by Ray Daniel
I had always believed that I controlled how much people could hurt me. They could mock me, insult me, fire me, and even kill my wife, and I had this notion that while I couldn’t control them, I could control my response. I could decide whether I cared about the insult, or worried about being terminated. I could even, I thought, decide how much I’d let Carol’s murder get into my head.
But I couldn’t control this. I couldn’t control a guy pushing me down a staircase. I couldn’t control him shooting me with a machine gun. I couldn’t control the physical pain that this guy could inflict upon me. The way he could tear my skin and make me bleed. I couldn’t stop the blood with a good attitude.
The trolley rattled into the station. I looked behind me, expecting someone to push me in front of it. There was nobody. The doors folded open and I climbed into the car. There were five people spaced around the car, sitting in their chairs and staring into space. The guy closest to me was wearing white iPhone earbuds. He had them cranked up so much that I could hear the music as I sat in a forward-facing double seat. The train started up, and then Carol was sitting in the seat next to the window. Black tunnel streamed past the window next to her.
I said, into my Bluetooth headset, “I’m not stopping.”
Carol turned to me and said, “They’ll kill you, baby.”
“I thought you wanted me to do this. I thought you were hurt that I didn’t want to find out who killed you.”
Carol said, “I wanted you to ask Nate why he fired you. Then I wanted you to tell Kevin and let him catch them.”
“Well, that’s not happening now.”
“I know,” said Carol. “That’s why you have to quit. There is nobody to save you now.”
The train screamed as it took the hard turn under Boylston Street so it could head into the Back Bay. I waited for the noise to stop and said, “I’m not quitting. I promised Charlene. Did you know she blamed me for Kevin getting killed?”
“That’s nonsense, baby. You have to listen to me. You didn’t get him killed.”
“The hell I didn’t,” I said. “Charlene was right.”
“Charlene is grieving. She’s hurt and angry and scared. She doesn’t know what she’s saying. She can’t expect you to do this.”
The black tunnel rolled by through the window with periodic lights shining in. I said to Carol, “I’m scared.”
“I know, baby. I know.”
“But I’m not stopping.”
“But they’ll kill you. I know they will.”
I thought about the life that I’d lead if I stopped now. I’d hole up in my condo and go through the motions of life, just as I had for the past six months. I’d let my world shrink to my condo, the grocery store, and a Twitter account.
I said, “They may kill me. But this is no way to live.”
The train pulled into Copley Station and filled up. A woman with a small child stood next to me, looking around for a spot. I stood, gestured to the two empty seats, and said, “Please.” I caught the doors just as they were closing. They popped open again. The conductor whined, “Please move away from the doors” as I hopped off the train and headed up the steps.
Back on the street, I followed Boylston toward the convention center. It was time to man up and take my life back. I wanted to stop them before they killed again.
twenty-three
The SecureCon trade show was a madhouse of carnival barkers. The lights were up, the demos were cranking, and the booth babes were waving. More than a hundred companies were represented at SecureCon, and they were all trying to snag IT geeks.
Every year, thousands of geeks pack up their things, kiss their loved ones goodbye, and fly to SecureCon to see demonstrations of the latest network security software. However, once they get here, they develop cold feet about meeting a salesperson. They walk through the trade show focusing on the blue carpet, carefully avoiding eye contact for fear of being hypnotized, sparrow versus python fashion, into buying expensive new software.
The software companies need to get eyes off the carpet and people into their booths. They use a variety of girls, gadgets, and gimmicks to attract attention. Once in the booth, most geeks are happy to watch a software demonstration and drink a free cappuccino. This bizarre dance turns the show floor into a zoo.
The booth nearest to the front door had a Star Trek Vulcan in a blue shirt standing on a box. The Vulcan would gather a crowd with a variety of mentalist mind tricks, then send them into the booth to see demos. At another booth, poker dealers did a booming business. IT geeks watched demos to get poker chips. Then they played Texas hold ’em, and the winners traded poker chips for T-shirts, toy helicopters, or iPods.
The show had its traditions. A small but persistent company hired the same Elvis impersonator every year. The guy would stand on stage, gyrate, and sing hacked Elvis songs such as “Hard Drive Hotel,” “Don’t be Phished,” and “You Ain’t Nuthin’ but a Virus.”
Another booth had women in bikinis standing under fake palm trees. No pitch, just the women. The male IT geeks swarmed around the booth and were drawn into the demonstrations. The female geeks rolled their eyes and went to listen to Elvis.
MantaSoft marketing had gone all out on the Bostonian theme of “Revolutionary Security.” To complement the Minuteman Statue, they had forced all the booth personnel to wear eighteenth-century garb with breeches and triangle hats. In a nod to political correctness over historical accuracy, the women also wore long coats, breeches, and triangle hats. I thought this was a shame. I find women in bonnets quite fetching. I headed back to Margaret’s aquarium.
The sharks had changed direction and were swimming clockwise today. Their tails moved in short strokes as they lived up to the booth’s “Move or Die” slogan. I watched the sharks out of the corner of my eye as Kurt Monroe, still wearing his shark-bite T-shirt, gave me a demo of Bronte’s software. The shirt was jammed into his chinos to make a gut-restricting sling that kept Kurt’s sizable belly from introducing itself. I was bored. The software was as original as a Gilligan’s Island episode. Kurt had obviously memorized his demo and was charging through it with gusto.
“Here’s the dashboard. Bronte’s unified …” My mind wandered as Kurt bombarded me with a blizzard of marketing fluff. The sharks drifted back into my vision. I wondered who fed them. I fiddled with Kurt’s business card in my pants pocket, and it reminded me that he was talking. I refocused.
Kurt was blathering on and spitting marketing terms like “platform independent,” “Web 2.0,” “cutting-edge technology,” blah, blah, blah. I grimaced to stifle a yawn. My mind drifted to memories of my night with Margaret and the feel of her skin against mine. The memory shifted into fantasy as I thought about Dana, but the fantasy faded into a question about her role in the office last night. She was on someone’s side. I just wasn’t sure whose.
“This is the fun part.” Kurt interrupted my thoughts. He was still giving his demo. “This is the résumé-catcher. If some guy in your company is looking for a job, you’ll know about it before his headhunter.” Kurt snorted a laugh at his little joke.
I decided to see if he had any game. “Does the résumé-catcher use Bayesian filtering?” I asked.
“I’m sorry, come again?” he said.
“Bayesian filtering. Does it use Bayesian filtering to catch the résumés?”
Kurt started spouting from the marketing guide. “The software uses advanced pattern-recognition algorithms to—”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. But what kind of pattern-recognition algorithms does it use?”
Beads of sweat formed on Kurt’s forehead like dew on a windshield. “I think it looks for phrases. Like, it will find ‘employment history,’ and so it knows the email has a résumé.”
“Phrases. Not individual words?”
“Yeah. I guess.”
“So it’s not so much Bayesian as som
ething like CRM114?”
Kurt’s eyes drifted longingly to his screen and his memorized script. Gears chunked away behind his pudgy cheeks as he tried to figure out how to get me back on his happy path. I let him sweat and said, “OK, try this one. What if the employee encrypts the résumé? Can you catch it then?”
Kurt’s face brightened, and he started to answer. His eyes widened as he looked behind me. I felt a soft hand on my shoulder turning me away from Kurt. It was Margaret. “Kurt, I’ll help Tucker.”
“OK, Ms. Bronte.”
Margaret steered me away with a little push. “Come with me.”
I said, “OK, Ms. Bronte.”
Margaret headed back through the curtain behind her booth and ushered me through the gap with a right this way gesture.
I walked past the curtain and the show disappeared. We were alone, standing on the shiny concrete floor behind the curtain.
“It’s a pleasure to see you,” said Margaret.
“Same here,” I said. Margaret was wearing a black business suit with a blue blouse open at the throat. She had simple diamond stud earrings on silver settings that complemented her short salt-and-pepper hair.
Margaret stepped closer. I could feel her aura as she invaded the edge of my personal space. She was a tall woman and almost came up to my nose. She looked up at me and asked, “What do you think?”
My chest clunked. “What do I think about what?”
Margaret laughed and stepped a little closer. She put my hands on her hips, with my fingertips resting on the top of her ass. “What do you think of my software?”
I thought her software was banal and derivative. I thought that it offered nothing new or state of the art to the industry. I thought the user interface looked like something that had been put together as a college project.
I said, “It’s very nice.”
Margaret’s perfume wafted around me. I stayed in place, quietly taking it in. The feeling in my chest moved downward through my gut. I reveled in the attention.
“Well, you know,” she said, “your opinion means a lot to me.”
She kissed me. Her tongue danced on the tips of my lips. I said the first thing that came into my head.
“That Kurt guy is an idiot.”
Margaret leaned back, her brow knitted. “Why do you say that?”
The spell broke. My hands fell to my sides. “He couldn’t tell the difference between Bayesian filtering and a zit on his ass. What a marketing dweeb.”
Margaret crossed her arms and looked at me with deep blue eyes. “Did you get to talk much technology with Kurt?”
“Well, no, I had just started.”
“I doubt you’ll get the kind of information you want from him.”
“Really? But he’s your—what is it?” I took out Kurt’s card and examined the title. “Director of Product Engineering.”
Margaret stepped close and took the card out of my hand. “His skills are more in people management. I know a better way for you to get the information you need.”
“What’s that?”
“Talk to me. Alone. Tomorrow.” She tapped the card on my chest where it left little pools of warmth. “Have fun at the show, dear.” She turned and went back through the curtain. Her perfume lingered as I stood on the concrete and blinked.
twenty-four
I looked at the gap in the curtain that had just swallowed Margaret and thought about what to do next. I didn’t want to follow her through the curtain. She could be standing right on the other side, and it would be awkward. I decided to walk behind the curtain and enter the show from another point.
“Baby, you are gonna be one fantastic gigolo.” Carol was walking alongside me.
“You think?” I said.
“Of course. You’re a sexy beast. What grandmother could keep her hands off you?”
“Now that’s unkind. Margaret is not that old. She’s a dynamo.”
“And you’re an idiot. Do you really think she likes sleeping with you?”
“It sure seemed that way.”
“You are the only thing standing between her and fifty million dollars. She wants you out of the picture.”
“What’s she going to do? Get me alone and strangle me?”
“I wouldn’t put it past her.”
“Can’t you just let me enjoy the attention?”
“Listen, baby, being dead is not fun. Please tell me you won’t be alone with her.”
“You’re just jealous,” I said as we turned the corner of the curtain.
Carol’s hands balled into fists. Her voice jangled into the edge of shrill, “You are such a fucking moron! How am I supposed to help you? I’m not jealous of the Crypt Keeper back there. If anything, I’d be jealous of that one.” Carol pointed, and I saw Dana standing on my side of the curtain talking on her cell phone. She was facing away from me in a T-shirt and jeans.
I turned back to say that Carol didn’t need to worry about Dana, but Carol was gone.
Seeing Dana got me thinking about her name in Kevin’s cell phone. What did she have to do with Kevin, and why was he talking to her just before he died? I padded up to Dana. I felt sneaky, but I wanted to hear her conversation.
“Thursday night?” Dana said. She had her phone crammed against her right ear. Her shoulders were hunched and she was looking down. She chewed on the thumbnail of her left hand.
I stopped walking and eavesdropped.
“No, I can’t go. Someone might see me,” she said, and paused. “Kevin’s family, for example …”
Dana was oblivious. Her voice sounded odd and congested. If I had been a real investigator, I would have listened to the whole conversation. But I couldn’t handle the guilt.
I tapped her on the shoulder. When she saw me, her eyes flew wide and she said, “Oh shit, I gotta go.” She killed the call and put the phone in her pocket. Her tears glistened under her eyes.
I stared at her. She dabbed at her cheeks with her fingers and wiped the back of her hand across her nose. I wished that I had a handkerchief to offer.
“What do you want?” she sniffled.
I didn’t know what I wanted anymore. Dana’s tears had surprised me. She was crying over Kevin.
Oh, Kevin, seriously? I know Charlene is a handful …
She said “Well?” and wiped at her cheeks one last time. She crossed her arms across her breasts. Her cotton shirt read, “Real women don’t date Yankees fans.”
“Were you talking about Kevin Murphy?” I asked.
Dana took a deep breath and blew it out in a long, slow exhalation. Her eyes moved up and to the right. “Yes,” she said.
“What about him?”
“His wake is Thursday night,” Dana said.
Now why didn’t I know that? Nobody had called to tell me about Kevin’s wake. Why would someone tell her?
“How well did you know Kevin?” I asked. “I thought he just asked you some questions. Were you friends?”
Dana said, “I don’t want to talk about it.” The tears started again. They welled in her eyes and spilled down her cheeks. She let them spill without trying to wipe them.
I felt like a jerk. She was keeping a secret, but I didn’t have the heart to badger her and I wanted her to stop crying. “Let’s go outside,” I said.
“Outside where?”
“Let’s take a walk around the block. It will give you some time to pull yourself together. I’ll buy a handkerchief to offer you and we’ll talk. I was Kevin’s friend, too.”
twenty-five
As soon as we got into the light, Dana stopped walking. She stood on the sidewalk, and I stopped as well. Dana looked into my face and reached out and touched my stitches with gentle fingers.
“Oh my God, Tucker,” she said. “You didn’t have this yesterday. What happened?”
/> “I tripped,” I said.
“You need to be more careful.”
“So I’ve been told.”
Dana’s sniffling had stopped. She developed a purpose to her step as we walked onto Boylston Street and took a left toward Mass Ave.
Boston delivers wildly different neighborhoods within a block of each other. While Newbury Street is a tree-lined shopper’s paradise, Mass Ave is a gritty street with cars and students jostling for position.
A car cut in front of us as we started to cross Mass Ave. The driver yelled, “Watch where you’re going, jerk!”
“Fuck you, asshole!” I yelled back.
Dana said, “So you grew up in Boston?”
“Yeah. How did you know?”
“Feminine intuition.”
We crossed the street without further incident.
I said, “Let me guess. You’re from the Midwest.”
“Born and bred.”
“A corn-fed beauty from Iowa?”
“Kansas.”
“Where in Kansas?”
“Near Dodge City.”
“Dodge City is in Kansas?”
Dana asked, “How could you not know that Dodge City is in Kansas?”
“I grew up in Boston.”
We continued down Mass Ave, past a bum holding a sign. The sign said, “I need a beer and a woman from outer space.” Don’t we all, pal.
Dana grabbed my arm and looked around.
“Oh shit,” she said.
“What?”
“I need to go to the bathroom.” She turned and headed back toward the McDonald’s on the corner of Belvidere Street.
I put my hand on her shoulder to stop her. “God no. You don’t want to go there. Those stalls have their own ecosystem.”
“I really have to go.”
“Come on. I know a better place.”
I led Dana down Mass Ave to the Mary Baker Eddy Library. The library’s reflecting pool and curving glass lobby sprang out of the city like a vision. We entered the lobby, our heels echoing off of the wooden paneling. A large reception desk stood in the center of the lobby, staffed by a cute receptionist reading a textbook.
