David Baldacci - Simple Genius

“He attacked it from a direction that was absolutely original and indeed set the standard for cryptanalysts for generations to come. And yet he received no recognition for it because he never bothered to publish his research.”

“So how did Babbage’s discovery become known?”

“When scholars went over his notes in the twentieth century, long after the man was dead, they determined that he had been the first to do it. And at long last, here is my point. I christened this place Babbage Town as a homage to a man with a great brain but little ability in self-promotion. However, if we achieve our goals here, have no doubt that we will scream it to the heavens.” Champ smiled. “After we secure all necessary patents ensuring that we will be fabulously rich once commercial exploitations of our various inventions commence.”

“So you get a piece of the pie?”

“I wouldn’t be here otherwise. Yet even if we don’t make a fortune the work is exhilarating.”

“So who owns Babbage Town?”

The door opened and a short, barrel-chested man in his early fifties walked in wearing a two-piece suit with a muted tie. His silver hair was gelled down and his eyes were blue and alert. He looked from Sean to Champ.

Champ said, “Len, Sean King.”

On that note, Champ took his nifty, if nonclassical and nonworking, glass tube computer, and walked out. It was only then that Sean fully realized the man had said a lot and told him nothing.

HORATIO BARNES PARKED HIS HARLEY outside the rental apartments near Fairfax Corner, took the keys to Sean and Michelle’s place out of his pocket and then hesitated. Should he check out the truck or condo first? He decided on the Toyota Land Cruiser. It was parked near the entrance to the apartment building.

Horatio unlocked the driver’s side door of the truck and swung it open.

“Holy shit!” was his first reaction. Sean hadn’t been kidding about getting his tetanus shot and wearing a mask. The middle and back cargo areas were so filled with stuff that Horatio couldn’t see the floorboards. Sports equipment, melted PowerBars, bottles of Gatorade, trash, moldy food, a box of twelve-gauge shotgun shells, wrinkled clothes, and a pair of plastic-coated dumbbells littered the truck’s interior. Horatio picked up one of the dumbbells with some effort, then glanced through one of the martial arts magazines piled in the back.

“Okay, note to esteemed but cowardly psychologist. Never really piss the lady off because she will kick your scrawny, middle-aged ass.”

He sat in the middle seat for a bit with the windows down and thought it over. A type-A wound tighter than a golf ball’s innards, and this is what he was looking at? Total, trash-filled chaos?

He walked up to the apartment on the second level and went inside. He easily discerned Sean’s very ordered influence here and also which bedroom was his. The second bedroom had Michelle’s things stacked neatly, clothes hung in the closet, and no trash on the floor, only because the woman had never been here. There was a locked gun safe in the top of the closet where presumably Michelle kept her pistol.

Out on the small balcony was Michelle’s racing scull. It was polished to perfection with a pair of pristine oars next to it. Horatio went back inside. On the table just inside the small foyer was a stack of mail, which he looked through. Most were addressed to Sean, having been forwarded from his previous address. Others were the typical bills and marketing pitches that all of humanity suffered through. Yet there was one more piece of mail; it was a letter addressed to Michelle Maxwell, and it was from her parents in Hawaii. This was probably just a note to let Michelle know how much fun they were having.

As he was wandering around an idea struck Horatio. He called Bill Maxwell in Florida. The man picked up on the second ring.

“This a bad time?” Horatio asked. “If you’re on a high-speed chase just put me on hold and I’ll wait until either you nail the bad guys or I hear the sounds of a car crash.”

Bill chuckled. “I’m off-duty today. I was actually getting ready to do some fishing. What’s up? How’s Mick?”

Horatio had quickly learned from Bill Maxwell that all her siblings called their sister Mick. It was a very brotherly thing to do, he understood.

“Getting better all the time. Look, do your parents still live in Tennessee?”

“That’s right. In a new house they had built after Pop retired. All the kids chipped in to help. Police chiefs make pretty good money, but with so many kids, there wasn’t a whole lot of savings. This was a way to say thanks.”

“That’s really cool, Bill. So do you see your parents much?”

“Probably four or five times a year. I’m way down here in Tampa. Flights are expensive and it’s a long drive to Tennessee and I’ve got three kids of my own.”

“Your other brothers see them much?”

“Probably more than I do. They live closer. Why do you want to know?”

“Just trying to flesh things out. And Michelle? I’m assuming she sees your parents a lot. She lives just next door in Virginia.”

“I don’t think that’s true. Mick was never at Mom and Dad’s place when I was there. And I talk to my brothers pretty regularly. They never mention seeing her at our parents’.”

“Maybe your folks went to see her.”

“She never really lived in a place that had room for visitors,” Bill replied.

“I tried a couple times, because my kids love her to death and they think it’s really cool that their aunt is an Olympian and guarded the president. But I got some weird vibes from her and never took the kids.”

“What sort of weird vibes?”

“She was always too busy. Now when she was with the Secret Service I could understand that. But when she went into the private sector, you’d think she’d have some free time, but it never happened.”

“When’s the last time you saw your sister?”

“A few years ago, and it was only because I was in Washington for a cop convention. We had dinner. She was still with the Service back then.”

“Do you feel that she’s estranged from your family?”

“I didn’t until you started asking all these questions.”

“I’m sorry to seem to be prying, Bill, but I’m doing all I can do to get her better.”

“Look, I know that. I mean, she is cool if quirky.”

“Quirky, yes. I was just looking at her truck.”

Bill laughed. “You call the infectious disease people yet?”

“I assume you’ve seen it.”

“She gave me a ride to dinner when I was in town that time. I held my breath and took two showers when I got back to my hotel.”

“You ever see any excessive hand washing, checking doors before going out, or chairs before sitting down? Anything like that?”

“You mean OCD stuff? No, nothing that I recall.”

“And age six, things changed, you said? You’re sure?”

“I’d finished college, and wasn’t around much, but when I came back home for a couple months I remember she was a different person. They were living in a little town about an hour south of Nashville.” “And it couldn’t simply be put down to a kid’s personality changing as she grows older? That happens you know.”

“It was more than that, Horatio. My kids have changed too, but nothing that abrupt.”

“You said outgoing to withdrawn. Gregarious to shy. Trusting to suspicious. And she would cry?”

“Only at night.”

“And she became sloppy in her personal habits?”

“I remember it being mostly the floor in her room. Before, it was as neat as a pin. Then, overnight, there was junk everywhere. You couldn’t even see the carpet. I always just put it down to her being an independent hellion.”