David Morrell - Desperate Measures

“Why? I don’t see why it should matter if you’re planning to kill yourself.”

“Yes. I’ve been asking myself that a lot.… I think”-he swallowed again-“it’s because all along I planned to go out cleanly. But suddenly everything has gotten very messy.”

Feeling pressure in his throat, Pittman spooned more apricots into the baby’s mouth.

Brian stared at him. “What the hell happened?”

Pittman frowned toward the floor. Then he told Brian everything.

Brian kept shaking his head, alternately bewildered and dismayed. “This is…”

“I swear to you, it’s the truth.”

“Look, you can’t do anything about this on your own. You have to go to the police. Tell them what you just told me.”

“If you have trouble believing me, would they ?”

“But you don’t have a choice.”

“No. I don’t think the police could keep me safe.”

“Man, oh man, do you realize what you sound like?”

“Who was it said that paranoia was the only sane attitude to have these days?”

Brian looked appalled. “And you expect me to…”

“Get me into some computer files that I otherwise wouldn’t have access to.”

“Like?”

“At my newspaper. I have to show ID and sign in to enter the building. A guard or someone else would recognize me. They’d call the police. But I know the passwords that allow access from an outside telephone.”

Brian looked somewhat less threatened. “That’s not hard to do. In fact, it’s almost a legitimate request. Under other circumstances, it would be legal.”

“Yes.” Pittman had fed the baby and now was changing its diaper.

“And that’s all?”

“Well…”

“There’s something else?”

“I need to get into the computer system for the city’s criminal records.”

“Jesus.”

“Isn’t there a way to route the call through a system of long-distance relays so the call can’t be traced before I get the information I need?”

“Yes, but…”

Pittman turned as someone opened the door.

The woman-a redhead, severely thin, with stern features-looked alarmed at the sight of Pittman holding the baby. “What are…?”

“Gladys, this is a friend of mine,” Brian said.

“Ed Garner,” Pittman said, hoping that if he used a different name, she wouldn’t associate him with the photographs of him on CNN or in the newspapers.

Gladys marched to a kitchen counter, set down two bags of groceries, and took possession of her baby. Her pinched expression suggested that she felt Pittman wasn’t worthy enough to have touched her offspring. “Ed Garner?” She squinted at Brian. “You never mentioned him before.”

“Well, I…”

“We were buddies in college,” Pittman said. “We loved to fool around with computers.”

“Computers? You weren’t a hacker, I hope.” Her voice had the grating sound of a knife being sharpened.

“Never had the nerve.”

“Brian had too much nerve. He went to prison for it.” Her eyes glared.

“Anyway,” Pittman said, trying to change the subject, “I heard Brian was living in this area. I’ve got relatives not far from here, so I figured I’d drop in. Brian was just about to show me some of the stuff he’s doing for Nintendo.”

Wrinkles developed between Gladys’s eyes.

“Weren’t you, Brian?” Pittman said.

“If that’s all right, Gladys. You can see the baby’s been fed and changed.”

Gladys narrowed her steely gaze at him. “Just remember, we have to be at my mother’s in an hour.”

“I couldn’t possibly forget.”

Brian and Pittman went into the computer room. Brian shut the door. He looked angrily at Pittman.

Pittman worried that the anger was directed at him, then understood its true target.

He had an ally.

Furious, Brian turned on the computer, then locked a phone into a modem. His cheeks were flushed. “Which system do you want to access first? Your newspaper’s?”

“Criminal records.”

Brian didn’t react to the change in priorities. Instead, he touched buttons on his telephone.

“You know the criminal-records number by heart?” Pittman asked in amazement.

“No. This is a friend of mine. I don’t hack anymore, but I keep in touch with friends who do. This guy’s obsessed about eavesdropping on the police. And he never talks on the phone. I always have to go through his computer.”

Words appeared on Brian’s computer screen.

YOU HAVE REACHED THE STARSHIP ENTERPRISE .

“He’s also crazy about Star Trek .” Brian tapped letters on his keyboard.

MR. SPOCK TO CAPTAIN KIRK.

“Spock’s my code name,” Brian said.

Words appeared in response.

KIRK HERE. WHAT IS YOUR PASSWORD?

Brian typed more letters.

TRIBBLES.

New words appeared on the screen.

PROCEED, MR. SPOCK.

Brian typed:

TOP SECRET MESSAGE FROM STARFLEET COMMAND. FEAR THAT KLINGONS MAY TRY TO INTERCEPT TRANSMISSION.

The response came quickly.

ACTIVATE SCRAMBLER.

Brian turned on a machine next to the phone.

SCRAMBLER ACTIVATED.

For the next few minutes, Pittman watched with fascination as Brian tapped his keyboard, read and responded to queries on his screen, and finally wrote down a series of numbers.

“Got it.”

MAY YOU PROSPER. SPOCK TO KIRK. OUT.

Brian pressed other numbers on his telephone. “I’m routing this through Fairbanks, Alaska, and Key West, Florida. Even then, the call can be traced. If the criminal-records computer senses an intrusion, I’ll have to unplug right away.”

“How will you know?”

“That’ll tell me.” Brian pointed to another machine beside the telephone.

He pressed more numbers and nodded toward the screen. “Okay, we’re in. What do you want to know?”

“Access the file for Sean O’Reilly.” Pittman spelled the name.

O’Reilly had been the master thief whom Pittman had interviewed some years ago. The tool knife with its lock picks that Pittman had used to get into Jonathan Millgate’s room had been a gift from O’Reilly.

“There,” Brian said.

Pittman read the screen. Earlier, when he had tried to find Brian’s name in the phone book, he had also looked for O’Reillys, with no success. Either O’Reilly was back in prison, had moved to another area, or…

“Yes.” Pittman picked up a pencil and notepad.

According to O’Reilly’s file, he’d been released from prison three months previously-on parole-which meant that he was required to keep the authorities informed about where he was staying.

The address was on the Lower East Side. Pittman quickly wrote it down, tore off the piece of paper, and put it into his pocket.

“Now what other computer files do you want?” Brian asked.

“ I thought so ,” a steely voice said behind them.

Pittman and Brian spun toward the noise.

Gladys must have been listening at the door. She had thrown it open.

She stormed in. “I can’t leave you alone for a minute. You can’t stay out of trouble.”

“Trouble?”

“You are hacking. What’s the matter with you? Do you like prison so much that you want to go back there?”

“You’re mistaken,” Pittman said. “I was showing Brian some work I’ve been doing.”

“Get out of my house.”

“We accessed my files at-”

“Don’t lie to me. Your name isn’t Ed Garner. It’s Matthew Pittman. CNN just did a story on you. I recognized your picture.” Gladys yanked the phone from the modem. “I’m calling the police.”

As words vanished from the screen, she raised the phone to her ear and pressed 911.