Cold Case Part 15

"Mercenaries," Nikki said bitterly. "They get fired if people think they're getting too close."

"It doesn't have to be that way." Matt thought of the stories Leif told about his father's chauffeur/security guy. Thor Hedvig had been almost as much of a father figure for Leif as Magnus Anderson. "Wait a minute," he said, "your great-grandfather is in charge of all those mercenaries."

"Grandpa Clyde." Nikki's voice was still soft, but there was a subtle s.h.i.+ft...a hardening. "His loyalty is to the family-" her breath caught-"not to me."

However she'd learned that, it must have been a pretty severe lesson.

Nikki Callivant pulled over to the side of the road. "I wanted you to have this," she said, pa.s.sing him a card with her name and a Net address. "I thought that maybe I could help you-or at least talk to you."

"Yeah," Matt said, ripping out a notebook page and scribbling his communications code. "Maybe it's a good idea if we kept in touch. At least this way, you won't have to honk at me."

That got a ghost of a smile from her. They sat in the parked car in silence for a while. For Matt, it was a weird feeling. He felt as if he'd really communicated with the rich girl at last, but they weren't saying anything.

Finally he said, "It's getting late, and you have a trip back to Haddington."

"Oh!" Nikki went to start the car.

Matt pointed to the next corner. "There's an autobus stop over there. That will take care of me. You head for home."

Moments later he stood at the stop, watching the bronze Dodge slide away into traffic.

She wants to help me, he thought, smiling. But she can't even get me home But she can't even get me home.

Leif sighed when he saw Andy Moore's face swim into being in his computer's display. Bad enough he was grounded and unable to go anywhere this Friday night. But being the target of one of Andy's pranks-or having to lend an ear to some of his awful jokes-that verged on cruel and unusual punishment.

Andy looked very satisfied with himself.

"What's up, Moore?" Leif said warily.

"I took care of my part," Andy reported.

"Your part of what?" Leif wanted to know.

"Clyde Finch. I was supposed to check him out, remember? That little meeting we had? You got the car? I got the guy? All I needed was a D.O.B., and that I managed to get from one of the books on the Callivants."

Leif nodded. With a date of birth, it would be easy enough to search for a birth certificate. And nowadays there weren't that many children being named Clyde. Once he had a location, it wouldn't be too tough for Andy to find other Finches in the locality.

"So," he said, "is our boy one of the ill.u.s.trious Delaware Finches?"

Andy shook his head. "Nope. He's a New Jersey Finch, born in a lovely town called Carterville. The main local business is a branch of the New Jersey Department of Corrections. Apparently, the Finch family took it as their mission to provide the place with inmates."

"Really?" Leif said. "That's a rather interesting background for a cop."

Grinning, Andy nodded. "Looks like Clyde's parents moved out of state to save the poor boy from evil influences. By the time he was fourteen, he had already had a few run-ins with the law. In one of them his sixteen-year-old cousin got nailed for car theft. The young genius didn't have his record sealed because he fought the case on one of those old flatscreen TV shows-Everybody's Courtroom. Ronnie Finch tried to blame everything on his cousin and lost."

"Any more on Clyde from Delaware records?" Leif asked.

"He seems to have cleaned up his act after his family moved to Haddington," Andy said. "Maybe he decided that if you couldn't beat the cops, you might as well join them."

"Maybe," Leif said, his mind already busy trying to see if the new piece of data fit with everything else he'd learned about Priscilla Hadding's death.

So that was no hick cop who was first to see the death scene, he thought. Instead, we've got a pretty streetwise former punk who stumbles across a case involving rich, powerful people Instead, we've got a pretty streetwise former punk who stumbles across a case involving rich, powerful people.

And a couple of months later he was working for the Callivants and driving a cla.s.sic muscle car. All the pieces might not yet fit together on that particular puzzle. But Leif already didn't like the picture he was seeing.

Megan wrinkled her nose. The Knox house smelled of baby food and used diapers, perhaps only to be expected with two really little kids on the premises. In one end, and out the other In one end, and out the other, she thought.

The place was so small that a smell in any room was soon shared with the others. At least the kids were out. Mrs. Knox had met them at the door with a double-barreled stroller. She'd shown them the computer and bailed, saying she'd be back in a couple of hours. Megan, Matt, and David went into the postage-stamp living room. A swaybacked sofa faced a dedicated holo unit. Squashed in the corner was Harry Knox's computer console and a worn but good quality computer-link couch.

David frowned as he looked over the hardware. "This looks like a pretty ancient system. If he was trying to hack his way into anything using this junk, it's a wonder he wasn't caught on his first try." He pointed. "It's like a first-generation Net system, with a docking port for old-style laptops." Then he looked harder. "Huh. The external adapters have been changed to accommodate machines like this." He pulled out his own laptop computer, a last shot at the technology devised and marketed by Anderson Investments Multinational. The failure to generate a market had resulted in bargain prices for many Net Force Explorers.

"Maybe Knox didn't have the money for a brand-new computer system after he got his truck," Megan suggested. "So he bought himself a laptop and adapted an older model."

David had already removed the console's front panel. "Yeah," he said. "We've got ourselves a hobbyist here. All sorts of circuit boards, different makes and models-aftermarket stuff."

"These were on the kitchen counter where Mrs. Knox said they'd be," Matt said, offering a double handful of crumpled papers. "Whenever her husband changed the pa.s.swords, she'd write them down on scratch pad sheets and stick them in a drawer."

"Great security," Megan muttered, glancing over some of the scrawled notations: Icarus287, WILDEYEZ. "Would have been better if she'd put dates on them."

David continued to poke around in the guts of the system. "This may be more straightforward that I thought," he said. "I'll power this sucker up, hook in my laptop, and boot from that."

With the system up and running, he began running through Mrs. K.'s collection of pa.s.swords. A couple of them actually worked, letting him into some of the data areas.

After that the job was to get into the areas that were still marked with virtual "no trespa.s.sing" signs. But David had programs to crack his way in-some of them donated by Leif Anderson.

"How's it going?" Megan asked, watching a hail of strange characters scroll down the system's holographic display.

"This stuff is encrypted, so I'm just piping it into my laptop," he said. "Decoding it is going to take some time-but I bet I'll be able to crack it on my system back home."

David gestured to the computer in front of them. "Nothing in here is what you'd call cutting edge." He grinned. "I'm betting it will be the same with his security."

"If Hard-Knocks Harry's system is so rickety, how did he get away with his hacking?" Matt asked.

"Two words come to mind," David said. "Sheer luck." He pointed again at the hodgepodge of circuits. "I think that when he cobbled this together it gave Mr. Knox a totally unfounded sense of confidence-he began branching out."

"Until he began jangling somebody's alarms. Hey!" Megan said, pointing to the display. "Now we're getting pictures."

David took a squint at the t.i.tle of the file. "Oh, yeah. The Cowper's Bluff Nature Preserve of Chesapeake Bay. There's a whole bunch of files about this place. This is a public promo."

Megan frowned. "Was he thinking of taking a vacation there?"

David shook his head. "Almost n.o.body gets in. It's a wildlife sanctuary."

"But he has a bunch of files about it." Matt repeated. "I hope you're getting copies."

"If I copy them, the question will be what don't don't we take," David complained. "This guy stored data the way squirrels store nuts. He's got stuff from public-access Net sites-everything from P.R. handouts to nonsensical conspiracy theories, jumbled in cheek by jowl with encrypted data he stole but couldn't translate. And stuck in between, like raisins in an oatmeal cookie, nuggets of court records, police memos, and who knows what else?" we take," David complained. "This guy stored data the way squirrels store nuts. He's got stuff from public-access Net sites-everything from P.R. handouts to nonsensical conspiracy theories, jumbled in cheek by jowl with encrypted data he stole but couldn't translate. And stuck in between, like raisins in an oatmeal cookie, nuggets of court records, police memos, and who knows what else?"

By the time Mrs. Knox and the kids turned up-two and a half hours later-Megan and her friends had printed out the records and saved them to datascrips, as well as putting the home system back online, and the family financial records in a format that made sense.

They also had their laptop computer and a bunch of datascrips filled with as much of Harry Knox's mishmash of data and misinformation as seemed relevant-and in David's opinion, a lot that wasn't.

Mrs. Knox had tears of grat.i.tude in her eyes as they left. Megan felt an uncomfortable mix of emotions. On the one side, she was sorry for a woman who found herself in such a terrible position. But how could the woman live in such-such ignorance? And how had she let herself get in that position, where both she and her children were at risk because of technology she didn't understand?

Megan didn't say a word all the way to the autobus stop.

They had a bit of a wait-the Sat.u.r.day schedule was much more limited than on weekdays. Even though the automated vehicles didn't require drivers, they did need maintenance. Most of it was taken care of on weekends.

At last the right autobus came up. They were all ready with their universal credit cards to flag the vehicle down, slipping them in the slot by the entrance door to pay their fare.

The autobus was empty-again, not a surprise. This wasn't a route that led to a mall or amus.e.m.e.nt center, so Sat.u.r.day afternoon riders.h.i.+p would be spa.r.s.e.

"Well, we've got our pick of seats," Megan said, moving along the bus aisle. She waited till David picked a seat, dropping into the one behind him. Matt chose the seat in front. It was the sunnier side of the bus, offering a little more watery, winter sunlight.

As Megan expected, David fired up his laptop as soon as he was seated. "I still think we've got the equivalent of Hard-Knocks Harry's junk-mail file," he complained, bringing up another view of the bird sanctuary. It showed a reedy inlet as seen from the top of a hill or cliff over-looking an expanse of water.

"There's nothing to connect birdland here with the Callivants," David went on.

Matt shook his head. "The preserve is on the Chesapeake. Where?"

David brought up some flowery text.

"There," Megan said, pointing at a map. "It's in Maryland."

Matt, however, pointed to another part of the display. "But the foundation that supports it is headquartered in Delaware. What a surprise! Haddington, Delaware."

"Silly me," David grumped. "Of course! This is where they buried the body. But wait! The body wasn't buried. It was found-about forty years ago!"

Megan looked out the window to ignore David's sarcasm. That's why she saw the black car with tinted windows that pulled up beside them-so close, it almost sideswiped the autobus. The rear window was open, but she didn't see a face. Instead, Megan saw a pair of hands-actually a pair of s.h.i.+ny black gloves-holding up a complicated-looking metal grid. Some sort of antenna a.s.sembly?

"Whoa!" Matt called out as the autobus swerved slightly, trying to maintain a safe distance from the car. "Crazy drivers-" he began.

His words were cut off by the sudden scream of the autobus's turbine engine. The vehicle lurched ahead, pressing Megan and her friends back against their seats while it cut off a car to the right.

These buggies aren't supposed to do that, Megan thought in surprise. And they're certainly not supposed to go this fast. What-? And they're certainly not supposed to go this fast. What-?

Matt took the words right out of her brain. "What the frack is going on?" he shouted.

15.

How many times, running a bit behind schedule, had Matt sat in an autobus seat, alternating anxious glances at his watch with silent curses at the vehicle's maddeningly slow speed? The metropolitan autobus system had a national reputation for dependability, safety...and a speed that made turtles look swift in comparison.

Just my luck, Matt thought as he clutched for the metal handle on the seat in front of him. Now I wind up on the one autobus trying out for the stock-car racing circuit! Now I wind up on the one autobus trying out for the stock-car racing circuit!

The autobus was careening madly along the six-lane boulevard, muscling other vehicles out of the way as if it suddenly believed it was a stock car. So far the bus was maintaining its programmed route, but even as Matt watched, the bus roared past a stop where people had been attempting to flag it down.

What are they, nuts? he wondered. he wondered. This thing's clearly not doing what it's programmed to do! This thing's clearly not doing what it's programmed to do!

If anything, the computer running the bus seemed to be increasing its road rage. Brakes squealed and horns uselessly sounded as the vehicle cut through traffic even more aggressively. Then came a screech that put Matt's teeth on edge. Metal against metal-a car sc.r.a.ping its way along the side of the bus. The impact sent the bus shuddering up on two wheels. And when it bounced down, Matt and his friends had to fight to keep from flying.

That left David at a disability-he had too much stuff to hang on to. The b.u.mp left his cane skittering one way while his laptop took off in another. David, of course, went to rescue his computer, reaching out with both hands.

Right then the autobus jarred its way through a lane change. Matt and Megan were just jostled. David caught his computer, but he didn't have a grip on anything to hold himself in place. He went tumbling from his seat, still clutching the laptop.

Matt launched himself into the aisle, one hand clenched on the tubular seat grip, the other outstretched to snag David's arm as he hurtled by.

The good news was that Matt managed to catch David. The bad news was that the autobus lurched round on a new tack, spinning both boys around in the aisle.

David didn't cry out, but Matt heard a wheeze of pain hiss from between his friend's clenched teeth as he landed on his bad leg. Then Matt wasn't hearing much of anything. The edge of his forehead smashed against a pole set in the aisle. It was supposed to offer a grip for standees during rush hour. But for someone flailing around in a near-empty bus, it was a disaster.

Bright yellow novas of pain erupted in the back of Matt's eyeb.a.l.l.s. He lost his hold, and both he and David went skittering along the thrumming floor to the rear of the autobus.

Matt's cheek felt wet. Oh, man Oh, man, he thought, have I landed face-first in somebody else's mess? have I landed face-first in somebody else's mess?

As he came to rest in the back of the bus, he tried to wipe off whatever was on his face. But the barest touch sent a new twinge of pain though him. His fingers smeared some slimy/sticky gunk across his skin.

"Matt!" David's voice sounded oddly far away. "Are you all right?"

" 'M I I awri?" Matt slurred. "Howze ya leg?" awri?" Matt slurred. "Howze ya leg?"

"Bad," David gritted. "How's your face?"

"Face?" Matt blinked his eyes, trying to get them to focus. He wasn't seeing stars anymore. Now he could make out David's concerned face leaning over him.

Matt raised his hand. Now he could see what the slimy/sticky stuff was. Blood.

His blood. blood.

Matt tried to rise up from his p.r.o.ne position, but either the sudden movement was too much for him...or maybe the crazed bus had just whirled end for end. He thumped back, trying hard not to throw up.

"Easy-easy!" David said.

Matt tried standing up again, much more slowly this time. His attempt to turn was more like a flop. But he managed to lever himself up, first on his elbows, then on his hands, until he was halfway into a push-up position. He was also wondering who was sitting on his shoulders.

David grabbed him as the bus wildly s.h.i.+mmied through another lane change. "I think you just split the skin where you hit," he told Matt, looking closely at his forehead. "But it's bleeding like a sonova-"