The Pattern

by JT Kalnay

  “You think you’re some legend, some super programmer? Think you can look down your nose at all us mere mortals. But you’re not so smart.”

  “Craig. Come on. Let’s not do this.”

  “After someone clued me in that you were Tim Ford, THAT Tim Ford, I checked up on you a little bit.”

  “And?”

  “And you know what I found. That you got fired from every job you ever had. That’d you started lots of projects and sold them without ever finishing them.”

  “So.”

  “So nobody ever did finish most of them. They were unworkable. You got rich off unworkable theories.”

  Tim said nothing.

  “So how’s it feel to basically be a rip-off artist?”

  Tim still said nothing.

  “And you also know how hard you worked building up the whole sly recluse genius thing. I read the interviews. Simple questions had simple answers that you didn’t give. Answers like ‘I was wrong’, ‘my code didn’t work’, ‘my theory sucked’, ‘I stole fifty million dollars’.”

  Tim remained rooted. Taking it. Like he knew every word was true and after 20 years the day of reckoning had arrived.

  Receiving no fight, and running out of bullets, Craig could push no further. He turned and left.

  Chapter

  September 5, 1994

  San Francisco, California

  Craig rolled over in bed and contemplated the ringing phone. He was sure that in the past two days he’d lost Tim and Jane. He wondered what additional bad news this call could bring.

  “Hello?”

  “Craig? It’s Jane.”

  “Hi Jane. Where are you?”

  “I’m in town. Actually, I’m right outside. I’m calling on my cell. Now that I know you’re home, I’ll just get my bag and let Jim go. He’s got friends to catch up with.”

  “You’re with Jim?”

  “I’m outside your house, trying to get you to come to the door.”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  #

  Craig opened the door and saw Jim’s battered van idling at the curb. Jane stepped right up to him and kissed him on the cheek.

  “Hi stranger,” she said.

  “Hi. What are you doing here?” Craig asked.

  “I wanted to ask you something, and I needed to do it in person.”

  Craig took a step back and motioned her inside. She came in, he closed the door, and they stood near it.

  “So?” Craig asked.

  “So. What I want to ask is this. Is there an us? Are you the Craig who I started to love at Stinson Beach? Or are you the Craig who ditched me at Yosemite? I want to know.”

  Craig looked up, then down. He cracked his neck and retreated to the couch. Jane came and set beside him. She took his hand.

  “That’s quite a question,” Craig said.

  “Do you have an answer?” Jane said.

  “I do, because I’ve been wondering the same thing. I want to be the Craig I was at Stinson. I want us to be like we were for the past few weeks. I can’t believe it, but when I’m with you, I sometimes forget about Stacey, about everything. I can hardly believe it but if I’m really honest with myself then I think that if I’d met you first I never would have loved her. I think I would have loved you like no-one else. But then I don’t know. I don’t know if it’s real. If we’re real. If I’d feel the same if we’d met before she died, in other circumstances.”

  “We did meet before she died. Do the circumstances matter?”

  “I don’t know. I know I like having you here. And I know I feel things for you that I’ve never felt. Not even with Stacey. But once again I don’t know if it’s you or if it’s me or if it’s everything. The wreck. The pattern. Everything.” Craig’s voice trailed off.

  They sat quietly. Jane slowly stood, leaned down and kissed him.

  “When you figure it out, let me know,” she said.

  She picked up her bag, opened the door, and walked out.

  Chapter

  September 6, 1994

  San Francisco, California

  In his dream, Jane and Stacey were sitting together, tete a tete, with flowers and a bottle of wine on the table between them. He was sure they were comparing notes and having a good laugh at his expense.

  An insistent knock at his window dissolved them and brought him awake.

  “What the…” he asked.

  The knock continued, grew louder.

  He got up, walked over to the window, and opened the curtains.

  Tim Ford’s fist was raised to rap again. It froze in mid-air. Craig motioned for him to go around to the door.

  #

  “Tim? What the heck are you doing here?”

  “I brought you something.”

  “What?”

  “It’s some code I started twenty years ago. I could never get it to work. I was wondering if maybe you’d help me figure it out.”

  Craig looked into his friend’s eyes.

  “Sure,” he said. “Come on in. We’ll get to it right after you help me fix this other little computer problem I’ve created.”

  “That we’ve created,” Tim answered.

  They shook hands and walked into the computer room.

  Chapter

  September 7, 1994

  San Francisco, California

  “I think we’re ready to launch the vaccine,” Craig said.

  “And not a day too soon,” Tim replied. “I’ve got the network distribution modules primed, so, anytime works for me.”

  “How about now?” Craig said.

  “Done,” Tim answered.

  He moved Craig out of the chair in front of the workstation.

  ‘This is the executable here?” Tim asked.

  “Yup,” Craig answered.

  “Alrighty then.” Tim opened a new window, pressed a few buttons, then dragged and dropped the icon for the vaccine executable onto another icon that looked like a railroad switching yard.

  “Done,” Tim said.

  “Done?” Craig asked.

  “Done. Based on the last release, the last time we used this distribution program, we ought to have fifty percent coverage in twenty four hours, seventy five percent coverage in forty eight hours and ninety nine percent coverage by the end of the week. We may never get the last percent, but then the virus probably won’t either. We’ll get most of them though,” Tim said proudly.

  Craig sat quietly. Tim cracked his knuckles.

  “It seems kind of, anti-climactic doesn’t it?” Craig asked. “I mean all these hours, all this work. Then drag, drop, click, clack, done,” Craig said.

  “You’re right,” Tim said. “Let’s hit the bar. We need to suitably and duly mark the occasion.”

  “Cool,” Craig said.

  #

  The two men walked into the ancient bar where they had met. As they sat down, a Bud and a Utica Club came to rest in front of them.

  “Haven’t seen you two in a few days,” the barkeep said.

  “Been busy,” Tim answered.

  “Cheers,” Craig offered.

  “Cheers,” Tim replied.

  They both took a hit on their beers.

  “I think it would have been nice if Jean was here,” Craig said.

  “And Jane,” Tim replied. Craig puckered his lips.

  The two men took a hit on their beers and thought about Jean and Jane.

  “I can’t believe she stayed,” Tim said.

  “Am I that repulsive?” Craig asked.

  “Sometimes. But I still don’t believe it.”

  “You know, I’m not sure I believe it either.”

  “So what happened on your trips to Muir Woods?” Tim asked. “And to Yosemite?”

  “Gentlemen don’t tell,” Craig answered.

  “That’s why I asked you and not a gentleman,” Tim retorted.

  Craig chuckled. “Stinson was nice. But I still can’t figure it out.”

  “Does it have to be figured out
?” Tim asked. “Can’t it just be?”

  “As nice as Stinson was, Yosemite could have been better.”

  “What happened?”

  “A blonde guy name Jim, a pixie named Lynn, and a thousand foot spire of granite captured her imagination.”

  Tim nodded his head.

  “She stayed behind with them after I left to come back. Didn’t even ask me how I felt about it. And this was only a couple days after we …, after Stinson Beach.”

  Tim nodded again.

  “Then out of the blue she shows up at my door and asks me if there’s any ‘us’ and when I figure it out I should get in touch.”

  They each took another long pull on their beers.

  “So do you have it figured out?” Tim asked.

  “I’ve got an idea,” Craig said. “Let’s drive to Seattle. Maybe the trip will help clarify things.”

  “Pick me up in an hour,” Tim said.

  Chapter

  September 8, 1994

  Pacific Coast Highway

  The two travelers stood overlooking the windswept Oregon coast.

  “This drive is spectacular,” Craig said. He gazed down over a cliff taking in the truly magnificent vista. “In places like this I can still feel her.”

  Tim said nothing. There was nothing to say. He knew he meant Stacey.

  “I’m going to walk over to that convenience store. You want anything?” Tim asked.

  “Diet Coke and Doritos,” Craig said.

  “Like I had to ask,” Tim said.

  Craig turned back to look at the ocean. The breeze rising off the cliff swept his hair back and kissed him with a spot of foam now and then. Craig slowly recited to himself:

  The misted memories of what might have been,

  Flood against the gates of conscience,

  The wind of ill content

  Blows mercilessly against the door of my soul.

  “Craig that’s beautiful,” Stacey said.

  “Thanks,” Craig answered.

  “And scary. It’s a lament. Did you write it?”

  “I wrote it.”

  “When?”

  “In college. Undergrad. I’d been caught in a lie. The girl I was dating dumped me over the lie. When I used to hear someone say “lost opportunity,” I’d still think about her. Now, when I think about what might have been, I always think of you.”

  “Craig?”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s time to move on.” And then she was gone.

  #

  “We’re about half way through Oregon,” Tim said into the phone.

  “You’ll be here tomorrow?” Jean Bennett asked.

  “Maybe. But probably the day after. We’re kind of taking the scenic route, stopping to see the sights.”

  “I miss you,” Jean said.

  “I miss you too. In fact, I’ve got an idea I want to run by you when we get there. I’m thinking of starting a business, and Seattle might be a good spot for it.”

  “About time you got a job,” Jean said.

  “What?”

  “I mean what do you do all day?” Jean asked.

  “I help Craig.”

  “What about before Craig? What did you do all day?”

  “You just never getting over being an FBI agent do you?” Tim asked.

  Jean laughed. “I guess not. We’ll talk when you get here,” Jean said. “How is Craig doing?”

  “Pretty good. Sometimes I think he’s getting better. Sometimes I even think he’s interested in Jane. He was pretty excited about their trip over to Muir Woods and Stinson Beach. Not quite as excited about Yosemite. Said Jane met her ‘dread-locked soul mate’ over there. Sometimes I think he’s finally getting better. But then I’ll catch him talking to Stacey like she’s right there. I know it’s only been two months, but she might be right for him.”

  “I don’t know,” Jean replied. “She’s a good woman. And she knows what Craig’s going through. Believe me. No one’s had it harder than her. She’s been a long time getting over something too. Years. Anyway, drive carefully. Bye.”

  “Bye,” Tim said into the dead phone.

  Chapter

  September 9, 1994

  Pacific Coast Highway

  “Now that’s what I call rustic,” Craig said.

  “No phone, no paper, no television. I call it heaven,” Tim said.

  “At least they had hot and cold running water,” Craig added.

  The duo finished packing their light traveling bags into Craig’s car. They got in and pulled slowly out of the deeply potholed gravel and dirt parking lot. It lay in front of an ancient but well maintained though clearly weather battered log building. A small Vacancy sign rested in the freshly cleaned front window that overlooked the nearly empty lot.

  “I wonder how they stay in business?” Tim asked. “There’s nobody here.”

  “Tourists driving the PCH no doubt,” Craig said.

  “They could get rich just selling that coffee,” Tim said.

  “Glad you enjoyed your morning fix,” Craig said. “I’d about kill for a Diet Coke right now.”

  “We can go back in and get you some coffee,” Tim offered.

  “Blech,” Craig said. “We’ll just hit the first place that might have a soda,” Craig answered.

  #

  “Looks like a little town,” Craig said.

  “I ought to be able to get some caffeine and carbs here,” Craig said.

  They pulled into the bumpy parking lot of a small general store. A rusted U.S. Post Office sign hung crazily beside a hand written advertisement for ‘Farm Fresh Eggs, 69 cents’.”

  “Need any eggs?” Craig asked.

  “Just get your fix and a paper and let’s hit the road,” Tim ordered.

  Craig left the motor running and went into the store. He looked at the soda in a mammoth old metal floor cooler that dispensed ten cent bottles of Classic Coke, Hires Root Beer and Mountain Dew.

  “May I have change for the machine?” Craig asked.

  “You want a two liter instead?” the ancient man behind the counter asked.

  “In addition to,” Craig winked.

  The fossil winked back as he slid a dollar’s worth of dimes across the counter. He pointed to the back. “Big guys are back there,” the grizzled vendor offered.

  Craig snagged a two liter, some Doritos and a pack of Oreos.

  “Road trip?” the old man asked.

  “Yessir. San Fran to Seattle.”

  “Stayed at the Braidwood Inn did you?” the man asked.

  “Yeah. How’d you guess?”

  “Had the look of a carb junky who didn’t get any breakfast. You probably don’t drink coffee, but your friend does. So he stayed in the car and laughed at you as you twitched. See it all the time.”

  “You’re good,” Craig said. He pulled a twenty from his wallet to pay.

  “That’ll be $6.37.”

  “Craig put the twenty on the counter. Oh yeah. I need a paper too,” Craig said.

  “Don’t sell the paper.”

  “Oh. Okay. Well thanks anyway. Keep the change.”

  “Keep the change? On six bucks out of twenty?”

  “Yeah. Here’s the deal. Next time a kid comes in here and wants one of those dime cokes but doesn’t have a dime, just tell him to go ahead. On me,” Craig said.

  “In that case, you can have mine,” the old man said. He reached under the counter and pulled out an already read newspaper. He handed it across to Craig.

  “Thanks mister,” Craig said. The old man nodded but did not reply.

  #

  “What took so long?” Tim asked.

  “There was an ancient man in there I got talking to,” Craig said.

  “An ancient old man? Like the captain from Caumsett?” Tim asked.

  “Nice obscure fiction reference! You read that?” Craig asked, clearly amazed that someone else had read Caumsett.

  “Yeah. I read all that guy’s stuff,” Tim answered.
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  “You and I must be his only two readers. I saw an interview with him, he’s a nut, and he says he sold like six copies all told of his five novels.”

  “I can see why. It’s obscure sick shit.”

  Craig handed the paper over and also the rest of the booty except for the two liter. He opened it and took a long hit. “Ahhh. Diet Coke. The nectar of the gods,” He sighed. Tim offered a disgusted look.

  “All he had was the Wall Street Journal?” Tim asked.

  “Yep. And it was his personal copy. He gave it to me,” Craig said.

  “Guy must be doing okay,” Tim said.

  Craig thought a second then replied, “You know, I bet he is.”

  Tim unfolded the paper and began to scan the headlines.

  “Holy shit. Craig! Pull over!” Tim said in alarm.

  “What is it?” Craig asked.

  “Just pull over. Now!” Tim ordered.

  The car came to a sharp stop on the narrow gravel shoulder. The Pacific lay twenty five yards over and a hundred feet down. The morning fog was just lifting. Tim burst out of the car. Craig got out after him.

  “What is it? Are you okay?” Craig asked.

  “Fuck, fuck fuck fuck fuck FUCK!” Tim screamed.

  “What?” Craig demanded. Tim handed him the newspaper.

  “Read that,” Tim said. He pointed to the headline.

  September 9, 1994

  Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

  Assembled From Wire News Reports

  One hundred and thirty people died yesterday when US Air Flight 427 crashed while approaching Pittsburgh International Airport. Witnesses say the Boeing 737 rolled left, and nearly rolled inverted before plunging two thousand feet straight down into a densely wooded area about two miles short of the runway. Recovery efforts have been hampered by the rugged, hilly terrain. The plane went down over a mile from the nearest road. Search and rescue officials say the wreckage is spread over several acres. Officials refuse to confirm or deny reports that the pattern of the debris may indicate the presence of a bomb. Airline officials are delaying the release of the passenger list pending careful review of boarding passes, seat assignments, and notification of next of kin.

  “Oh my God,” Craig mumbled. He dropped the paper.

  “It could have been anything,” Tim said. “They mentioned a bomb.”