Double Helix

by Sigmund Brouwer

  It was hell for Slater, with worry churning his guts the way it did. He felt like a blind man groping for marbles in a forest and was all too conscious of the pressure of time.

  "Sir?”

  The cheery voice of a fifteen-year-old girl at the drive-through window brought him to the present.

  “Sorry,” Slater said. “Daydreaming.”

  Slater leaned over to take his wallet out of his rear pocket. He noticed Caesar staring at the paper bills with open curiosity as he watched the exchange of money for the bag of food.

  “Kid, you know as much about this green stuff as our national economists, don’t you?”

  The feeble joke was wasted as the smell of food overpowered the kid’s attention.

  “Dig in,” Slater said as he accelerated into the flow of street traffic. He dropped the bag onto the kid’s lap. “But save one for me.”

  ***

  “Del,” Rosie said, “a gutshot grizzly would show more cheer than you.”

  “Gutshot grizzlies don’t work weekends when deputies call in sick.” With his fork, Del pushed his scrambled eggs around his plate. The rising sun poured light through the cafe window, throwing sharp shadows from the plastic salt and pepper shakers resting at the edge of the table.

  Rosie poured Del more coffee. As flat-footed as any city street cop, and equally comparable in bulk, she made up for age and plainness with saucy humor and indomitable cheer.

  “Del, you’ve come in for a breakfast break from work on plenty of other weekends.” She slapped the breakfast bill down in front of him. “None of them did you show a face as long as a Texan liars’ contest. And this is the first time in years you haven’t finished breakfast before your second cup of coffee.”

  Del shrugged. She was right on both points. Tough to carry an appetite, though, when he had two worrisome problems: the disappearance of Slater Ellis and the knowledge that Louise had been feeding information to spooksville.

  The problems didn’t give Del much to look forward to these days. At the office, he could shuffle paper and find ways to delay a murder investigation so plainly needed, thanks to the coroner’s findings of scorpion stings on a dead scientist. At home, he could endure the barriers to affection that Louise had recently slammed into place as surely as if she’d stepped behind bars.

  Like I’m fool enough to believe her excuse about a bad back and needing to sleep on a cot m the living room?

  Rosie had moved on to the only other table in the cafe that held customers – two fishermen bragging about what they’d catch and release before the end of the day. It left Del plenty of room to bury himself in morose contemplation of his coffee.

  When the bell at the cafe door jangled, Del didn’t look up at first. A shadow, a large one, covered his booth, and Del had to stretch his neck to see the visitor’s face.

  The freak from spooksville. Not in a suit this time, but in jeans and a corduroy shirt, like he was slumming, and rolls of white bandage wrapped around one hand.

  Del almost grinned. As Rosie had observed, Del was to the point of fist-throwing grizzly mean. Despite the photos that spooksville used as a ring in Del’s nose, despite the chill of fear that the freak seemed to inspire, Del had a suicidal urge to vent his frustration with the physical release of pain delivered and taken. The guy was down to one good hand. If Del could get in the first punch or two, it might even become a Fight he’d survive.

  “I didn’t think people like you made public appearances,” Del said.

  “Only when it doesn’t matter,” came the whispered reply.

  The man didn’t sit.

  Del took a slug of coffee, trying to prove he wasn’t rattled. “Because the operation is over?”

  “We’ll discuss it outside.”

  “After I finish my eggs,” Del said, riding his mood to deeper anger.

  The spook lifted the salt shaker. Because he couldn’t grip it tightly through his bandages, he pressed it against his side and with his good hand unscrewed the cap. Seconds later, he dumped the salt onto Del’s breakfast.

  “You may consider that a direct insult,” he said in that strained whisper. “One to discuss outside.”

  Del did, enjoying his flame of hatred. He pushed himself out of the booth. “Outside’s fine with me. It’s a real shame you’ve got those photos to hide behind, like calling me names from behind your mama’s apron.”

  The freak said nothing, just turned and left the cafe.

  Del threw some bills down. “See you, Rosie,” he said.

  “Sure.” She grinned. “If that was the date you were expecting, I can see why you had a case of the sours.”

  Del grinned dutifully at the joke.

  As he stepped onto the street, however, Del’s grin faded. It occurred to him he should be worried. There was something strange about this guy, so unafraid in the open. There’d been three witnesses in the small cafe, and the guy’s face would be more than easy to pick out of a lineup. Plus he had become personal. Not like the times before when it’d seemed like duty was a matter of boredom.

  Unconsciously, Del’s right hand caressed the top of his holster.

  “Get in,” the freak said, pointing at a white panel van parked alongside the sidewalk.

  “Where to?” Del asked. “I’ll follow in my own car.”

  “Not a chance.” He was leering, holding up his damaged hand. “If you’re afraid, keep your hand on your gun. What can I do to a trained officer of the law while I’m driving one handed?”

  Del spat on the sidewalk. He didn’t pause to consider that anger might be making him careless.

  “Fine, then. I’ll get in first,” Del said. He planned to have the gun out and cradled in his lap before the guy got around the front of the van and behind the steering wheel.

  “Suit yourself.”

  While the freak watched from the sidewalk, Del opened the passenger door and swung into the front of the van. Two things distracted him. One, he noticed the woman lying on the floor of the van and started to register that it was his wife. But as his brain grappled with that, he settled into the seat and the second distraction overloaded his sensory equipment.

  “Son of a – !”

  It felt like someone had peppered darts into his hips. Del yelped and tried to push out. He couldn’t. The freak had slammed the door on him and was holding it shut.

  Fury filled Del. What kind of stunt was this, a pin cushion in the seat of the car? He moved to pull his gun now, to shoot his way out. Especially knowing his wife was in the van.

  All he could see through the door’s window was a belt buckle and blue jeans. It went through Del’s mind as he reached for his gun that he’d pump a round or two into the belt buckle, figure a legal reason for it later.

  As he was thinking his way through the action, however, the window seemed to dim. At first like a thundercloud passing over the sun, but the dimming continued, and Del’s circle of vision shrank. He wanted to reach out and rub the window with the palm of his hand, like smearing away shower fog on a bathroom window. Only he couldn’t move his hand. The fog darkened, became a film over his eyes. The sun disappeared completely.

  ***

  Slater prepared for cyberspace.

  Barely an hour earlier, he and the kid had been parked a half-block down from the cafe, waiting for Del Silverton to knish breakfast after they’d followed him there from the county office. What a shock, twenty minutes later, to see the monster from Santa Monica step onto the sidewalk from a white van. Although they hadn’t been seen, both Slater and the kid cringed and ducked, the kid whimpering as he did so.

  For Slater, the adrenaline rush had been massive. Seeing the guy with bandages wrapped over one hand had not only brought reality to the Santa Monica nightmare but had also hammered home one simple fact. This was the center. If the monster had returned here, Austad and the boys were here. And likely Paige too. Unless they’d been killed.

  Slater veered his mind away from those thoughts.

  Cybe
rspace, he told himself, think cyberspace. Focus on the results of following the white van from the cafe.

  Slater hadn’t been surprised when the monster and Del got into the van, although he still couldn’t figure why the monster had gone to Del’s side first, as if he were a valet closing a door for Del. Because the van had stayed to the main roads from Los Alamos, Slater had been able to keep a couple of cars between his rental and the van.

  Up into the mountains, however, it hadn’t been so easy. If a truck hadn’t slipped in front of Slater’s rental, he wouldn’t have had any cover. Instead, Slater had been able to hang back, confident because of his knowledge of the local highways that the white van could make no turn for miles.

  Instead, almost immediately, the white van had taken the one narrow strip of pavement Slater could not – a road barricaded by military guard. Slater had lost his quarry almost before the chase began, with only the consolation that Slater knew exactly where they’d gone. A hastily purchased topography map from a local museum showed only one destination. The road ended ten miles northwest in the Sante Fe National Forest, close to Redondo Peak and its 11,254 foot summit. The Jemez Mountains Silo Base.

  Despite the complete lack of any other building site along that road, Slater couldn’t believe the three kids had escaped from the silo base. And because of his disbelief, Slater was now heading into cyberspace from their motel room in Los Alamos.

  With the kid hovering behind his shoulder, Slater wondered how he would explain cyberspace. He’d have to start with the concept of a computer, which would be difficult even with the laptop and its backlit screen here in the motel room as tangible proof. After that, it would only get more convoluted.

  Minutes earlier, the kid had watched closely as Slater had run a telephone cord from the computer into the room’s wall jack. How could Slater explain modem, the transfer of electronic information from computer to computer over existing telephone lines?

  From there, he’d have to explain the internet, the biggest arm of cyberspace, a network of online computers stretched into millions across the world. Most of the time, Slater could hardly believe the technological capacity to surf through endless channels of information himself.

  Hut Slater was no stranger to the internet. He managed his investment portfolio on a daily basis through modem. Because of it, when earlier in the week he’d begun the process of tracking down IWRC and the mysterious Darby through financial reports and business news, targeting his information search had almost been simple. Slater knew as thoroughly as anyone his internet niche.

  In new territory, however...

  “All right, Caesar,” Slater said. “Here goes.”

  Slater typed a bit and hit the return key on his computer. Less than a minute later, password verification included, Slater and his computer were online.

  “Now watch this,” Slater told the boy. It didn’t matter the kid couldn’t understand anything Slater said. Slater had discovered he simply enjoyed the attention of words focused on him, and today, after seeing and following the monster man here in Los Alamos, the kid needed as much soothing as possible.

  “First we find someone interested in a chat,” Slater continued.

  Slater clicked a few on-screen buttons, narrowing his search from all departments to Lifestyles and Interests. Opening that up, he browsed through the special-interests list: Astronomy Club, Aviation Club, Baby Boomers, Business Strategies, and so on. He searched the list until he reached the Ms. “Got it,” Slater announced to the kid as he opened a new computer file. “Where else but Military City?”

  Within Military City, he had a choice of electronic bulletin boards arranged into further subdivisions or a conference room. He chose the conference room. The screen came alive with the electronic conversation of people scattered across the country, all bonded by modem.

  “Hey, Caesar,” Slater said, pointing at the screen. “Six surfers in this one. Slow day. Sometimes a couple dozen sit around and gab.”

  Slater watched for a few moments. Caesar stared at the patters of type that leaped on the screen as the electronic conversations unfolded.

  “Only rookies just jump into conversation,” he told the kid. “You need to watch for a while, get the flow.”

  The conversation unfolded on the screen:

  Hexon2: Does anyone know how to use this to go overseas? My wife’s stepdad has a boy in Aviano. USAF. And they...

  Hexon2: ...want to use something faster than snailmail.

  Lpst102: Hey, Hex, I have a son in Aviano.

  S3810: Hexon, yes e-mail can be delivered via internet, even to ships at sea.

  Slater scanned each new sentence. The screen gave the speaker’s chosen screen name – Slater’s own was simply Ellis – and the message each chose to send. Because it took several seconds to read a question, and several more to type and send a reply, often conversations seemed stilted. Hexon2’s question was broken because any one message could only contain so many characters. Lpst102 had managed to throw in some idle chitchat before S3810 fired in his reply to Hexon2 about electronic mail.

  Slater saw it as a good time to break in. He typed a brief message and hit return to send it. A heartbeat later, it showed up on his screen, as it did on the various screens across the country.

  Ellis: Hello, all. Got a question of my own.

  S3810: Hexon, go to departments. The key word is INTERNET. You’ll be able to search info and find out, more.

  Slater waited, understanding S3810’s reply was still part of the earlier conversation fragment. Soon enough, he saw the first reply to his greeting.

  MikeG006: Hey, Ell. What’s shaking?

  Hexon2: Thanks, S38. Hello, back, Ellis.

  Ellis: Looking for silo base info. Nuclear warheads. Any of you surfed internet enough to know where to send me?

  There was a ten-second pause. Slater found the new quiet unnerving. When the next message came up, he understood why.

  Hexon2: Are you a journalist?

  S3810: Hope you’re asking about unclassified stuff...

  “Talking about establishing yourself as an instant outsider,” Slater said. He hit his keys, hoping to recover.

  Ellis: Background stuff. Wondering about setting a book there, not that there’s much of a difference between journalism and fiction.

  Hexon2: Good one, Ellis.

  MikeG006: Give him a break, guys. Why assume journalists are always after the worst?

  S3810: Good one, Mike. Does good news ever make headlines?

  Ellis: S38, I wouldn’t expect to find classified material. And if I were chasing that stuff, I wouldn’t be on an open board.

  Hexon2: Try Depart of Energy. I think it’s in their jurisdic.

  S3810: Good point, Ell.

  Ellis: Thanks.

  S3810: No longer DOE, Hex. Now operated by Nuclear Facilities Safety Board.

  Hexon2: I stand, no, I sit, corrected.

  Ellis: Any of you heard anything about the Jemez Mountains Silo Base near Los Alamos?

  Within seconds, a new name leaped onto the screen. A silent observer – one who had been watching the screen much like Ellis had before jumping in – had decided to speak up.

  Amscray: Los Alamos? You might have to put your novel characters into radiation suits.

  S3810: Ell, the safety board info is definitely public, nonclassified.

  Ellis: Radiation, Am?

  Ellis: Thanks, S38.

  Amscray: Big accident, maybe 14, 15 years ago. Military did usual hush-up.

  Hexon2: My transfer to San Diego happened that year. I remember feeling sorry for anyone...

  Ellis: Am, accident sounds intriguing. Perfect, for a novel. Anyone hurt? Did it reopen?

  Hexon2: ...who had to go to New Mexico that, year.

  Amscray: No one was hurt, Ell. Base is essentially closed. Skeleton staff to guard it for security purposes.

  S38 l 0: You hardly hear about the base now. I don’t, know anybody who knows anybody who works there.

>   MikeG006: Hey, Ellis, make a note of all our names. We want, in on royalties.

  Slater smiled at the screen, typed in a reply, and included a semicolon wink. He hit return to send the message to Mike Goo6.

  Ellis: Sure guys, I promise!!!

  Slater wanted out of the conversation now. He’d learned a lot quickly. And, more importantly, almost anonymously. Time to track down information from another direction. The on-screen conversation continued without him.

  Hexon2: Speaking of novels, I was online when Clancy cruised into this room.

  Ellis: Thanks, guys. Got some gopherspace to check out.

  S3810: Tom Clancy, Hex?

  Amscray: Maybe that, explains how he makes his stuff so good. Anyone read Patriot Games?

  Hexon2: I wouldn’t lie to you S38.

  S3810: Tom Clancy! No way!

  “Velma,” Paige said, “I have questions.”

  “Deliver them to me.” Velma methodically rinsed a plate and handed it to Paige. “For as you can see, life is good and gives us much leisure for discussion.”

  As Paige did too plainly know, there was much leisure. Less than two days into her imprisonment, she was to the point where the act of drying dishes at the end of mealtime provided entertainment.

  “How long have you been here?” Paige carefully set the plate onto a stack on the counter.

  “Without the seasons to measure time, it is hard to say.” Velma turned to Paige. “I do miss the seasons. However, I gladly pay the price to assist here in the Room of Joy.”