by Aaron Pogue
Katie met her eyes for some time, incredulous, speechless. Finally she blinked, and her lips curled in something like a smile. "No," she said. "No, thank you. I can take care of myself."
Before Ms. Hein could renew her sales pitch, Katie turned her back and strode purposefully to the elevator doors. Ghoster followed a step behind, saving his smirk until the closing doors separated them from the office. "You could have had magic," he said.
"I don't want her kind," Katie said, stifling a shudder. "What did you find?"
"You wouldn't believe me if I told you."
Katie turned to him, finally really paying attention. "What do you mean?"
Ghoster frowned. "I mean I don't believe it. I found the cloud. I got into the local access point hoping it had a cache of real data. You never know how far back the logs go on these things, but this is a first-class operation. Brand new machines, local solid state storage, and honestly enough capacity to run every recorder in downtown Little Rock, even though they're just running this building."
"And?"
"And they're full." They left the elevator, and Katie had no time to be creeped out by the experience this time, because her attention was all on Ghoster. He shook his head, "I was worried the cache would be cleared out, or overwritten—and it's overwritten all right. Your blackout starts here. It starts in the recorders themselves. I never imagined that. I thought it had to be injected into the database after the fact." He stopped curbside, a moment before a cab pulled up to carry them to their next destination. When Katie reached for the door, he blocked her hand and caught her eyes.
"Katie," he said. "I'm out of my league here. Those were my two best ideas, dashed to pieces. I thought we could maybe get something incriminating out of the caches, but they give us what we've already got. And I thought maybe, somehow, with the right leverage and the right warrants, the FBI might be able to figure out where the database injection was coming from. But I just found it, right up there, and it's no help at all."
"Well, the recorders have to be getting the data from somewhere—"
"Nope." He shook his head, frustration clear in his eyes. "It's in the interpretation. The code in the cameras is interpreting...nothing...as hundreds of people. Hundreds of thousands. The cameras believe they're seeing it—"
"Then we should shut them down!"
He shook his head again. "No good. Hathor uses predictive algorithms to fill in blind spots in the database, so if we took away the recorders, it would go on assuming the same things were there, the same people, except for minute movements, until it received some information indicating otherwise. Our only shot would be to replace these recorders with new ones, but I fully verified the code base on these. It's all handed down from the server, completely homogenous, and any new recorders we got in here would do the same thing these are doing."
"We can wipe the slate clean," she said. "Clear out all identities making the blackout, and then put in new cameras—"
"Which are already reaching backward in time to create the cloud," he said. "You're right, actually. That's what we have to do, to slow down the problem. That, and get in touch with Hathor headquarters, but there's a bigger problem here." He drew a deep breath, and let it all out in a puff. "I don't know anyone who can fix it. All of Hathor's coders probably couldn't solve this. We can throw up some patches, but if the recorders are capable of doing this...." He shook his head. "Katie, all of the recorders are capable of doing this. I don't know what triggered this one, here, but I'm guessing it was some stupid mistake Martin made when he ghosted himself. It's just a byproduct of that, which triggered some bug in the recorder software."
"Okay...."
He shook his head. "Katie, if this can happen, it can happen anywhere. It could happen everywhere. There's a flaw in the source code for the recorders, and...what if it hadn't been this quiet office building late on a Thursday night in Little Rock? What if it had been the subway security cameras in DC, Monday afternoon at five? What if it had been any of the high res game cams at a professional football game, blanking a hundred-thousand identities in a flash. This is good equipment upstairs, or it would have died before the cloud filled the back office, but we have some real systems out there in the world that could cripple Hathor with a glitch like this."
"Well, then, we have to get it fixed."
"Dammit, Katie, that's what I'm saying." He suddenly looked tired, weak, for the first time since she'd met him. His veneer fell off, and he was a helpless old man who knew just enough to be truly scared. "I've been looking at this and looking at this, and I'm the best in the business, and I don't see a clue how to fix it." He met her eyes. "Without Martin—or Velez, if he's still around—there's just no way for you to get past this." He looked down at the car, waiting patiently behind him, and sighed. "I'm sorry, Katie, but I can't waste time chasing ghosts with this stuff going on. I have to get back to my office, and get in touch with Hathor about what's happening."
Katie said, "No, wait," but he ignored her. He climbed in the car and shut the door before she could take a step closer. She heard him ask the driver to take him to the airport, just before the door slammed shut.
She growled an obscenity at the departing car, but it didn't make her feel any better. Instead she reached up to her headset, and said, "Hathor, I need another car. Use my itinerary from earlier, but move the Linson house to the top of the list. Thanks."
She thought about what the girl had said upstairs, that David Linson was dead. Ghoster insisted David Linson was his old college buddy—the one he was hanging all his hopes on. Did he know Linson was dead? Or had Janeane been the one deceived? Katie needed to find out the truth: she needed Martin, but she'd been chasing him for two days now, and she was no closer. Every tool she knew of to track him down he had deprived her of by actions taken decades ago. She sighed, staring off down the street while she waited for her car, and wondered what her killer was up to.
8. In Little Rock
Katie had an appointment to meet with the Linsons, Janeane's parents, but she'd originally arranged it for Monday morning. When she pushed her travel plans up, all her appointments had been rescheduled automatically, but she hadn't actually confirmed with the Linsons since then. The thought hit her just as the car pulled up.
"Hathor, connect me to Paul Linson." She gave up on the call before the second buzz, ready to leave a message, but at the last moment it went through.
She heard a weary voice say, "Yes?"
"Mr. Linson," she said, "this is Katie Pratt, Special Agent with FBI Ghost Targets. I have an appointment to meet with you about Janeane's—"
"Yeah," he said, cutting her off. "Sorry, yes, I got the message. Can we possibly put it off? It's just, the funeral's in two hours."
Katie winced. "Of course," she said. "Of course, no problem. I'm so sorry for your loss." She started to disconnect the call, but he stopped her.
"No, wait." She heard him sigh, loud and long. "Just wait a moment." Another deep breath, and then he said, "How long would it take? Your questions?"
She frowned. "Shouldn't be more than ten, maybe twenty minutes."
"Let's get it done, then."
She waited, but he said nothing more. After a moment Katie said, "Really, it's no trouble—"
"No!" His breath was a hiss now. "I'm sorry, Ms. Pratt. I'm exhausted. I need to be done with this. Can you come over now?"
She glanced at the itinerary on her handheld and nodded. "I can be there in seven minutes."
"Then let's get it done."
It was a quick trip along the interstate, rolling down the wide bend around a forested mountain, and for the first time in a while Katie spent the drive looking at the scenery outside. There was still a surprising amount of green in the tumbling hills, and even in the heart of the city there were places the trees crowded in thick, right up next to the highway. Two hours before his daughter's funeral, and Katie had to question him about the murder. It wasn't her first time in that situation, but she'd never learne
d any tricks to make it any easier.
Paul opened the door as she approached up the stepping stone walk, her shoes brushing the browning leaves of wilted flowers that lined the narrow path. The front door was at the top of four short steps, and in spite of his grief, Paul Linson greeted her with a warm handshake and a convincing smile. "Welcome to my home, Ms. Pratt." He was tall and lean, with a thick shock of gray hair and a face as warm as his brother's. He waved her in ahead of him, and said, "Have a seat in the living room, just up there. Daisy's just out at the moment, but she should be home soon. Can I get you something to drink?"
"That's not necessary," Katie said. She sank down on the edge of a flower-print blue couch, and Paul took the armchair nearby. She glanced at her handheld, and then said, "I'm sure you're aware there are...complications with the record concerning your daughter's death?"
"We'd heard." Paul shrugged. "I'm not a super technical guy, Ms. Pratt, so I don't get the details. It's monstrous what happened to her, though."
"Do you have any idea why someone would want to hurt her?" That was often the question that started the tears, but Paul just looked down at his hands, and after a moment shook his head slowly. Katie said, "Did your daughter have any enemies? Was she involved in anything that could have gotten her in trouble?"
Paul looked up again, and met Katie's eyes. "I've got a son who can raise some real hell, Ms. Pratt. That boy's born for trouble." A sad smile stole across his lips. "But not Janey. Janey never did a bad deed." He held up a hand as though to stop Katie interrupting, and his smile quirked at the corners of his lips. "I'm not saying that to cover for her, it's the gospel truth. I never aimed to raise her a saint, but she went and did it on her own."
Katie tore her eyes from his, glancing down at her handheld. "Did she ever say anything about trouble at work? Her boss was concerned—"
He clapped his hands on his knees and pushed himself to his feet with a gusty breath. "I'm sorry, Ms. Pratt. I really am, but the cops here have done a good job chasing down the same trails you're starting on now." She rose with him, and saw tears standing in his eyes in spite of his defiantly warm smile. "I wish I could help. I want...I want the guy caught, whoever he was. But I've been over it and I don't know a thing that could help you. I'm sorry I brought you all the way out here."
"Mr. Linson—"
"No," he said, and his deep sigh was back. "I do have to get ready for a rough afternoon. I'm sure you understand."
"I'm sure there are some angles the local police haven't—"
"Ms. Pratt," he said, and his voice was suddenly stern. Something about it brought up a memory of her dad stopping her on the doorstep when she was a little girl, about to track mud into the house. "I know you flew all the way out here from Washington to try to lend some aid, but the local police are all over this, and they're probably better boys than you give them credit for, if you'll forgive me saying so. I just don't have time to go over things I've already—"
"Fine," she said. "Then tell me about your brother."
That stopped him short. He considered her for a moment, and then his eyebrows came down, and his expression darkened. "What could he possibly have to do with this?"
She said, "His name has come up in our investigation."
"He's dead fifteen years, Ms. Pratt. I doubt he has anything to do with it."
She took a deep breath, and held Paul's eyes for a moment. She waited, and after a moment, his shoulders slumped as he relaxed a little. She nodded. "I'm here to help you," she said. "And to do that, I need your answers. Does the name Martin Door mean anything to you?"
He frowned, thinking, and after a moment he shook his head. "Never heard of him."
"And you haven't heard from your brother at all—"
"He's dead," he said, with an absolute certainty. "It about killed our mom, and his was an accident. It's a blessing she wasn't here to see what happened to Janey."
"One of your daughter's coworkers said Janeane was starting to take an interest in programming, which she hadn't done since your brother's death."
He shook his head. "It was just a passing thing. I'm sorry, ma'am, but I don't see a connection there." He wiped a hand across his eyes, then shook his head. "Really, I don't think there's anything I can do to help you. David...he was a geek, Ms. Pratt. That's it. Too smart for his own good, but he never got into any trouble. That's something else he and Janey had in common. Nothing in his past is going to point you to Janey's killer. I'm sorry."
It was clear he was done with her. Katie said, "Thank you for your time, Mr. Linson. I'll let you know if we find anything."
"You do that," he said. He escorted her to the door, and stood framed in it, watching her leave down the sad front path. He waved to her as she climbed into her car, then withdrew back into the house and closed the door.
Nothing.
She checked her itinerary and scanned the notes on her handheld, then told the driver, "Take me to the North Little Rock police station. Thanks." As the car navigated the twisting roads back out of the neighborhood, she called ahead. "Hathor, connect me to Officer Larry Doan. Thanks." He answered right away, and she said, "Officer Doan, this is Special Agent—"
"I got it," he said, and he sounded like a kid. Hathor told her he was nineteen, and she shook her head at the thought of it. He said, "Becca told me you were at the office earlier, so I thought I might hear from you. Jake's actually leading up the investigation on this case...."
"I know," Katie said. "I'm on my way to the station. I was hoping I could speak with both of you."
"Sure. Yeah. I'll be here."
She checked the monitor, and said, "Thanks, Larry. I'll see you in ten."
She spent half an hour at the police station, and left there with nothing new. Everything they had to tell her was already in the case file. Katie fell into her car afterward, slamming the door shut behind her, and took a moment to control her frustration. She had two more appointments scheduled, but she didn't have much hope for those sources, if the local cops and the girl's family had given her nothing. She told the driver to find her some food, something quick and easy, and then went back to her notes one more time.
There had to be something. She reviewed what Ghoster had said about the cameras—it had been enough to upset him royally—but she just didn't know enough about the technology to understand the difference between what he was expecting and what he actually found. She looked over the Jurisprudence printout of Janeane's social web, but it was a small one and she'd already contacted the key players. One name stood out to her, though. She tapped the screen, the dim dot right next to Janeane's father—Daisy Linson. She'd talked to Paul, but the mother had been out at the time. There could be something there, but Katie could hardly go back now. She checked her watch as the car pulled into a fast food parking lot, and sighed. The funeral was now. She could wait it out, but she didn't think Paul would be too happy to see her again.
The window lowered and she said, "Put it on my tab," without even looking, then reached out to grab the greasy bag. Burger and fries, and her stomach rumbled at the smell of it. She started an audio replay of her interviews at the victim's work while she got started on the burger.
She finished off her lunch before Becca started crying, crumpled up the wrapper and dropped it back in the bag with her empty fry container. A cursor on the driver monitor blinked at her, waiting for directions. She checked her watch one more time, then pulled up location information for the graveyard where Ms. Linson was to be buried. It was five minutes away. She said, "Hathor, show me location history for Daisy Linson on my handheld, starting now. Thanks." En route from the funeral home to the gravesite. How long would the burial take? She tried to guess, and gave up.
"Driver, take me to the graveyard. Thanks." She leaned back in her seat as the car merged into traffic, but she couldn't relax. Her left hand drifted up to her mouth, and she sat chewing on her thumbnail, anxious, until the car pulled to a stop on the curb next to the graveyard. Oak trees with
thick trunks grew heavily in the grassy lot, just like the rest of the neighborhood, but she could see through the trees to the winding line of cars out in the graveyard. An open-sided tent stood over the gravesite, and Katie could barely see the mourners there through all the flowers gathered around the casket. There was a crowd. She could tell that much.
Daisy Linson was there, somewhere in the heart of it. When it came to daughters' secrets, mothers knew. That had certainly been true for Katie, anyway. Her dad never would have called her a saint, but her mother was the only one who really knew the full truth. Maybe Daisy would have the answers Katie needed. Maybe this whole day would be worth it.
She opened the door, the sound of it eerily loud in the afternoon stillness. She had no interest in being seen by the mourners, but she needed to be close enough to catch the mother before she left. Katie didn't want to go back to that house. It would be far better to catch her here and ask a few quick questions. That would be enough to find out if the mom knew anything, anyway.
She curved around to the left, keeping a line of trees between her and the gravesite mostly, and as she moved toward the line of waiting cars, she tried to pick out faces in the crowd. Gathered here was every one that mattered in Janeane's life. If Katie could interview all of them—but, then, that was what the local police were for. Presumably, they were already chasing those leads. Katie was looking for something else, something different. A ghost.
And then she saw him, not in the crowd at the gravesite, but hiding back among the trees, maybe twenty yards ahead of Katie. He had on a baseball cap pulled low, and big sunglasses that were ten years out of style, and he was leaning against a tree trunk, peeking around it, spying on the ceremony off to the south. He turned at some noise, Katie's footfall, and she barely ducked behind a tree before he spotted her. But in that moment she saw enough of his face to be certain. The bastard was here. Dead fifteen years, and standing twenty yards away. She needed him.
