opened the door and gestured with an elegant hand. “Let’s go, Lord Byron. Eat and then you can return to writing poetry.”
No one could diffuse a situation like his mother. Trying to hide his smile, he instead sighed loudly. He made a show of pushing in his chair, lining it up perfectly before he closed his computer.
“After you.” He gestured grandly.
“Why, thank you,” she said, voice syrupy sweet.
Once in the kitchen, she watched him warm up leftovers and grab a soda from the fridge. He went through the motions, but even the heavenly scent of his dinner couldn’t tempt him. An energy bar would have been more effective and taken less time to consume. He decided he’d order a box. In a matter of days, he’d be executing his plan.
“Hello?” Genevieve waved a face in front of his hand. “I’m talking to you.” Raising an eyebrow, he waited for his younger sister to continue. “Nothing. I was just saying, hi.”
With a snort, he nudged his sister with his shoulder to take his plate out of the microwave. “Hi. I have work to do.”
“I’m going to get your dishes later, and you better have eaten everything!” Nicole called after him as he left the kitchen. Lifting the hand holding the soda as agreement, he hurried through the house and upstairs.
Even without the parts he needed, he had a million things to do and paused only when his mother knocked at the door to wipe his screen and hand her his plates. “Don’t stay up too late,” she told him, reaching up to kiss his cheek.
“I won’t.” Of course he would.
16
Matisse
Matisse stumbled down the stairs, tripping over his feet, arms flailing as he attempted to shove them into the sleeves of his sport coat. Eventually he had fallen asleep, and he had QWERTY on his cheek to prove it.
Sorely tempted to skip school, he decided instead to keep to his typical schedule. Part of his strategy was to do everything he normally did, no matter how badly he wanted to wait at the door for his packages to arrive.
“Tie!” Nicole yelled at him when he was halfway out the door. He snatched it out of the air and stuffed it in his pocket.
“Thanks!” he called, hurrying outside and shutting the door.
As it did, he heard her, “Love you!”
He paused, turning and opening it again. “Love you.” He didn’t often say it, but for some reason, in the wake of everything he found himself willing to do, it seemed a small thing. Her face lit up, and he grinned. Yeah. I can tell her that every so often.
He sped to school, and the day passed in a blur. None of it pierced the haze of his anticipation. All he could think about was programming, setting everything up just so, and getting to work.
He managed to get home without causing an accident, though he did manage to sit through two green lights and the angry honks of the cars behind him before jolting out of his daydreams.
But the packages were waiting for him on a table in the foyer. He cradled them in his arms before he hurried upstairs.
“Matisse?” Nicole’s voice carried to him.
“Have work to do!” he called, and slammed his door shut, making sure to lock it.
With steady hands, he got right to work. He added the parts he needed to his computer and began the arduous task of shielding his computer, address, and anything else that could be linked to him. From there, it was testing the site. He got in and out, and then doubled back to see if he’d left any trace.
It looked good.
The site wasn’t as protected as other places he’d been. His father’s company’s site put this one to shame, which was a problem when he thought about it. Patents were as valuable as the information stored at the bank. Maybe it wasn’t actual money, but there was the potential for billions of dollars with some of these ideas.
Idiots. Maybe they’d learn a lesson after this. No. He dismissed the thought immediately. If they learned a lesson, it meant they learned he was there. The very last thing he wanted was anyone knowing what he’d done.
For a moment, anxiety stabbed him, and he dropped his head into his hands, yanking at his hair. This was for his family. Illegal or not, it had to be done.
The sun had set, but so far, no knock on the door from his mom. Rather than wait for her to appear, which he had no doubt she would do, he shut down the system and went downstairs.
The house was silent except for the gentle hum of the air conditioner. Taking advantage of his family’s absence, he quickly got food from the kitchen and ran back upstairs. He buried himself in work again and forgot entirely about everyone else. As the hours passed by, he forced himself to stop, afraid fatigue would make him sloppy. But the truth was he didn’t feel sloppy. He felt more aware of what he was doing, like he was laser sharp. But he didn’t trust himself with this and shut down for the night.
Or morning. The sun teased the edge of the horizon; he’d only get a couple of hours before school.
One more day. All he needed to finish was one more day.
The day passed and Matisse, in what he decided was the definition of anti-climactic, got in, erased the patent and any paperwork, sign, hint, or sideways glance of its existence. It was over.
Nothing was left to do, except tell his father, but the opportunity was a lot harder to find than getting past government firewalls. Matisse left message after message. Finally, he resorted to telling his mother he needed to talk to him then asking her to call him.
“He’s very busy, Tisse. Stressed at work. Give him space. You know how he gets—you’re the same way.”
“Yeah, but—”
“I’ll tell him,” she said, and when he tried to impart how important it was he speak to Dad, she held
up her hand and turned away. “He’ll call. Just give him time.”
It wasn’t until a full week later, late on Saturday night, while creeping in from a night with Victor and his friends that he got the chance.
The light shone beneath the office door, and after knocking and waiting for Dad to call him in, he entered. “I’ve been trying to get in touch with you.” No reason to beat around the bush. “You asked me to do something, and it’s done.”
His dad’s face, when he first entered and began to speak was annoyed, but as Matisse went on it morphed to amazement then all-out relief.
“It’s done. Everything is gone. You’re set.”
Tapping his foot on the wood floor, Dad seemed at a loss for words. He waited for him to say something. Thank you, maybe, or thank God. He’d take a thank God. Anything.
Instead he pushed back his chair. “You’re sure? You left no sign? No one could find out you’d been in there?”
Dad was worried about him; there was no reason for it, but he was glad he cared enough to ask.
“No. Unless there’s some guy around as smart as me, and there isn’t. Except maybe you, but I’ll leave you in the dust, old man.”
A smile crinkled the skin around Dad’s eyes, but his mouth was tight. “You will.” He pressed his palms against the leather blotter and leaned toward him. “I can’t thank you enough, Matisse. You’ve saved this company. I didn’t expect—you did it so fast! I thought you were taking all this time to think about it, and I’ve been making contingency plans. Liquidating assets, transferring the titles into your mother’s name...”
“It was that bad?” He’d understood the implications of the advancement, but hadn’t realized how bad off the company would be if it hadn’t happened.
“It is—was. It’s fixed now.” He sank into the chair. “I can hardly believe it.”
“Well, believe it. It’s done.” With a rap of his knuckles on the desk, he headed to the door.
“Tisse, wait.” Dad had an expression he couldn’t quite identify. “Thank you.”
Finding Truth (The Searchers Book 3) Page 9