3
The State Police didn't have anything new on the hit-and-run and, according to the spokesman at headquarters, weren't likely to get anything new.
"That time of day, that stretch of road…" He paused and I could picture him shaking his head. "Unless there was somebody walking right behind her, or somebody driving the opposite direction happened to look in their mirror… We're still asking around. But it looks like we're going to have to get lucky." He sighed, lightly. "Sometimes we get lucky."
The hospital was even less encouraging. Angel Bolduc was still unconscious, her condition guarded. I hung the phone up and went over to lean on the half-wall behind Bill Jacques' computer. He glanced up over the rims of his glasses, fingers still pattering along his keyboard.
"The kid who was hit is in guarded condition–unconscious," I said, and my voice sounded tired in my own ears. Tired and grim. "Hospital's only giving the bare bones. You want me to call her parents?"
Bill's fingers stopped moving. He pulled his glasses off, leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest, frowning up into my face.
"What've you got?"
I shrugged. "Preliminary report Sue got this afternoon. State cops don't have anything–don't think they will have anything, unless somebody unexpected comes forward with an eyewitness report. Hospital's telling me what I just told you."
He nodded, which only meant he'd heard me, and stared off beyond my shoulder for a couple seconds.
"Send it over," he said, abruptly uncrossing his arms and resettling his glasses. "It's Sue's story. She can follow up tomorrow."
"Right."
I slid into the chair at second desk, opened "Run", added my couple lines of non-information and ran the spell-check. Then I closed the file, copied it, reformatted the copy, saved it and hit control-alt-S, the sequence that in a just world would transmit the story from Sue's computer to Bill and Carly's network.
"Coming across now," I announced to the room at large. "Run-point-Sue."
"Got it!" Carly called, then: "Down to thirty."
Another miracle of the electronic age accomplished. I shut down Sue's computer and turned out the desk lamp, then moved to my desk and did the same before going back to the cloakroom.
The parka's zipper went up easy, for a change. I stopped by Bill Jacques' computer on my way out.
"Questions on any of that?" I asked, fingering the car keys out of my pocketbook.
He shook his head without raising his eyes. "Looks clean."
"See you tomorrow."
"Good-night."
I waved to Carly, walked past Sports and Features–both dark at eleven-thirty on a wintery Tuesday night–down the hall, down the stairs and for the last time tonight, out into the cold.
*
I parked the Camaro in the barn, walked up the dark, unheated ell, pushed open the plank door and stepped into the kitchen.
Jasper the cat blinked at me from the middle of the kitchen table.
"C'mon, cat, you know the rules," I said, peeling out of the parka and hanging it on its peg. "Get down."
He did, leisurely, and sauntered over to his plate, which was empty, of course.
"Going to put you out in the barn," I told him, bending down for plate and water dish. "Going to make you catch mice for your dinner."
Jasper did not dignify this with a response. He did follow me to the counter and amuse himself by stropping against my legs while I ran water into the bowl and measured cat crunchies onto the plate, purring loudly all the while.
Jasper had been my Aunt Jen's cat and she had left him to me, along with the farmhouse, the ten acres, and the gravel pit. Harry Pelletier, who had lately taken it upon herself to instruct me in the various uses to which the resources of my land might be put, is very taken with the gravel pit. She seems to be even fonder of it than she is of the ancient grove of cedar down by the river.
"Get some money for that gravel, come winter," she'd said, along back November. "Sell a couple yards to the Town, for the roads."
Which I suppose is a reasonable enough idea, but what do I need with more money? I'm not rich, but I own my house; my job brings in enough for groceries, car payment, books, and music, with a little left over to put against that "rainy day" I devoutly hope will never come.
Besides, I don't want the Town trucks coming in, messing up my land–disturbing things. I like it fine the way it is.
"Sell some of that cedar, now," Harry'd suggested, seeing she was getting nowhere with the gravel pit. "Cedar brings a good price."
But I was a city-dweller, blood and bone, and the acres of trees I had inherited were –well, holy.
"Cut down the cedar grove?" I demanded, staring at Harry in disbelief. "For money?"
"Money's plenty useful, come to find out," she'd said, looking up at me with a squint in her eye. After a minute, she decided to placate me: "Isn't like you'd have to sell 'em all."
"Isn't like I have to sell any," I told her. "I've got a job."
She'd shrugged. "Just take a few out," she urged. "Enough to buy some of them new windows, so you won't have to be running the plastic every winter."
"The plastic works fine," I'd said, icily, but standing in my kitchen–midnight now, with the wind sobbing and the mercury hovering at five–I had to admit that the plastic didn't work as fine as all that. And this was just this beginning. It was going to get colder–a lot colder–before winter let me go.
"So you get another sweater," I told myself, carrying Jasper's food and water back to the proper place while he cavorted 'round my legs.
I straightened. Jasper gave me one more over-exuberant bump before diving into supper.
"Get some thermals," I continued talking to myself as I went across the chilly kitchen to the refrigerator. "Just like a real Mainer."
I pulled out a bottle of white wine, a block of cheese, carried them to the counter, poured, sliced, and put away. A handful of crackers went onto the cheese plate, then I gathered up my snack and headed for the hall.
"I'm going to pick up my mail," I called to Jasper. He didn't bother to answer.
Upstairs, I let myself into my room–the only room in the house that's different now then when Aunt Jen died–settled the glass and plate and flicked on my computer.
It purred to life, ran a rapid systems check and sat waiting patiently while I had a sip of wine and a nibble of cheese.
I'd hit the Net first, I thought, and collect my mail. Then I'd check in at Random Access. And then, if I was as smart as everybody seemed to think I was, I'd go to bed.
*
Mail on the Net was light: An email from Paolo in Argentina; another from Suzanne in London; the latest issue of Cyberspace Review, the tongue-in-cheek "hyper-mag" that served as gossip rag and newspaper of the virtual community. I downloaded it all for later reading and reply, decided against visiting any of the live-time salons, and logged off.
Two minutes later, my computer was dialing the seven-digit number for Random Access. A phone rang, quietly, in the depths of my machine–once, twice. On the third ring, there was a spray of static, a strung-out beee-eep as my computer and the host computer negotiated with each other, followed by a chime as the connection was made. My screen went still for a moment, then words began to appear.
Welcome
You have reached
RANDOM ACCESS BBS
A place exactly like
No place you've ever been
Your sysop is
Fox
The screen froze for perhaps half-a-minute, then another line appeared, asking for my full name and password. Dutifully, I provided these and the door to Random Access opened wide.
There was mail waiting–a note from Marian Younger asking me to pick up a copy of Programmable C for her the next time I was by the Central Processing Unit, Wimsy's home-grown computer store.
Marian will be fourteen years old on New Year's day. She's confined to a wheelchair and is fascinated by computers. For awhile, her attention seemed focused on hardware–repair and installation of the actual machine of the computer–but over the last month I've seen a shift of interest toward software–the brains that tell the machine what to do. I suspect Fox has had something to do with that.
I wrote a quick reply, telling Marian I would buy the book tomorrow and drop it off Friday after she was home from school, unless she needed it sooner. Two keystrokes mailed the note and I moved on to the main board–the Speakeasy.
Today's first message was from Skip Leterneau, a regular, though one who had heretofore been more interested in the substantial file areas than the social chit-chat of the Speakeasy. Skip had lately been reading up on a new notion in hydroelectric dams, which would utilize an air turbine and require significantly less head–fall of water–in order to work. He apparently found the concept terribly exciting and went on at length, waxing nearly poetical in the density of his technical description. I reached the end and heaved a sigh of relief.
The next message was from Lisa Gagnon. I reached for my wine and had a sip.
Lisa had reached Random Access days after her eight-month marriage had fallen messily apart, a circumstance she blamed almost entirely on having lost her job as a stitcher at the Welltread Shoe factory. Lisa had worked at the factory for five years, but during the six months prior to her firing had experienced trouble making her daily quota. She claimed her hands bothered her–fingers numb; wrists achy. Her shift boss chose to believe otherwise and Lisa was out of a job.
Shortly thereafter, her truck driver husband packed his clothes and moved out, leaving behind his wife, his ancient Tandy computer and very little else.
All, however, was not lost: The Tandy had a working modem in it. Carl, owner and chief tech at CPU, gave Lisa the number to Random Access. And Lisa was hooked.
Over the couple months she had been a regular user of the board, Lisa had regaled the rest of us with painstakingly detailed synopses of her days–days so dismal, so full of rejection and self-doubt, that I for one counted it a miracle that she hadn't simply turned her face to the wall and called it quits.
We heard how she was denied unemployment benefits because her former employer stated she'd been fired for cause. We heard about having to fill out the form for food stamps and how nice that lady had been, at least.
We heard how the Town refused to give her a tank of oil when winter came howling into Wimsy in mid-November. And a few days later, we heard how the oil truck came down to the trailer and the driver told her it was all paid, but wouldn't tell her who had paid it, so she couldn't even thank the person–her "good angel", as she had it.
We heard how there was a waiting list for the job retraining classes and how the Federal money was running out. We heard about the dismal, dismal job market, and the people who were cruel to her when she walked in, cold, to ask for work.
I put the wine glass down, wondering what today's disaster was going to be. Hoping that maybe the "good angel" had come through with another minor miracle to lighten Lisa's load…
I GOT A JOB!!!! The message shouted, almost deafening in reflected joy and relief. It's at the Mill and I'm going to be cleaning rooms, mostly, but they're going to train me to do other things–coat check and maybe front desk and maybe they'll teach me how to wait tables in the restaurant. I've got a friend says the tips are wicked good. I start tomorrow morning and I GOT A JOB!!
The rest of the messages were notes of congratulation from other users, urging her to get plenty of sleep and leave early so she would make a good impression her first day at work. I added a note of my own, telling her how happy I was for her–which looked trite on the screen, but the truth was that I was happy for her–not to mention relieved and somewhat ashamed. That someone could be so joyful over landing a job cleaning hotel rooms after living through two months of concentrated hell… I shook my head and closed my letter, glancing at the clock at the corner of my screen.
"Bedtime, Jen," I told myself and moved my hand toward <G> for <G>oodbye.
The screen broke–reformed into a plain blue playing field, bisected by a thin white line. Letters appeared–quickly, smoothly–beneath the line.
Good evening, Jennifer.
I smiled and typed. Fox. Don't you ever sleep?
Certainly, he typed back. Don't you?
As often as I can, I answered, and then: I see Lisa's finally had some good luck.
It's about time, Fox commented. I hope this is just the first of many positive reverses. I've noticed that having a job tends to make many things easier.
Speaking of jobs, I said, I hear you've landed a plum, yourself.
There was a moment of hesitation, then: The police station. That's quick work, Jennifer. I only got the final approval this evening.
I saw Ken Aube tonight and he already had the scuttlebutt, I told him, grinning. There are no secrets in a small town, Mr. Foxwell.
So I begin to learn. Tell me, what do you know about the former consultant?
I didn't know much–my fingers danced across the keys, giving Fox the little I had.
His name is John Custer and his office is in Portland. He wore a suit and tie and talked the talk. Carl's pissed at him because he ordered all the stuff himself instead of going through CPU. He milked the analysis part of the contract for all it was worth, then booked when the machines hit town. I hesitated, then added, I didn't get the idea he knew what he was doing.
A fine mess I've gotten myself into, Fox typed, and I could almost hear his sigh through the screen.. Ah, well. Isn't penance good for the soul?
You're asking me?
Jennifer, you really have too low an opinion of yourself. Am I keeping you?
I hesitated. I should go, I typed reluctantly, then thought of something else. Fox?
Yes.
Marian asked me to pick her up a copy of Programmable C. Is that a good place for her to start or are there other books I should get for her while I'm at Carl's?
There was a pause and I leaned back in my chair, reaching for my wine. I'd had a sip and replaced the glass before he began to type again.
If you don't mind, I'd like to talk to her before you buy any books. C can be a bit of a bear, and in any case it's not the place to begin. There's a… progression of study. Like math.
Sure, I typed. Talk to her. After all, you're the resident expert.
A dubious honor, I suspect, Fox returned. Good night, Jennifer. Sleep well.
Good night, Fox, I typed, and the bisected screen was gone, replaced by Random Access' main menu.
I touched <G> for <G>oodbye and the board logged me off.
NO CARRIER, my computer reported and I sighed lightly, for no reason that I could name, and shut down for the night.