John Sandford - The Fool's Run

The computers and printer had to go for the same security reasons. If there were tapes of incoming data from our terminals, a sophisticated analysis of transmission peculiarities might identify them. Same with the printer type, should they compare samples with the printout sent to the cops with the pornography package. I hated the thought of dropping the equipment in the river, so I packed it with newspapers in three big cardboard boxes, hauled the boxes to a delivery service, and had them sent to an elementary school in a slum area. The note said the equipment was from a friend.

Dace and LuEllen showed up just before dark and we all went out to eat. Later that evening, I put the phones back where they were when we rented the place. We would leave the working table. The landlord could get rid of it.

The next morning, Dace and LuEllen took care of financial matters and shopped. I called Bobby at the special number, told him we'd be out of touch for a few days, and took the portable and the rest of our personal stuff down to the car. When the apartment was empty, I started wiping the place down. It was another piece of security that would probably be unnecessary, but Maggie, before she left for Chicago, had insisted on it.

"We know the place is used by prostitutes. If there should be any trouble here in the next few weeks, and they find fingerprints from a computer expert and an executive from Anshiser Aviation and a Washington publicity expert and a burglar.

"I'm not on record as a burglar anywhere," LuEllen said.

"You see my point, though?" Maggie had said. "Somebody smart could reach the right conclusion."

"The chances of a problem are almost nonexistent," I said.

"Exactly. Almost. But not quite. It'll take two hours, and it'll eliminate the possibility." She stuck out her lower lip. "For me?"

I was nearly finished wiping the apartment when the phone rang. It was Maggie, calling from Chicago.

"It's done," she said crisply. "I'll be back tonight with the cash."

Dillon's analysis indicated that Whitemark was reeling. Its stock had dropped into the forties, then started drifting back up, but only because of takeover rumors. The Hellwolf project was dead in the water, due to massive problems with their design system computers. Work on their copy of the String system had stopped. Manufacturing had problems with supply coordination, and couldn't straighten them out. Routine administrative work was completely tangled. The company would again fail to meet the payroll at the end of the week. The unions threatened to walk out unless the paychecks were validated.

The press was still pushing the corruption stories, and procurement people at the Pentagon were afraid to talk to anybody at Whitemark. The Whitemark systems director had been fired after his arraignment on child pornography charges. To make everything worse, the FBI was crawling all over the place, questioning employees about a possible source of the attack, which they suspected was internal. The interrogations further disrupted the process of straightening out the company.

"Rudy is very pleased-also a little frightened. He hired the biggest computer security people in the country to revamp our system," she said. Her voice sounded oddly tight.

"Who have they got?" I asked.

She mentioned three names, and I recognized all of them. One was a charlatan, but the other two were good. They were all expensive, and not likely to miss much.

"How soon will they finish?" I asked.

She hesitated for a moment and then said, "Yesterday."

"Yesterday?"

"Rudy hired them right after we started the attack on Whitemark. My reports scared everybody out here, so he hired these people and gave them three weeks and a big bunch of money. Most of what they did was rearranging phone lines and moving furniture, and they changed some procedures. There wasn't much new equipment involved. Anyway, they finished yesterday. Rudy was talking about hiring you, in a year or so, to see if you could crack it."

"You know where to find me," I said.

"Right. On a sandbar," she said. "Have you got the apartment cleaned up?"

"You mean wiped? Just about. I'm just finishing the kitchen now. We could meet downtown somewhere to split the cash, but we thought this was convenient to the airport."

"No, no, I'll see you there. I should be in about seven o'clock."

Dace and LuEllen got back in the early afternoon, and Dace had shed another five years. He was wearing an expensive tweed coat, a dark blue shirt with silk knit tie, whipcord pants, and leather boat shoes. He was pleased with his appearance.

"For Christ's sake, don't touch anything," I said, as they came in.

"What do you think?" he said, spreading his arms. LuEllen stood behind him, grinning.

"Straight out of Esquire," I said.

"And look at this," he said. He pulled out a bundle of traveler's checks, twenty-five thousand in tens and twenties.

"I made him go to ten different banks," LuEllen laughed.

"This ought to take care of us for six months or a year," Dace said, thumbing through the stack of checks. "If it doesn't, we can always come back for more."

With the new clothes and the money burning in his pocket, Dace wanted to run around to newspaper and public relations offices and buy drinks for a few friends and contacts.

"It wouldn't be a good idea if I just disappeared," he said. "Besides, I like some of these guys. I'll be back in time to eat."

I got my painting gear, and LuEllen and I went down to the banks of the Potomac, where I did a watercolor as good as anything I'd ever done. The Whitemark attack sat on the surface of my mind, but the painting took care of itself. It was all eye and hand, and the pigment seemed to flow without effort. By the time I finished, I was beginning to hyperventilate. LuEllen had gone off across the park, and as I was looking at it, wondering about one more touch, one last touch-it's always the last ones that ruin paintings-she walked up and looked.

"Jesus Christ, Kidd, that's good," she said.

I swirled the brush through the ice-cream bucket I used as my main water container. When it was clean, I dropped it back in its box, and tossed the bucket of water out on the grass. It was good, by God.

September is beautiful in Washington, one of the best months of the year. The sky was a perfect china blue, and there was just a hint of leaf smoke in the air. LuEllen was chatting along as we walked back to the car, and I kept sneaking looks at the painting. The nude of Maggie was the best figure I'd ever done. This was the best landscape, and it had come out in two hours. Was it luck? Or was it a breakthrough?

I put the painting in the trunk, carefully braced between two suitcases, on top of the portable, so it wouldn't rattle around.

On the way back to the apartment, I stopped at a grocery and bought a pack of kitchen gloves. Having wiped the entire place, I didn't intend to leave any isolated prints during the final clean-up.

At the apartment, there was an odd moment before we went inside. A car was parked across the street, a red Buick with tinted windows. Dark glass wasn't uncommon in Washington, and I paid no attention. But as we walked up to the apartment door, I happened to glance back at it and caught the white crescent of face close to the glass in the car's back window. Maggie?

If you work in figurative art, you quickly become aware of the strange qualities of human perception. A mother can walk up to a playground and immediately spot her kid among dozens of others, all of whom are about the same size and color and wearing similar clothing. You can see a friend from a block away, too far to pick out details of face or color or dress, and recognize him instantly.

I saw the flash of white, and thought, Maggie. But nobody got out of the car, and she wasn't due for two hours. I let it go and followed LuEllen into the apartment and up the stairs.