Ground to a Halt

by Claudia Bishop

  keep your eyes on the screen. Don’t look down. Say ‘shit’

  once in a while. You can hit the backspace key a coupla

  times and then start whamming away at the ones and the

  zeros again.” He deleted his own handiwork with a few

  keystrokes and spun around to face them. “Now, about

  this report you guys want me to hack . . .”

  “Not hack, precisely,” Quill said a little nervously. “I

  mean, hacking’s illegal. We just want you to find the

  forensics report on Lila Longstreet. When you do, I

  need to see it.”

  “So I’ll just give you a signal when it’s up on your

  screen. And if you’re stuck for something to say, just

  throw out something like, ‘I don’t have enough RAM,’

  or ‘This code’s corrupted.’ Got it?”

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  Quill bit her lip. The purple lip gloss tasted like

  grape Kool-aid. “Sure.” If she got arrested, poor Myles

  would have a fit.

  Devon swallowed another handful of Doritos and

  looked up at Marge. “That about it, Mrs. Schmidt? Are

  we good to go?”

  “The duty sergeant’s expecting you. I told him it’d

  take a couple hours to service the system, maybe more.

  Tell you what, though. You find that report and come

  back as soon as Quill’s read it. I don’t want her hanging

  around there in that getup for very long. We’ll reschedule the actual service for another time. Got it?”

  Devon nodded and opened a tube of Pringles.

  “Now. One other thing. You get arrested, I don’t

  know you from Adam,” Marge said flatly.

  “Ha ha,” Devon said. “You mean no bail, right?”

  Quill nudged him. “I don’t think she was kidding.”

  “No sweat.” Devon thrust the open Pringles can in

  her direction. “Have a chip.”

  Devon drove to the police barracks in his 2006

  Porsche, complete with a Bose sound system and a CD

  player that blasted the most cacophonous music Quill

  had ever heard. She endured several minutes of the noise

  before she reached over to the dashboard and turned it

  off. “I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s your car.You have the right

  to play whatever you want to play. But, seriously, Devon,

  if I hear any more of that, I’ll get sick to my stomach.”

  He widened his eyes, which were very blue and innocent. “No shit?”

  “No shit. And you absolutely would not want me to

  throw up in this very expensive car.”

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  “Hey. I’m cool with it.” But he reached over, slid the

  CDs out of the player, and tucked them away in a carrying case.

  “Thanks.” Quill tugged her t-shirt down over the top

  of her jeans. It was a futile effort. Her stomach still

  stuck out. “Have you been out to the barracks before?”

  “Couple of times. We installed a new server for them

  in June. It’s taking them a while to get the hang of it. So,

  simple stuff goes wrong, and they call me out to fix it.

  One of these years they’ll figure it out. Not too soon,

  though. I got my eye on a nice little speedboat.”

  The route to the trooper barracks took them along

  County Road 355, which Devon took at a surprisingly

  sedate pace. Quill resisted the urge to scratch at her wig,

  which was fiercely itchy, and at her tattoos, which

  weren’t really itchy but felt as though they should be.

  Devon hummed to himself, tapped his fingers on the

  steering wheel, and shoved Pringles into his mouth in an

  absentminded way.

  “So,” he said eventually, his voice lowered to a conspiratorial tone. “How long have you been working undercover, Quill?”

  “Excuse me?”

  He glanced at her sidelong. “Mrs. Schmidt let me in

  on it. And you can trust me. No shit. Is it, like, pretty

  cool working for the Feds?”

  “Pretty cool?” Quill repeated. Marge had told this

  kid she was with the FBI?

  “I’ve been reading a lot about the FBI. You used to

  have to be either a lawyer or an accountant to join up,

  you know that?” He draped one arm over the passenger

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  seat and steered one-handed. “Nowadays, basically,

  they want you to speak Farsi or be some kind of genius

  with computers.”

  “And are you some kind of genius with computers?”

  “Mrs. Schmidt wouldn’t have hired me if I wasn’t.

  Thing is, I’ve been thinking about talking to a recruiter

  myself. Not to join up, but from what I hear, they could

  use a consultant with my computer skills. And it’d be

  pretty cool to get in on the espionage stuff.” He beamed

  at her. His round cheeks were dusted with potato chip

  crumbs. “So what d’ya think? About hooking me up

  with some insiders?”

  “I think we’d better forget we had this conversation,”

  Quill said sternly. She glanced out the window. “Especially since we’re so close to the barracks.”

  Devon looked cautiously from side to side as he

  pulled into a parking space at some distance from the

  New York State Police Barracks 442 ENTER sign. “I’ve

  heard those listening devices can pick up conversations,

  like, miles away,” he said. “Awesome. But I’m cool with

  this. I say zippo from here on in.” He tossed the Pringles

  can into the backseat, where it joined another untidy

  pile of gum wrappers, empty candy bags, and crushed

  Styrofoam cups.

  The barracks were located on about fifty acres of

  scrubby meadow on the north side of Route 15. A ten-

  foot-high chain-link fence surrounded the area. The barracks themselves were one story and cheaply paneled in T-11 siding. Several cruisers were parked at random

  around the large parking lot in front of the main entrance. The breeze scuffed across the asphalt in a desultory way. There was no one in sight.

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  Quill got out of the Porsche and waited until Devon

  grabbed his metal-sided briefcase, shrugged on his

  black leather jacket, and locked the car with a click of

  his remote. He headed straight to the main and—as far

  as Quill could tell only entrance. She followed a few

  steps behind him, teetering on her four-inch clogs.

  Devon checked in with the duty sergeant, who eyed

  Devon with indifference and Quill with concupiscence.

  She was momentarily stymied about where to clip her

  ID badge on her skimpy t-shirt. She copied Devon’s example and clipped it to the front pocket of her jeans, where it dug into her thigh in an irritating way when she

  walked. Her undercover name, she noticed, was Alpha

  Lancaster.

  The duty sergeant—who kept catching Quill’s eye

  and smirking—led them to a large office equipped with

  several computer terminals. The windows looked out

  on the back of the building. The meadow had been

  cleared of brush and trees a hundred yards in either direction from the building. The sight of all that asphalt was depressing.

  “We’re going to need about thirty minutes when it’d

 
be better if you didn’t log on at all, sarge,” Devon said.

  He threw himself into the chair in front of the screen

  next to a large CPU. “I’ll let you know when it’s okay to

  log back on.”

  “We shouldn’t be off-line too long,” the sergeant

  said. He pulled up a chair next to Devon.

  Devon pulled a bag of red licorice whips from his

  jacket pocket, stuck one in his mouth, and said, “Whatd’ya think you’re doing there, dude?”

  “Captain says it’d be good to learn more about this

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  stuff.” The sergeant’s badge said “Trooper Brookes.”

  “I’m supposed to sit in and figure out what’s going on.”

  “Suit yourself,” Devon shrugged. “But I’m sure

  you’re going to be bored out of your skull.” Without

  turning around he said, “Yo, Alpha.”

  Quill wished she had a piece of gum to snap. Instead, she cocked one hip and said through her nose,

  “Yo, Dev.”

  “You gonna run that systems check?”

  “Sure, Dev.”

  “Over there.” He nodded at the other station. Quill

  sat down. The computer hummed ominously at her. She

  took a deep breath, and clicked on the “enter” button.

  “Checking code, Alpha?” Devon said. “Key F1/shift/

  control.”

  “Who, me?” Quill said. “I mean, yo, Dev.” Sequences like that, she recalled, usually required that the user hold down all three keys at once. She did so, with a

  flourish. A little hourglass spun wildly on her blank

  screen.

  “Checking code,” Quill responded. “Roger.”

  Devon clicked madly away at his keyboard. Quill

  glanced carefully at his screen. A little hourglass icon

  spun there, too. The hourglass spun. And spun. And

  spun. Minutes crawled by. Devon chewed licorice

  whips. Quill sat with her hands poised on the keyboard

  and tried to look both alert and bored at the same time.

  “Hey,” Trooper Brookes said, after an excruciating

  ten minutes. “Is this thing broke, or what?”

  “Told you you’d be bored out of your skull,” Devon

  said indifferently. “Alpha. Key F2 /alt /insert.”

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  “Roger,” Quill said quickly. She clicked away. It

  seemed to make no difference at all. The little hourglass

  continued to spin.

  “Shee-et,” Trooper Brookes said after several more

  long minutes. “I’m gonna get me some coffee.” He

  stood up and went out the door.

  “Press ‘enter,’ ” Devon said. “She’s up.”

  “Okay, dude.”

  There was a short, heavily laden silence. Quill

  looked over at Devon, who regarded her unwinkingly.

  “Do not,” he said, “call me dude.”

  “Why?” Quill said indignantly. “You called Trooper

  Brookes dude.”

  “Guys call each other ‘dude.’ You’re not a guy. Did

  you press ‘enter’?”

  Quill pressed ‘enter.’ The screen sprang to life.

  “Well, hotcha,” she said softly.

  New York State Medical Examiners Office Forensics

  Division

  STATUS REPORT: LONGSTREET, LILA ANN

  Quill grabbed a pen and piece of paper from a pile

  beside the keyboard and began to take notes as rapidly

  as she could.

  “I’ll stake out the hall.” Devon got out of his chair

  and strolled toward the open door. He slouched against

  the doorframe and stared casually down the corridor.

  “Houston,” Quill whispered after interminable, frantic scribbling minutes. “We’ve got a problem.”

  “Yeah?”

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  “I’ve got it all down. But I don’t have any place to

  put it!” She looked down at her skintight jeans, and too-

  skimpy-shirt in dudgeon.

  “Red alert!” Devon hissed. He strolled casually back

  to his station and sat down. Quill balled her notes as

  tightly as possible and stuck them down the back of her

  jeans just as Trooper Brookes came back into the room

  carrying a cup of sludgy coffee.

  “Delete and keystroke code, Alpha,” Devon said casually. Quill deleted the screen and typed 1010001010

  until her heart rate slowed to merely spooked instead of

  totally panicked.

  By the time Devon explained to the befuddled

  Brookes that they’d have to come back next week, Quill

  felt calm enough to stroll back to the Porsche in an insolently laconic manner. Which she did. But as Devon leaned across the shift console to open the door for her,

  a cruiser wheeled into the parking lot, braked momentarily, swerved dangerously close to the Porsche, and came to an abrupt halt. Anson Harker leaned out the

  driver’s window like a cobra snaking its head out of

  a basket. “What the hell are you up to?” he demanded.

  He shoved the cruiser into park and jumped onto the

  pavement. “I want to see some ID.”

  Quill froze.

  “Get out of the way, Alpha, so I can talk to the lieutenant,” Devon said indifferently. “I’m getting out of the car, Lieutenant. I’ve got our ID right here.”

  Harker turned his head and spit. The glob just missed

  Quill’s high-heeled clogs. Keeping her face totally expressionless, she slid into the passenger seat. Harker

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  stared at her for a long, fearful moment. He spat again,

  and then walked around the hood to face Devon.

  “So it’s you, Brewster,” he said flatly. “It’s about time

  that boss of yours got you out here. For what we’re paying you guys a month, you should freakin’ live here.

  And who the hell is the scrag with you?”

  “She’s a trainee,” Devon said. “And not long for the

  program, if you ask me. ’Course that’s up to Ms.

  Schmidt. But one of the reasons we’re leaving is that Alpha forgot the software I need to update your server.”

  Harker’s face loomed at Quill through the driver’s

  window. Quill kept her eyes on her hands. “Yeah?” he

  said. His face disappeared and Quill heard him say,

  “You tell that fat slob of a boss she’d better not charge

  for this visit.”

  “I’ll do that, Lieutenant.”

  “Right.” Harker slapped the quarter panel and

  stepped back. “Get your ass out of here, then.”

  Devon slipped into the driver’s seat. The Porsche

  started with a well-tuned roar. He drove out onto Route

  15 at the same sedate pace he’d left it. Quill sank against

  the leather seat with a long sigh of relief.

  “Thanks,” she said.

  “Figured he must be one of the ones you Feds are after, right?”

  “After?” Quill said. “Oh, yeah. Right. I wish,” she

  added in an undertone. She had a brief, glorious vision:

  Harker in handcuffs in front of a grand jury.

  “The lieutenant’s a known slime bucket,” Devon

  said cheerfully. “Hope you nail his gnarly ass to the

  wall.”

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  *

  *

  *

  Slime bucket doesn’t begin to cover it,” Meg said after

  Quill had swallowed an inch of ice
-cold Grey Goose

  vodka, showered, and collapsed on the couch in her living room that evening. “You sure you’re okay?”

  “I’m sure.”

  Meg cocked her head. “Did you forget to wash off

  the tattoos?”

  Quill, her freshly washed hair wrapped in a towel,

  the rest of her in a cotton bathrobe, sprang to the mirror

  that hung over her fireplace and shrieked in dismay.

  “She said they’d wash off!”

  “Who did?”

  “Marge, darn it!” Quill licked her forefinger and

  scrubbed at the dots on her cheek. “Phooey.”

  Meg’s dark head appeared next to hers in the mirror.

  “If you pierced your tongue and spiked your hair, it

  wouldn’t look all that obvious.”

  Quill threw herself back onto the couch. Meg sat down

  next to her. “At least you got a look at the forensics work.

  Are you calm enough to tell me what you found out?”

  “I have been totally calm throughout this whole

  thing,” Quill said, her voice rising. “Who says I haven’t

  been calm?”

  Meg patted her arm. “You should be used to breaking and entering by now. Remember the paint factory?

  The tractor trailer? The Ro-Cor construction office?”

  “This wasn’t breaking and entering,” Quill said.

  “This was impersonating a computer expert. And, I

  might add, you break and enter at night. When there’s a

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  chance to slip quietly and sneakily away. There was absolutely no way to slip quietly out of that parking lot.”

  Meg patted her kindly on the back. “Well, you’re

  safe now.”

  “I am not safe now. What about this dumb tattoo? All

  that miserable Harker has to do is catch sight of me and

  how long do you think it’ll be before he puts two and

  two together?”

  “Yikes,” Meg said. “I didn’t think of that.”

  “Well, I did.”

  Meg squinted at her. “They’ve faded quite a bit. I’ll

  bet the whole thing will disappear after another couple

  of washings. In the meantime what about makeup?

  Nope, I’ve got it. Band-Aids.”

  “Band-Aids?” Quill got up and looked in the mirror.

  “Brilliant, Meg. I mean, really. I could just tell people I

  fell into some poison ivy.”

  “If you tell people you fell into poison ivy you

  should have Band-Aids all over. In the interests of

  verisimilitude. If you don’t have enough Band-Aids on

  hand, I can pick up some from the Rite Aide.”