by Bapsy Jain
Using a photo she had surreptitiously snapped with her laptop, she began tracing the cowboy. The blue light fluttered as Bloodhound raced through online databases of surveillance photos and public records, Facebook pages, and Google search histories. Almost immediately, a series of surveillance shots appeared—at the airport in Jamaica, getting off the train in Manhattan. But what she couldn’t find was a picture of Bolton in handcuffs. Bloodhound showed her a security feed from the train station, showing that Bolton had simply waited at one side of the platform while the cops rushed down the stairs. After they passed, he jumped the turnstile and fled upstairs behind them. Idiots, she thought. He was right there! She pulled Bolton’s record. A three-time loser. Narcotics. Armed robbery. He wasn’t any purse-snatcher or petty thief, like she had first imagined. He was a real menace, and he had been on the run for five years. How on earth did he escape detection? Why couldn’t the cops nail this guy? And when they did, how on earth had he gotten bail on his own recognizance? I should have looked closer at his file on the train, Lucky thought. Then it dawned on her that, had she known the whole truth, Bolton might well have harmed her. She shivered. Now what?
Her finger hovered over the Bloodhound icon. She could track him further. She could call the cops again. But then again, it might raise some ugly questions she wasn’t quite ready to answer—like: How did she know he was a con? And how did she find him? If she found Bolton, she’d have to find a way to make it look like an accident. Besides—she looked at her watch—ten minutes to the presentation.
On a whim, Lucky typed in an address and the street outside appeared on the screen. She tried to pick out the monk who had made eye contact with her—he should have been easy to spot in his robe. But he was nowhere to be seen, and Lucky realized why when she saw that cops were loading the protesters into police vans. Horrified, she pictured a cop pointing with his nightstick and saying, “Hey, Brickowski, get the shit hole in the red robe. Let’s give him a thumping on the ride downtown.” Well, if he had been arrested, there would be a name to go with it. Maybe there was more than one way to help.
Five minutes until the presentation. Lucky checked her e-mail, and saw that she had thirty-seven new messages. She sighed. The first was from Lucky’s boss, Chad Barkley. The e-mail contained a link to a news article about the newest strain of drug-resistant influenza in India. Evidently, it had mutated, becoming both highly virulent and resistant to treatment. Barkley wanted Lucky to be ready to offer an impromptu supporting opinion that Bloodhound could be used to track down potential carriers of disease. None of the actual programmers were available on such short notice, and since she had been involved in the testing of Bloodhound, she could demonstrate its capabilities adequately. Well, that seemed easy enough. It was all about connections. Lucky sighed and closed her eyes. In her mind, she could already see the red, root-like tracks Bloodhound would draw as it collected data and connected the intersecting lives of patients and those who might have been exposed to the disease. With any luck, the flowing red lines would intersect and merge until they formed a single thread—a line that would lead to patient zero. The authorities could round up the victims and isolate them, and that would be that. Bloodhound was perfectly suited to that kind of information crunching. Compared with criminals, patients would be easy.
It was time. She gathered her things and took the elevator to the conference room.
As it turned out, she needn’t have worried at all. The meeting was delayed because the office was expecting a visitor: Clevis Coleman, director of the US Global Wellness Council (GWC), a board of medical experts and public health officials who formulated and directed global health policy for the US Department of Health & Human Services (H&HS) and the FDA. Coleman, who had unexpectedly asked to attend, was almost an hour late. Barkley was mystified at the request and what a person of Coleman’s stature would possibly want at the meeting. But despite his perplexity, Lucky’s presentation on education was tabled for a later date.
Coleman arrived in a fury and launched a tirade against the activists who had created the traffic jam that delayed him. He was tall, lean, and energetic, his back was straight, his expression was humorless. His hair was thick, very straight, and pure white. He wore it combed up and back from his forehead. His appearance was impeccable: a light gray business suit, almost military in its cut with wide lapels and smartly starched-and-rolled cuffs, with a plain white shirt and dark blue tie. At first glance, Lucky took his cufflinks for brass, but after a moment, her jewelry training kicked in and she realized that they were gold, or at least, gold-plated. Coleman wore narrow, rimless glasses—little more than slits to peer through. No laser surgery for him, Lucky thought. She wondered whether Coleman was afraid of doctors. If true, it would be ironic, given his current position, but not unlikely. The fear of doctors was a common behavior exhibited by men obsessed with control. And Coleman was most certainly obsessed with control.
Upon being introduced, he said, “I hate being late. I’d apologize, but the problem is these damn activists. Here we are trying to cure diseases and help Americans live longer and better than people anywhere in the world, and they insist on interfering because they think trying vaccines on mice before we give them to children is immoral. If you ask me, what is immoral is blocking public roads and interfering with good governance.”
Lucky shrugged. Get over yourself. What else were you going to do today?
“After I leave here,” Coleman said, “I’m going to Washington to report to the president about this little situation developing in India. A strange strain of Influenza, which kills in forty-eight hours. But a handful survived healed by a local doctor. I presume you have heard about this? The BBC broke the story last week, and CNN picked it up yesterday. We’re putting a team in place to deal with contingencies. Your work was mentioned. It sounds interesting. It sounds like something we could use.” He turned to Barkley. “Tell me about this Bloodhound thing, which can trace the interaction of people so the sick can be quarantined.”
Barkley began to explain about the origins of the project and its importance to the Department of Corrections, but Coleman waved him off. “I don’t have time for a history lesson,” he said. “What I’m talking about is a demonstration.” He looked right at Lucky. “I hear you’re pretty good with this thing. Care to show me?”
Lucky wasn’t paying any attention to Coleman at all, and it wasn’t until Emil, her secretary, elbowed her in the ribs that she realized Coleman was speaking to her.
“Me?” she asked.
“Yes, you. You were on the implementation team, weren’t you?”
Lucky nodded. “Sort of. Though I was more of a tester.”
“But you’ve used it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And it works?”
“It works very well.”
“Well, I suppose that means that any idiot can use it.” There was a round of laughter and Lucky frowned.
“Show me,” Coleman said.
Lucky looked around at Barkley, who nodded in affirmation. Mentally sighing, she pulled out her laptop and started it up.
Coleman looked at his watch. “I don’t have all day here.”
Lucky kept her expression calm. “This will only take a few minutes, and you can tell me more about what you’d like to see. Whom would you like me to trace?”
“I don’t know. Make up some names. What difference does it make?”
“If I make up names, then I might as well make up the data, too.”
Now Coleman flushed red. “Oh, I don’t know,” he said. “Can’t you just pick two random people?”
“I can’t research random people,” Lucky said. “I have to have something specific to go on. You won’t be researching random people in real-time, either. You’ll have names, addresses, ages, driver’s licenses, credit cards, something. You have to start somewhere. Even a picture will do.”
“Okay,” Coleman said. “Then pick someone you know.”
“But who?�
�� Lucky asked.
“I don’t know!” Coleman snapped. “Pick anyone. Pick yourself. Just give me a demonstration.”
“Could I have your driver’s license?” Lucky asked. Coleman scowled, but dug in his wallet and handed the license to Lucky.
Lucky entered the license number into Bloodhound but found that Coleman’s data was blocked as CLASSIFIED. She relayed this to Coleman.
“Of course it’s classified,” Coleman replied. “I’m the head of the Food and Drug Administration.”
Lucky frowned. For some reason, she felt Coleman wanted her to fail. She bent over the keyboard again. “Give me five,” she said. Coleman started to look annoyed again, but Barkley came to the rescue, and soon, Coleman had launched into his description of what would happen in a killer influenza epidemic and how the NSA had refused to help him track it.
“Their stuff is so super-secret they won’t take any chances with the source code getting out or that someone could backwards engineer any changes that we made to protect the military end of things.”
Meanwhile, Lucky started with the photo of Coleman she’d just taken. He would have just come from the airport. What time? What gate? What flight? From where? Coleman’s face wasn’t classified. Bloodhound picked up the image, and she watched the lines unfold from there. A few minutes later, she took out a piece of paper and wrote down a list of names.
Clevis Coleman. Director, GWC
Roger. (Your neighbor.)
Daphne. (Your neighbor’s wife.)
Emma (Daphne’s best friend.)
Sonya (Emma’s daughter.)
Jill. (The daughter’s kindergarten teacher.) I should count these three as one, since Daphne has met Jill. But the strongest connection is…
Peter (Jill’s brother.)
Clay (Peter’s son.)
Nancy (Clay’s teacher). I should also count those two as one, as again, Peter has met Nancy…
June (teaches in Lucky’s neighborhood).
Collette (My neighbor).
Me. Lucky Boyce. And if I looked long enough, I’ve probably met June, too.
Lucky handed Coleman the paper. He read the names then stared at Lucky for a moment.
“I could bring it down to the proverbial six degrees of separation,” Lucky said as she waited for his reaction.
“Enough!” he said as he tucked the paper into his pocket and went on with his message about how the new influenza strain could wreak havoc on its own. Lucky caught puzzled glances from Barkley and Emil, but no one wanted to interrupt the man. At the end of the meeting, Coleman said, “But the real danger is the possibility that this agent could be used as a biological weapon by terrorists.”
Lucky grimaced. Can’t we have a meeting about anything that doesn’t drag terrorism into the mix?
After the meeting, Lucky met with Barkley in her office. “You realize,” Barkley said, “that you erred in your presentation.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I peeked over your shoulder while you were working.”
“You’re right. Roger’s name could have been left out.” Lucky said, “But if I’d worked it a little longer, I’m sure I could’ve cut it down to six.”
Barkley shook his head. “You know exactly what I mean. There were only ten names on that screen to begin with.”
Lucky sat back in her chair and looked at Barkley. She sighed. “But it would have been bad form to point out that Coleman also visits his neighbor’s wife.”
“And how did you know this?”
“Email. Facebook. Airline reservations. A weekend in Guadalajara. The program is good.”
Barkley nodded. “And I have noticed you using this on your personal laptop too, when we were researching Barry for the assistant supervisor position.”
Lucky winced.
“No harm,” he said. He winked, and then added, “Isn’t Coleman’s file—as a senior government official—supposed to be confidential?”
“It is,” Lucky said. “But his neighbor’s isn’t. And neither are their pictures. They were smiling when they came through customs together.”
“Be careful, Lucky. Coleman is not someone you want to rile. He carries a lot of weight in Washington.”
“I didn’t keep any of the pictures, if that’s what you mean.”
Barkley smiled. “Of course not,” he said. “But then again, you might want to. Who knows? They might come in handy some day.”
Chapter 3
It was 6:00 p.m. when Lucky walked out of the office. Behind Café Vision was a narrow side street where a number of book, bric-a-brac, and antique dealers traded. Lucky turned the corner and went to see if her friend Grant, who tended a shop halfway down the block, was in. Grant was a wiry, middle-aged Irishman with an exaggerated Irish accent and a fading thatch of reddish hair—he certainly had the mark of an Irish rover. Some days, he was open and some days he wasn’t. One could never be sure with Grant, and he himself didn’t seem to worry about the shop, or money, or anything, so far as Lucky could tell. Lucky had long ago given up arguing with Grant about how to properly run a bookstore. “Wh’a do a’ look like?” Grant asked, “Barnes ‘n ‘oble? The way books sell, you’re lucky I’m here a’tall.”
The last time she’d seen Grant, they’d argued about Walt Whitman, and he had promised Lucky an antique volume of Leaves of Grass in passable condition. Of course, Lucky could download practically any book that had ever been printed to her computer in seconds, but there was something about the feel and smell of real leather binding and the texture of old paper that appealed to her. Physical books were also much more easily shared with others, and if there was one thing Lucky never missed out on, it was reading to Sean. Every night, she read to him. And even if he didn’t understand Henry IV Parts I and II, he appreciated the time Lucky spent reading to him and the little explanations she made. He even named his teddy bear Falstaff.
She looked through the window of the bookstore. Grant was bent over a parcel, his back to the counter. When she went in, he looked up and smiled as soon as he saw her. He set the parcel he had been unwrapping onto the floor, reached into the books stacked on the counter, and produced a green, cloth–bound volume of Leaves of Grass. Lucky reached for the book, but Grant held it away. He opened the book and flipped a few pages, cleared his throat and read:
Here is the test of wisdom;
Wisdom is not finally tested in schools;
Wisdom cannot be pass’d from one having it, to another not having it;
Wisdom is of the Soul, is not susceptible of proof, is its own proof
Applies to all stages and objects and qualities, and is content,
Is the certainty of the reality and immortality of things, and the excellence of things;
Something there is in the float of the sight of things that provokes it out of the Soul.
“Beautiful, eh?” he said, closing the book and passing it to Lucky.
“Wonderful,” Lucky said. “Where was that?”
Grant smiled and shook his head. “Have to find it yourself, now. Wouldn’t want ta spoil yer studies.”
“In the float of the sight of things,” Lucky said. “What do you suppose he meant by that?”
Grant smiled and closed his eyes, and with a look of sublime pleasure on his face, said,
Here is realization;
Here is a man tallied—he realizes here what he has in him;
The past, the future, majesty, love—if they are vacant of you, you are vacant of them.
“Do you know,” he asked, opening his eyes, “what you have in you?”
“If you’re talking about a physical soul, I know it exists.”
“Can you prove it?”
Lucky had been distracted looking at the book. “I’m sorry, prove what?”
“That the soul exists.”
“Of course I believe it exists.”
“That’s not what I asked. I asked, ‘Can you prove it?’”
Lucky looke
d around the store. “I guess I can’t prove it, but that doesn’t make it untrue.”
“My pointh exaactly!” Grant exclaimed in his heavy Irish accent. “But try telling that to tha average man on the street! People have this childlike insistence on proof. If they can’t see ith they won’t believe ith.”
Lucky felt drawn to play the skeptic. It wasn’t that she disliked arguing with Grant—on the contrary, she found his wit entertaining. But he had a way of leading her into arguments from positions she neither believed in nor felt she could win. She took a deep breath and said, “But isn’t it natural to demand some kind of proof?”
“Prooof!” Grant said. He made a face like he had bitten into a sour apple. “Thinggs may fall, but can ya prove gravity?”
“But things fall,” Lucky said. “You can see it.”
“You can see them fall, but you can’t see why they fall. You can’t see gravity—only tha effect it has on matter. And what is matter? Get rightt down to it; physicists reduced all matter to bits of stringg with gravity but no mass. Bits of nothing held together by strong and weak forces. Vibrations in the ether, they are.”
“It is only a way of describing how matter behaves,” Lucky said.
“Exaactly,” Grant replied. “The more ya examine it, the less substantial it tis. Yet there it tis, matter, which consists of nathing, and gravity, which we can’t see and which pulls bits of nothin together. And we call that reaality, in all its glory. But me point is that we can describe haw matter behaves, and haw gravity behaves, and haw the soul behaves, but we can neither see nor proove any of them. But people don’ question the existence of matter, or of gravity. But when it comes ta the soul—‘Off with ya,’ they say.”
