Cole Perriman's Terminal Games

by Wim Coleman

  “Send in the next applicant,” he said.

  The next applicant was a woman neatly dressed in a well worn suit. She looked as exhausted as Myron was. He cleared his voice and looked her over coldly. He gave her a mild lecture on financial responsibility and sent her on her way with a handful of papers to fill out. Then he saw that it was time for his lunch break. He cleared his desk and locked the current files in his drawer. Stroking the computer monitor, Myron thought of what a paltry thing it was in comparison to the handsome, big-screen color monitor at his own apartment.

  The urge to get up and go home almost overwhelmed him. But even if he did, he’d still have the same long hours to wait until it started, restoring meaning to his life. Anger swept over him. It was unfair that it began so late here. The west coast could connect much earlier.

  Message left by Renee Gauld on Marianne Hedison’s answering machine, Friday, January 21, 3:15 p.m.:

  I’m sorry I missed you. I got your fax, and our schedules don’t mesh at all. I’m really up to my neck in stuff, at least until my party on Sunday. You are coming to my party on Sunday, right?

  Call me in the next two or three days. I’ll be working at home a lot of the time, so try me here. I’ve got four books to read before tomorrow night. Can you believe that?

  About last night at Ernie’s … Look, forget about it, okay? It was nothing to write home about. Seriously.

  I’m sorry about all the conflicts, but at least we’ll see each other at my party. In the meantime, in this little game of phone tag, you’re “it,” honey.

  Ciao.

  Renee arrived home at around five o’clock that evening. When she set foot inside her condo, she plopped down on her couch and deposited a shopping bag full of books onto the coffee table. One by one, she looked over the hardback volumes, checking out their dustcover summaries.

  In All Night Horror, a psychopath kills off adulterous yuppies during a “B” horror movie festival at a drive in theater.… In Suspension of Disbelief, a faith healer becomes disillusioned with the human race and sets about telepathically undoing all her work.… In Foundation of Power, an office building is haunted by the ghost of a Mafioso who was buried in its concrete foundation.… In Oval Portrait, the first woman President of the United States slowly realizes that all her aides and cabinet members are vampires.…

  “What a pile of crap,” Renee grumbled.

  All the books had been bestsellers, and all of them were by the nationally celebrated thriller writer Larry Bricker. Renee’s boss had arranged for her to interview that hack tomorrow evening. In the meantime, she would have to skim as much of this garbage as she possibly could.

  Well, I guess it’s better than potbellied pigs.

  Then Renee noticed Bricker’s photograph on one of the dustcovers. He was a smiling, dapper-looking man with thinning hair.

  At least he’s a cute hack. Wonder what he’s doing on Sunday night?

  But even though she found the author attractive, Renee wasn’t looking forward to this particular stack of reading. After her confrontation with Auggie yesterday, the last thing she needed was a lot of scary stories. Ghosts already inhabited her mind—in fact, a formless anxiety had haunted her all day. Although she couldn’t quite remember last night’s dreams, Renee was sure they had included a monstrous cartoon clown.

  And what about Insomnimania?

  Am I still connected?

  She rose from the couch and went straight to her computer, turning it on with apprehension. The pothead she talked to had undoubtedly forgotten all about her call within moments after hanging up on her.

  Of course, it was too early for Insomnimania actually to be online, but a “closed” sign with the network’s hours would let her know she was still a member. If that turned out to be the case, she would certainly make a second phone call—a much nastier one than the first.

  She double-clicked the Insomnimania application icon with its image of a silhouetted dog barking at a full moon. The words “ENTER PASSWORD” appeared. Renee typed in the letters “KDKA”—her private little tribute to America’s first commercial radio station.

  “INVALID PASSWORD,” the computer replied.

  He did it. He really disconnected me. I could kiss the freak.

  Then she gathered up the application icon plus a folder full of Insomnimania files and dragged them to the little trash can in the lower-right-hand corner of her screen. She dropped them in.

  “Are you sure you want to remove the application ‘Insomnimania’?” the computer inquired considerately.

  “Damn straight,” whispered Renee, clicking “YES.” The little trash can now looked squat and full. Renee wished she could jump up and down on its contents—or better yet, incinerate them. But instead, she selected the “empty trash” command. The can became trim and straight again.

  The deed was done. So how did she feel? Less frightened? Less obsessed with crazy images of Auggie climbing out of her computer screen and bodily attacking her?

  No. Renee could feel her heart pounding. She had endured physical symptoms of nameless panic before. But the spells had never been as bad as this. How could her body handle all this fear? Why didn’t she drop dead from a heart attack?

  And what the hell am I so scared of, anyway?

  Auggie’s operator—whoever he was—couldn’t possibly know how to find her. Identities of Insomnimania users were a closely guarded secret—or so the instruction manual said. But the guy on the phone who claimed to be the manager hadn’t exactly inspired a lot of confidence.

  Renee scanned her computer desk top and noticed her application icons and folders for three other networks—all innocuous outfits, none of them nearly as high-end as Insomnimania. They served professional purposes, like gathering news clippings or leaving messages for potential interviewees. But even those icons disturbed her now. The notion of her computer being connected to strangers in the outside world seemed intolerable.

  Her terror made no sense. Even if Auggie’s operator belonged to any of those other networks, how could he know that she did, too? It would be silly to call and cancel all of them.

  Steady, Renee. The next thing you know, you’ll be getting your phone and your TV disconnected and God knows what all. You’ll turn Amish and ride in a horse and buggy and wear black dresses for the rest of your life and marry one of those bearded guys in the funny hats.

  But she couldn’t shake off her fear. It was as if she had gotten an obscene phone call last night—one so threatening that she suddenly felt suspicious of everybody, even total strangers she randomly passed on the sidewalk.

  He touched her. He touched Sapphire.

  Renee began to rock slightly in her chair. Why did the clown have such a powerful grip on her imagination? The conversations between Auggie and Sapphire had seldom amounted to anything more than standard exchanges of wisecracks, playful insults, and childish arguments.

  It was true that Auggie had made occasional odd suggestions that she was ready to participate in something mysterious and wonderful. Renee had discounted those intimations, assuming that Auggie and Sapphire were merely playing games of seduction.

  And she also had been startled by Auggie’s rather weird capacity for empathy. Renee felt a surge of discomfort well up as she remembered a scene from several nights ago in Ernie’s Bar. Sapphire had been delivering her usual facile lines. Then, out of the blue, Auggie had said, “You’re not alone.”

  “You’re not alone.”

  That was all. Why did the memory of those simple words disturb her? Because, she realized, it was as if Auggie had detected her inner loneliness—hers, not Sapphire’s. It was as if he had looked out of the computer and spoken directly to Renee.

  *

  The computer dealt the rows with blinding speed, from the single card on the left to the stack of s
even cards on the right. It placed the remainder of the deck face down in the upper-left-hand corner of the screen. Four vacant, card-sized spaces across the top of the screen were ready and waiting for aces. A single seven of hearts blazed out among four spades and two clubs.

  It was no good. Myron Stalnaker couldn’t play a thing.

  He clicked his mouse to turn over three cards from the top of the remaining deck. He was able to play a three of hearts onto a four of clubs. He repeated the clicking action several times, without success. Then an eight of diamonds appeared near the bottom of the deck. He was able to play it atop a nine of spades. The rest of the deck turned itself over, inviting him to repeat the action again. He did so, listlessly.

  The game always made him feel like he was standing outside his own body, watching himself play over his shoulder. It made him feel more mechanical than the computer itself—like some sort of volitionless, pattern-recognition gadget. It wasn’t a bad feeling, and it wasn’t a pleasant one either. The truth of it was, it didn’t feel like much of anything at all. That was the way he wanted it.

  He’d been playing the game over and over again for two hours now, relegating himself to an escalating numbness until Insomnimania came on. He hadn’t won once. But that didn’t matter. He was a machine, and a good machine didn’t care if it won or lost. It only carried out its program.

  That’s how it had been last night. He had felt Auggie’s rage rush through the passive circuitry of his nervous system en route to his obedient fingertips, where it continued on its way down into the keyboard and into the phone lines beyond.

  Why did he have to be so cruel? Why did he have to say such heartless things?

  She had seemed like a perfectly nice lady—if, indeed, she was a lady. That was an uncertain proposition, considering the likely number of cross dressers in Insomnimania. In any case, she certainly had a lively and entertaining personality. And her kind of banter didn’t usually provoke Auggie’s indignation. But Auggie exploded at inexplicable moments, suddenly and angrily giving up on blossoming friendships with other characters.

  Why does he have to do that?

  A vague notion flickered through Myron’s mind: They disappoint him.

  At the time, Myron had wanted to intercede. He had wanted to tell Sapphire of Auggie’s manifold services and kindnesses, his profound capacity for friendship.

  “You just caught him at a bad time,” he wanted to tell her. “Come back tomorrow. You’ll see him in a better light.”

  Myron himself had often experienced Auggie’s capacity for kindness and compassion. He remembered those gentle words Auggie had once spoken to him ...

  “You’re not alone.”

  How long had it been since anybody had offered him any such comfort? All it had taken was four simple syllables. What was so wrong with flesh and blood human beings that they couldn’t say something so plain but beautiful?

  Auggie was nothing if not loving. But Myron had no way of telling Sapphire that. He could only keep his silence.

  Life is unfair.

  Myron’s eyes were tired from staring at the screen. He rested them for a moment by turning toward the window. A full scale Nebraska winter raged outside. Snow was falling furiously.

  A good night to stay in.

  Myron tried to replay the rest of last night’s events. But after the ugly scene with Sapphire, his memories became more and more vague until they slipped away into a void. What had happened in the Basement afterward? What did Auggie say there? What plans had been made?

  Myron couldn’t remember. Had he fallen asleep at the computer? Memory lapses were typical in his encounters with Auggie, and he normally liked it that way. Life was too full of ugly things he could remember all too well. It was pleasant to have a few patches of benign oblivion here and there.

  But he wished he knew what had happened last night. He wished he knew what had been said. It seemed very important to remember.

  Why can’t I remember?

  Huge kamikaze snowflakes splattered themselves against the windowpane like insects against a car windshield, a nearby streetlight illuminating their guts as they rolled down the glass and slowly refroze.

  *

  Marianne neared the downstairs elevator corridor. She was on her way back to her room to take a quick shower between conference events. She wondered if she’d have a message from Renee. She wondered when she and Renee would be able to get together.

  Marianne rode the elevator to the sixth floor and stepped out into that fateful corridor. She paused and looked at the white-painted wall. It seemed to have lost its hold on her imagination. She found it easy, now, to accept its lie, to deny its hidden blood. She did not even consider turning up the corner of the throw rug to see the stain underneath.

  How quickly we become immune.

  But of course, she knew she wasn’t really impervious to what she had seen there. Sooner or later, the shape of that bloodstain would flash in her mind again. She was sure of that. Because if she were truly free of that image, she wouldn’t even pause to contemplate her own immunity. And she wouldn’t hear his name shudder across her brain ...

  “Auggie,” breathed Marianne.

  *

  “Auggie,” whispered Renee.

  *

  “Auggie,” cried Myron Stalnaker softly—and the world seemed a bit less cold.

  00111

  WASTELAND

  The living room was vast and surprisingly barren. There were only a half-dozen or so carefully placed pieces of furniture about, all extremely plain. Even the two large paintings on the walls were pale, formal, and geometric. Two large, undecorative wool rugs covered only a small part of a hardwood floor. If Nolan didn’t know better, he might almost have guessed that the occupants were terribly poor.

  But poor folks would have gone to some trouble to make it look homey. Judson spent a lot of money to keep this place looking cold and sterile—a hell of a lot of money.

  G. K. Judson’s apartment occupied one entire floor of a downtown Chicago skyscraper. Nolan guessed that the whole place covered almost as much space as the block he lived on back in Culver City. And every square foot of the apartment was undoubtedly as carefully composed, and as sparse and uninviting, as the living room.

  It was late Saturday afternoon, Nolan’s second day in Chicago. He was accompanied by Chicago Police Lieutenant Paul Spiroff, a bookish-looking fellow with round rimmed glasses and a narrow, thoughtful face. Spiroff was standing in the doorway to the room, gazing off into the surrounding hallways. Nolan thought he looked more like a graduate student in philosophy than a police detective.

  Nolan was talking with Claudia Judson, G. K. Judson’s widow. She was the last person he planned to interview before he flew back to L.A. tomorrow, and Nolan had actually asked her very few questions. His main purpose was to fill her in on how the investigation was going—to assure her that every effort was being made to find her husband’s killer. After all, someone this rich was surely more interested in answers than questions.

  As he went over his notes with her, Nolan noticed how well she fit into her surroundings—a kind of minimalist woman. Wearing no jewelry at all, her straight but full sandy hair hanging over a simple yet presumably expensive sweater, she looked as austere as the room itself.

  Nolan couldn’t help wondering how old she was. But she looked perfectly ageless. Her skin appeared to be made of some kind of elegant fabric—fine linen, perhaps, smooth and immaculately pressed. Her face showed no wrinkles. It showed creases, yes, but nothing one could rightly call a wrinkle. She didn’t look middle-aged, but she certainly didn’t look young, either. Nolan supposed that G. K. Judson wouldn’t have wanted her to look young. He had been too substantial a man to marry some callow, immature bimbo. After all, he could—and it appeared he did—have bimbos anywhere he went. Bimbos were too chea
p, too tawdry, too frilly to keep as permanent fixtures in his home.

  Nolan’s debriefing was now coming to an end. Throughout it all, Claudia Judson showed no trace of emotion, only a kind of respectful, dignified politeness. She was just now starting to ask questions.

  “Exactly who did you talk to at the hotel?” she inquired.

  “Mostly people on the staff,” Nolan said. “A few of the guests, too. But we checked through the hotel register and client credit card records, and we didn’t turn up any connections with your husband. And of course, there were no eyewitnesses that we know of.”

  Claudia Judson studied Nolan’s face carefully, even skeptically. “Isn’t it true that my husband was killed on the sixth floor?” she asked.

  “That’s right,” Nolan replied, a little uncomfortably. He knew what was coming next.

  “And he was actually staying on the eighth floor?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you have any idea what he was doing on the sixth floor, Lieutenant?”

  Nolan noticed that Spiroff shifted from one foot to the other. But the Chicago detective said nothing, and his face remained impassive. Until this moment, Nolan had appreciated Spiroff’s willingness to stay in the background. But now he would have appreciated a little help.

  Nolan cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Ma’am, this is an issue I’d hoped not to go into,” he said.

  “Well?”

  “He spent the several hours before his murder in the ... company of a young woman.”

  “In her room?”

  “That’s right.”

  Claudia Judson’s face showed no trace of surprise or alarm. But her steady gaze told Nolan that she expected a fuller explanation.

  “We checked the woman out thoroughly,” Nolan said. “We’re absolutely sure that she had nothing to do with your husband’s murder.” He paused and added, “If it’s all the same to you, I’d really rather not get more specific about her.”

  Claudia Judson smiled blandly. “Of course,” she said. “Forgive me if I seem overly preoccupied with details.”