by Jack Bowie
As he stabbed at the last few grains of yellow rice in his bowl, he realized he was enjoying O’Connor’s company more than he would ever admit. But he did have an ulterior motive and it was time to get to work.
“I guess I still don’t understand what you do at Omega,” he asked as calmly as he could.
“That’s easy. When a child goes missing, it’s important to have her picture as accurate as possible. The way she looks now. This could be many years after the registration photo. I have a team that develops software to create the correctly aged picture.”
“But aren’t there a lot of programs like that already available?”
“There are some. But Dr. McAllister felt we could do better. We take into account age, height, weight and a lot of other factors.”
He hadn’t heard anything about this before. He had assumed they just took a picture and collected a sample. “You collect all that data in addition to the photo?”
O’Connor paused and pulled her hands back to her lap. “Ah, well, yes. It does help with reconstruction. Of the photo.”
“But you have information from all the children. Including their genome sequence. Do you look at any of this data to develop your programs?
O’Connor’s face froze. It seemed a strange reaction to a simple question.
“Look at all the data? Oh, no. That would be too hard.” She nervously twisted her finger into the fallen curl. “We do really well now. I should show you some of the results.”
“Like the one of Dr. McAllister’s wife?”
“Oh, you saw that picture. I never thought that was a good idea, but Dr. McAllister insisted. He has us do a new one every year. I guess he’s just testing us. And he is the boss.”
“The boss usually gets what he wants. I doubt Dr. McAllister is any different. Or his daughter.”
O’Connor smiled and finished her wine.
“Would you like any dessert?” Braxton asked.
“Not for me. I’m stuffed. But I could use an after-dinner drink. Can I talk you into joining me?”
“Not tonight I’m afraid. I really do have some work to finish. Kerry wants me out of her hair as soon as possible.”
“That’s too bad.” She feigned a frown, but couldn’t hold it. “Okay, but how about walking me back to my apartment? It’s only a few blocks. I’d feel a lot safer.”
Braxton somehow doubted that O’Connor couldn’t take care of herself, but it was the polite thing to do. And he’d even get a little more exercise. “I’d be happy to.”
They explained to the waitress that they wanted to split the bill—a request that was met with no small amount of surprise—and completed the transactions with only a small amount of confusion. Then they headed down Mass Ave toward O’Connor’s apartment on Hancock Street. Braxton commented on the changes in the neighborhood since he had left.
Was it only two years ago? It seems like half my life. So much has changed.
The building came up quickly and they climbed the steps up to the apartment door.
“I had a great time, Adam. Thanks for inviting me.”
“As I remember it was you who invited me, but I enjoyed it too. It was a great break.”
“Then why don’t you come upstairs for a few minutes?” She reached for his hand and looked up into his eyes. “It seems a shame to end the evening so early.”
He hadn’t been prepared for that. His faced flushed like an adolescent. O’Connor was appealing, too appealing, and he knew when he was in over his head. It would not end up an early evening.
“I’m flattered,” he said as he gave her hand a small squeeze. “But duty calls. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
O’Connor gave him one long final look, then stretched up for another kiss on the cheek. “Why do I always fall for the honorable ones? You be careful, Adam. See you tomorrow.”
Braxton watched as O’Connor disappeared inside the door. His heart was beating like a teenager on his first date.
Maybe I’m not that honorable after all.
He sighed and headed back up Mass Ave to the Square. On the way, he replayed their conversation. There were definitely things that needed follow-up.
* * *
Two blocks later, Braxton’s heart rate had finally returned to a normal level. He hoped no one was paying any attention to the ridiculous grin on his face. Maybe dinner hadn’t been the most honorable decision, but it had done wonders for his ego.
He shook his head to clear out those troublesome thoughts and let his mind focus on his immediate task—why was Genelinks running slower on those special nights?
There was nothing left in the application logs that would tell him what was going on. But whoever was modifying the logs had to be physically present. It was probably the same person who was running the phantom jobs. He needed to correlate the quiet periods with the building access logs.
“Mister! Help!”
The rush hour crowds had disappeared but Mass Ave still had its share of pedestrians to keep him company—students, teachers, wives and husbands—gawking into shop windows and studying the menus posted outside the numerous restaurants. Some things don’t ever change. The walk brought back many memories, some pleasant, some painful. Megan, his ex-wife, always bought her coffee at Dunkin’ Donuts. Paul, his best friend, had loved the sandwiches at Au Bon Pain. And Braxton could never pass by The Coop without going into the book—.
“Mister! Mister! Help!”
The shouts brought Braxton out of his past and abruptly back to the present. A young child was running breathlessly toward him yelling at the top of her lungs. She looked about twelve years old and was dressed in rumpled jeans, sneakers and a dirty sweatshirt. Short, curly blond hair bounced around a face streaked with tears as she ran. Despite the relative opulence of the universities and businesses in the city, Cambridge still had a large working-class population. Braxton instantly recognized this child as a typical Cambridge “urchin.”
“Mister, please. It’s my mother, she’s hurt!”
Before Braxton could get out of the way, the child ran right into him, clutching at his legs and nearly knocking him over. Braxton grabbed her shoulders and pushed her to arm’s length. The child was shaking uncontrollably.
“Okay, okay. Slow down,” he said. “What’s your name? What happened to your mother?” Braxton tried to keep his voice calm even though he could feel the adrenaline rush.
“She … she was mugged,” the child blurted out. “You’ve got to help her.” Showing surprising strength, she broke free of Braxton’s hold, grabbed his arm and began dragging him down the street. The child’s urgency overrode all sense of caution. He followed without thinking.
“Where are we going?” Braxton yelled. “We need to call 911.”
“This way,” the child replied as she continued pulling. “Down this way.”
They approached a narrow alleyway that ran off of Mass Ave between a CVS and a pizza shop. Braxton lost all sense of orientation as the child turned in and ran between the piles of garbage bags, discarded cardboard boxes and rusty gray steel dumpsters. The lights from the street barely reached into the narrow alley, throwing the passage into long, foreboding shadows. Braxton stumbled once, nearly falling over an abandoned grocery cart filled with discarded clothes.
Suddenly the waif stopped about ten yards into the alley. “There,” she cried, pointing behind one of the dumpsters. “She’s there. Please help her.”
Braxton broke free from the child’s grasp and ran to the dumpster. But as he looked, he could see no one. He peered along the wall and even tried pulling the massive container to look further behind, but still nothing.”
“Where is she?” he yelled as he turned back to the girl. “I don’t see—”
The rest of Braxton’s question was extinguished by a huge arm that suddenly snapped across his neck from behind. He flailed with his arms and struck back with his heels, but all the standard escapes he remembered from basic training were to no avail. He had had enough tr
aining to know what he was supposed to do, but also enough knowledge to recognize when his attacker was a professional.
He continued to try to fight off the assailant, each movement less effective than the last as his oxygen-starved brain slowly lost the capability to command his limbs. Despite his best attempts, he realized this was not an attack he was going to live through.
Looking up, Braxton saw the waif standing calmly by the dumpster with a disturbingly pleased countenance. Why would she have done this?
“Well done,” he heard from his attacker.
“Can we go back to Nod now?” the girl replied.
The darkness came and he surrendered.
Chapter 10
Massachusetts Avenue, Cambridge, Massachusetts
Wednesday, 8:10 p.m.
He sprinted down the hallway, desperate to find a way out.
Smoke was everywhere. Flames crawled over the wall, the ceiling and the floor, lashing out to grab him as he passed.
His eyes were flooded with tears and he could barely breathe.
It’s so long. When will I get to the end?
He ran from door to door but every one was locked.
Ahead he saw a figure.
“Get out,” he yelled. “You have to get out!”
He kept running and the figure came into focus. He recognized her. It was Megan! His ex-wife.
But how can that be? She’s dead, isn’t she?
“Megan. Run! You have to get out. MEGAN!”
Braxton awoke with a start and banged the back of his head on something hard. It hurt.
When he opened his eyes, he wasn’t in the fiery warehouse in Alameda and Megan wasn’t watching over him. The world was dark and there was no fire and no smoke. Instead, he saw a rotten yellow pineapple standing right next to his head. His consciousness slowly returning, he then recognized a pile of squashed red tomatoes, a handful of yellow mushrooms and two sticks of moldy pepperoni. This vista, and its accompanying aroma, made him realize that he was not dead, as he had expected, but lying in a filthy pile of garbage outside Lombardi’s Pizza, if the sign over the delivery door was to be believed.
He glanced around and saw a trash-filled alley bathed in shadows. There was no one else around. He had hit his head on a rusty iron wall. It was a dumpster.
He’d been mugged.
His neck and throat burned like hell. Probably not unexpected from nearly being choked to death.
And his head throbbed. He reached up and felt a painful lump. When he looked back at his hand, it was covered in dark fluid. Blood.
Aside from those two injuries, he seemed to be in one piece. He still had his clothes, for which he was enormously thankful, although his pants and jacket had taken on the same patina and aroma of the garbage pile in which he had awakened.
Looking at his watch, which was still on his wrist, he found it was only twenty minutes since he had left O’Connor at her apartment.
He wiped his hand on his pants and reached into his jacket pocket. His wallet was there. He pulled it out and saw all his cash and credit cards. While being a relief, their presence raised even more questions about the attack. He hadn’t died, and the attacker hadn’t taken any of his valuables. What was his purpose?
There had been a girl. She had been in trouble. Then he had been grabbed and choked.
What the hell did they want?
Feeling stronger, Braxton decided that these questions were better left for another time. Spending any longer in this dark, squalid alley was something he refused to do. He rolled over and raised himself on all fours. A good plan since he nearly passed out.
A few minutes later he felt stable enough to get up. Grabbing the top of the dumpster, he pulled himself to his feet. He leaned over the edge of the bin and let the next wave of nausea pass.
He straightened up, brushed what dirt and trash off his clothes that he could, and walked back toward Mass Ave. His head suddenly started spinning and he grabbed for a nearby railing. A few minutes of rest cleared his head, and he started again for the lights at the entrance to the alley.
Upon stepping into the sidewalk, he was met by the reality of a Cambridge evening. The bright lights and cacophony of the crowd again sent his head reeling, and he leaned against the building’s corner to steady himself. While recovering from the vertigo he watched the faces of the passers-by and became acutely aware that his disheveled appearance was attracting more attention than he was comfortable with.
He thought for a moment about asking for help, but this would mean explaining what had happened; something that not even he felt he could make sound plausible. This would then undoubtedly lead to getting the police involved, a prospect he found even more disturbing.
What happened, sir?
I was mugged.
How did you get in the alley?
I was led there by a little girl.
What was stolen?
Nothing.
Who attacked you?
I have no idea. But he was a professional.
His previous encounters with law enforcement would then be checked and result in the conversation becoming even less amicable. No, going to the police was not a good idea. Whatever had happened, he was in one piece and nothing had been stolen. He would leave it at that.
He turned and strode back toward the Square, ignoring the suspicious looks. People parted as he approached, wishing to avoid another homeless Cambridge bum. He felt awkward and uncomfortable, but in a few minutes he would be safe in his hotel room.
Wouldn’t he?
* * *
Colleen O’Connor curled her long, slim legs up on the cushion of her sofa, shook out her braid and leaned back. She let out a long sigh. Dinner with the consultant had been very nice—he really was cute—but then why did she now have to spend the evening by herself?
No one’s that honorable anymore are they?
She’d have to try harder tomorrow. She was not going to let this one get away.
With a new sense of determination, she jumped up and went to her bedroom. She discarded all of her clothes, tossing them haphazardly across the room, and wrapped herself in the luxurious white bathrobe she had purchased for herself on her last birthday. It was perfect for this occasion.
She next visited the kitchen and pulled out a glass and a half-empty bottle of her favorite merlot. Then it was back to the living room, where she clicked on the TV and located The Tudors on Netflix. She was sure she could get some valuable pointers from the scheming Anne Boleyn.
Halfway through the episode, there was a knock on her door. It had to be her neighbor, Elise. She always wanted to know all the juicy details after O’Connor came home from a date.
O’Connor stared through the peephole and rather than seeing a prim grad student, a tiny curly-haired girl dressed in a familiar green and brown uniform stood at the door. A well-appointed merit badge sash hung diagonally across her chest and a clipboard was grasped tightly in her hand. The sight brought a smile to O’Connor’s’ face as she remembered her own youth as an exuberant, optimistic Girl Scout off to save the world. She had studied hard, earned her fair share of merit badges—public service had been her favorite—and even won her troop’s award for most cookies sold. The Scouting life had faded as the angst of high school and the rigors of college prep took over her life, but she had never forgotten the joy and pride of that prize. If only to bring back to life that special moment, she undid the locks and opened the door.
“Would you like to buy some Girl Scout cookies, ma’am?” the visitor asked with a slight touch of nervousness.
O’Connor smiled at the waif. Her mother was the only person she had ever known that was a “ma’am.” To think that she had reached that vaunted time-of-life was a bit disconcerting. “Of course. Do you have Tagalongs?”
“Oh, absolutely,” the Scout said cheerily. “How many would you like?”
“Let’s get four,” O’Connor replied with a smile. “You stay right there and I’ll get my checkbook.”
O’Connor turned away and went to get her purse on the entry hall table. She was such a cute little girl and even had an interesting accent. She’d have to ask where she was from. As she reached into the purse for her checkbook, she heard the front door close. Why would the child have done that?
* * *
Braxton stood motionless in the shower as jets of steaming water washed the dried blood out of his hair. He still had a helluva lump, but at least the bleeding had stopped. His heart rate had stabilized and the waves of vertigo had gotten farther apart. He wasn’t sure he had recovered from the attack, but at least he finally felt back in control.
He hoped he hadn’t attracted too much attention on his way up Mass Ave. It wasn’t as if the streets of Cambridge hadn’t seen their share of unkempt homeless persons, even in Harvard Square. The clerk at the front desk had asked if he was okay, but Braxton had just ignored him and taken the elevator up to his floor.
His neck stung from the soapy water. When he had arrived back at his room and looked in the mirror, he had seen three deep scratches below his jaw. Whatever his attacker had been wearing, it had left a set of seriously ugly marks. Too bad he had never learned about the magic of makeup.
Well, if that is the worst consequence of the mugging then I can live with it.
Ten minutes later, he stepped out of the shower feeling almost normal. He toweled off and popped three Tylenol to blunt the lingering pain. Finally, he crawled into a set of clean clothes, flicked on the television, and collapsed on the bed.
He again considered calling the police but decided that his earlier decision was the correct one. Getting law enforcement involved would only make his life more difficult. He somehow knew that it would likely not result in the apprehension of either of his attackers.
His best action, at least for now, was to get this damned audit done and get back to D.C. He decided to return to the problem of the missing network records.
As he opened his laptop, a familiar building appeared on the TV screen. He turned up the volume.