Zelda ran Finch’s newly-imported program. From the ocean of fragments, she re-assembled sixty-seven lines of code. Then she stopped.
“What’s up, Z?” Christine asked.
“I require additional input to continue,” Zelda answered.
Finch couldn’t be sure if the computer’s voice was actually aggrieved or if he was assigning that attribute in his own mind. He moved over to the large screen and studied the code. “Here,” he said. Christine’s floating keyboard of light was still stuck to the screen; he typed the patch in awkwardly. “Try that, Zelda.”
She ran another twenty-one lines and stopped.
Finch tried the same patch. It didn’t work.
He put in a different one. The program resumed.
“My modifications are incompatible,” Christine observed.
“A bit,” Finch agreed. “This will work. It will just require some hand-holding.”
“I am still absolutely amazed.”
He smiled. “You’d have been more amazed if it had run straight through.”
Zelda stopped, and he applied another patch. “This is going to take forever.” He picked a second spot for the sorting to commence and threw it to the other screen. “Patch that,” he said. “Let me know if you get stuck.”
She moved up to the second screen and waited for a stall. Finch watched while she fixed it, assured himself that she understood how the program worked. Then his own screen stalled and he turned back to it.
They were quiet for a time. It wasn’t difficult work, just a simple combination of waiting and repairing as needed. Sometimes the program ran for many lines of data; sometimes it stalled after two or three. The quantity of date was enormous, and Finch mentally calculated that it would take between three hours and all night to put it back together. But when they were done, they would have the entire black web. All the names and places, all the evidence. And perhaps even some way to find the wounded boy in the picture.
Finch glanced at the young woman. Her fingers flew over a keyboard that existed only as light, manipulating data in mid-air like some sysadmin mystic. She moved gently but constantly as she worked; when her feet weren’t in motion she was leaning or swaying. If he hadn’t been there, she would have had music playing; she could probably hear it in her head. Dancing with data.
It would be better for his back, he realized, to be standing up, untethered to a physical keyboard. But he could never learn to work that way. Too old to learn new tricks. That didn’t mean he couldn’t appreciate her artistry.
He could get a screen, though, and a rolling keyboard cart that would let him stand. That would be worthwhile.
She caught him watching her and paused. “What?”
“Nothing.”
It was, he realized, actually pleasant. Christine was right beside him, safe and content. He’d given up on her once, almost lost her. Should have lost her. Deserved to have lost her. But he’d gotten her back. And if he could reclaim Christine, perhaps he could also …
No, he told himself firmly. He could not even consider it. The risks were much too high. You got Christine back. Enjoy her company. Listen to Nathan’s voice inside you. Let her bring you a cup of tea and enjoy it. But the other … no.
Christine glanced at him curiously. “Are you okay?”
“Fine,” he answered, flustered. He wasn’t sure what he’d done to give away his state of mind. “Just my, uh, my neck, a bit. I should sit down.” He moved to the chair and the conventional keyboard.
“I have aspirin,” she offered. “Ibuprofen, acetaminophen, naproxen. Ice pack, heat pack. Acupuncture needles. I’m pretty good with them.”
Finch smiled grimly. “Perhaps more bad tea?”
“Sure.” She took his mug and went to the kitchen.
He watched the code run for a moment. Then he reviewed the outside camera views. Nothing that alarmed him. He checked downstairs at Chaos. It was getting loud. He could see the attraction for Christine. She was exactly right; she could run down and socialize as much or as little as she wished, then simply retreat to her very private secret lair.
He glanced at the windows, at the cheerful steel door. At the computer system that could be entirely concealed. She was so like him, in many ways. Not all of them were good.
“Why do you turn your cell phone off?”
She brought his pseudo-tea back. “What?”
“The barista told Mr. Reese that you turn off your cell phone when you go out. He thinks it’s so the government can’t follow you.”
“Or anybody else. Which actually turned out to be a good idea. In theory, anyhow.”
“Oh, yes. You were delightfully elusive,” Finch said dryly. “And you’re evading the question. Why the coated windows? The steel doors?”
“Because I live in New York,” she answered simply, “and I have a ton of computer equipment.” She restarted her side of the program. “You know, this is … Zelda, write me a program. Keep a list of every patch that’s inserted, and when you come to a break try each of them. If none of them work, prompt for assistance.”
“Zelda,” Finch added, “prioritize your attempts by the number of times a patch has been previously successful.”
“Understood,” the computer said.
It didn’t help a lot, right away, but Finch sensed that it would as they applied more patches. “Good thinking.”
“Thanks.” Christine watched the screen for another minute. “What you’re really asking is why I’m so paranoid.”
“You are very security conscious,” Finch amended gently.
“And you’re not?”
“Yes,” he admitted. “But I rarely meet anyone quite as obsessive as I am.”
“I was raised by an undiagnosed, untreated paranoid schizophrenic. I picked up some of his habits. A lot of his habits. Mr. Reese pointed out earlier that I even smoke like he did.”
“You really shouldn’t, you know.”
“What? Smoke?”
“Yes.”
“You’re just making yourself right at home in my life, aren’t you?” She shook her head. “I’ve been smoking that same pack for four months and it’s not empty yet.”
“Good. Then stopping entirely should be …” He stopped. She was right. “Never mind. You changed the subject again.”
“Apparently I didn’t.” Christine paused to apply another patch. ”My father used enough hard-core drugs to burn out his short-term memory. So he would tell someone a secret one day, and the next day he’d be surprised that they knew, because he didn’t remember that he’d told them. It played into his paranoia. His certainty that he was being watched. And the more time passed, the worse they both became. They fed each other.”
Finch nodded, patched in silence.
“Then he saw some TV show where a guy was convinced that government had put a chip in his head, and my dad decided that was the only explanation that made sense. That they’d chipped him and they followed him everywhere and listened to everything he said.”
“And,” Finch asked carefully, “do you think you have a chip in your head?”
“No. But I have a chip in my phone, and my computer, and my tablet, and in free WiFi spots all over the city. And they’re all so artificially cheap that almost everyone has one or more of them. The government doesn’t need to put a chip in my head. I carry it with me voluntarily.”
“And you think someone’s watching all of that.”
Christine didn’t bother to answer. She just gave him that look, the look she’d once given Nathan Ingram in an empty pizza shop. The look that asked, ‘are you an idiot, or do you just think I am?’
“I’m not disputing your assertion,” he said, as calmly as he could. “I’m interested in your thinking on the subject.”
“I think somebody’s watching it,” she answered. “Not somebody. Something. My guess is a national array of supercomputers, with a king-hell information exchange system. But I try not to think about it directly for too long. It’s a Medusa.”
“Medusa?”
“If I look straight at it, if I consider all the implications, I become terrified. Paralyzed. If I just let it sit in the back left corner of my mind, I’m okay.”
Finch stared at the computer screen without seeing it. She didn’t know, not precisely, but she was dangerously close to guessing. She could see the outlines, if not the details. The only piece she didn’t have was him, and she was bright enough to put it together with just the slightest clue. Random and his higher calling. If you’re alive and you’re here, she’d said that first night. Oh, Christine, he thought frantically, please stop. Don’t guess, don’t look. Your life probably depends on it. And I’m not sure I can protect you.
He should never have come here.
And there was something else, too. If she put them together “ the all-seeing system she had mostly guessed and Finch “ she was going to hate him. She would see the Machine was a monster. She would see him as the monster’s creator.
A pretty girl brings you a cup of tea. But she never would again, once she knew the truth. He had begun to genuinely enjoy her company. He was going to miss her.
Out of nowhere, very quietly, Christine said, “I kinda like it.”
Finch spun around to look at her. “What?”
She looked away, embarrassed. “I know I shouldn’t. I know I should be outraged and offended and … whatever. But I was here when the Towers came down. I remember. All the people, all the … and how quiet it was, and how the air tasted, and how strange the light was … and how scared we all were, waiting for the next attack.” She snuck a quick glance at him, and whatever she read in his face she misinterpreted, because she looked away again, blushed. “I know. I know. I should be smarter than this, it shouldn’t be just emotional, not this far out, but … “
She moved to the furthest end of the screen, turned and put her shoulder against the bookcase. Finally met his eyes again. “There are days, even now, when it’s just the right temperature, when the sky’s just the right color, and the clouds … when I see an airplane overhead, low, and I just …” She blinked back tears. “And I find a camera. There always is one, they’re everywhere. I find one, and I stare at it, and it’s … it‘s watching. And it’s okay then. I’m okay then. It’s just an airplane, it’s just landing, and I’m safe because it’s watching, it’s taken care of it ….”
She stopped. Finch could tell by her expression that she was reconsidering what she’d just said. And that she’d never said it out loud before. “Maybe you should have me committed again.”
“Why?” Finch asked quietly. His voice cracked. He stood up slowly. “You’re not crazy.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure. I was here, too.” He walked over and stood beside her. She turned to gaze out the window with him. “I know about the sky. About how if you see three fire engines headed the same direction you want to run the other way.” She slipped her hand into his; her fingers were cold, and his were too cold to warm them, but he held them gently anyhow. “About how if a subway train makes an unexpected stop makes all the locals go silent and get that look in their eyes.” He nodded to himself. “About how everyone carries a cell phone in this city, just in case they might only have a few minutes to call someone they love one last time.”
Christine nodded with him. “Yes. That. Exactly.”
“But then why the windows and the doors and the firewalls?”
“Because … because I can’t live downstairs.” Finch looked at her. “Because I need to be alone sometimes. I need order and solitude. Not because I’m doing anything wrong, but just because I’m me. I need a little space.” She gestured to the apartment. “This much space. To be alone in.” She shrugged. “Medusa doesn’t seem to mind.”
“No,” Finch answered. “I’m sure she doesn’t.”
Christine glanced over his shoulder. Sighed. “We’re both stalled.”
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
For understanding, Finch thought. For not condemning me for what you must never know for certain. For letting me feel, for the first time since Nathan died, that I’m not entirely alone with the Machine. For understanding the why of its creation.
Perhaps even for giving it a name.
“For putting it into words,” he finally answered. “I don’t think I ever could have.”
She tipped her head. The blue eyes, bright and piercing and looking through every façade again. She was on the edge of putting it all together.
He tugged at her hand lightly. “Back to work. Let’s see if we can find your boy.”
The brightness flickered away and the pain returned. It was exactly what he’d intended. It was cruel. But not as cruel as letting her decipher the truth would have been. She eased her hand away and went back to her screen.
***
The blonde’s name, Reese was able to figure out, was not Cupcake or Kitten or Stupid Cow, but most likely some version of Trisha. She liked to make Garuccio yell, and she was really good at it. John wondered if he was morally obligated to help if the porn master had a heart attack in front of him. It seemed like a real possibility. He decided he’d call 911 and call it a day.
Through the bickering, the little crew had managed to film most of the foreplay. But when Garuccio had his camera guys drag an old mattress out from behind the trash bin, Trisha balked. “I am not doing it on that,” she said flatly.
“What, baby?” Garuccio cajoled. “It’s a mattress. You been on a million of ‘em, right?”
“Uh-uh. No way I’m laying down on that thing.”
“C’mon, it’s even in pretty good shape.”
“Yeah. And the only reason someone would throw out a mattress that good is ‘cause it has bed bugs. I am not going near that thing. We can do it standing up or something.”
“That’s not what the client wants, Sugar.”
“I don’t care what the client wants, Sugar. I’m not getting’ bitten up and taking those little bastards home with me. You get them in your apartment you can never get rid of them.”
Garuccio glared at her. “Fine. I’ll throw in an extra hundred.”
“Costs nine hundred bucks to get your apartment heat-treated for those suckers.”
“I am not giving you nine hundred bucks for a three-way.”
“Wait,” the taller muscle guy said, “if she’s getting extra money, I want some, too.”
“She’s not!” Garuccio snapped. “Nobody’s getting any extra money!” He pointed at the woman. “Just get your ass on that mattress right now.”
“No.”
The man put his hands on his hips and glared into the setting sun. It would, John guessed, be too dark to film in another half an hour. Garuccio shook his head and turned back to his cast. “You,” he said, pointing at the shorter man, “hold her down. And you,” to the taller one, “get to work.”
“I told you,” Trisha shouted, “I am not … “
“What part of hold her down don’t you understand?” Garuccio yelled over her.
The muscle shirt guys moved uneasily.
“Don’t you touch me!” Trisha yelled at them.
“You want to get paid, you do what you’re told.”
The two of them looked at each other. And then they moved toward the woman.
Reese stepped into the open. “Is there a problem here, gentlemen?”
“Who the hell are you?” Garuccio barked at him. “Get outta here.”
“The lady said no,” Reese stated patiently.
“Yeah, well, the lady works for me and she’ll do what she’s damn well told and it’s none of your damn business.”
“I ain’t doin’ it on that filthy mattress,” Trisha said.
“You’ll do what you’re told, you whore!” He gestured to his muscle men. “You two, get him out of here. Make sure he doesn’t come back.”
They weren’t very enthusiastic when they came toward him. Reese hoped they’d think better of it. But Garuccio yelled something about their mothers, and he could tell they felt like they had to make the attempt. He left them get close. Then he grabbed the tall one’s arm, got his hand behind his neck, and cracked his forehead into his smaller partner’s.
Trisha screamed. It wasn’t very convincing.
The two of them crumpled to the ground. They both moved a little, but neither of them attempted to get up.
Reese looked at the camera guys. They both backed away.
That only left Garuccio. But the porn dealer was too furious to be smart. He got his head down and ran at Reese as hard as he could. Reese pivoted at the last second, let the man’s charge carry him past his hip. Then he grabbed him by the collar and threw him into the side of the van.
Garuccio struggled to get up. Reese looked at the woman. “You want to get out of here?”
She gestured with her head. John half-turned and hit Garuccio squarely in the jaw. The man dropped to the pavement for a second time.
When he turned back around, Trisha was running at him. “Leave him alone, you big bully!” He caught her by her upper arms. She pummeled his chest with both fists “ very lightly. “I need this job,” she whispered. “Make it look good.”
Reese spun her around and pinned her against his chest with one arm. With the other, he backfisted Garuccio as the man came up behind him. The third time the porn dealer hit the ground, John was pretty sure he’d stay down for a while.
The equipment guys had vanished. The actors in muscle shirts were still on the ground and making no moves to get up.
“Right,” Reese said. “You’re coming with me until we straighten this out.”
“Let me go!” the actress squealed. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”
“ ‘ead ma’,” Garuccio muttered.
John leaned closer, still holding the woman. “What was that?”
“Said you’re a dead man.”
“You’re absolutely right.” Reese kicked him in the ribs, just for good measure. He shifted, got the woman’s hands behind her and marched her out of the alley. She made a half-hearted attempt to escape, did a little trash talking for Garuccio’s benefit. But she dropped it as soon as they were out of the alley.
Reese released her hands. “You okay?”
Trisha rubbed her wrists. “Yeah, fine. You were pretty good back there.”
“Thanks.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why were you good back there? Why’d you get involved?”
John shrugged. “I was brought up that no means no.”
She laughed. “Wow. I’ve found the only Boy Scout in New York City.”
“Not a Boy Scout,” Reese protested quietly. “Can I buy you some dinner?”
Trisha cocked her head at him. “Yeah, no. I appreciate your help and all, but I don’t give away freebies. Even to Boy Scouts.”
“I wasn’t asking for one. Just dinner, and maybe some information about your boss.”
“Garuccio? He’s trash.”
“I know.”
“How come you aren’t asking for a freebie?” She arched her back at him. “These are real, you know. Home grown.”
Reese was absolutely sure they weren’t, but it seemed impolite to argue the point. “They’re … lovely,” he said. “But I’m just looking for some information.”
She looked at him closely. “You aren’t married. But there’s something else. She dumped you and you ain’t over it yet.”
“Something like that.”
“Okay.” Trisha nodded. “Dinner would be great.”
John opened the car door for her. Gazed at the setting sun for a moment himself. First thing tomorrow, he decided, he was asking Finch for a raise.
***
“Go ahead and open it,” Christine said quietly.
“What?”
She gestured to the screen in front of Finch. “You’re hovered over it three times. You’re dying to see it.”
Finch smiled nervously. His cursor hovered over the file a fourth time. “I’m afraid to. What in the world is ‘Bookcase Porn’?”
Christine grinned. “You’ll have to click it to know.”
Very gingerly, Finch clicked the button. The screen filled with thumbnails. Hundreds of single pictures. Pages of them. He leaned closed to the screen, still nervous. Everybody had porn, she said, and he believed it. He just wasn’t sure he wanted to see hers. In fact, he was sure he didn’t want to see hers. He clicked on a picture.
The photo was of a long, curved, massive and absolutely gorgeous mahogany bookcase.
Finch glanced up at her, relieved. “Ahh.”
“What did you think it was?” she teased.
“I … uh … “
“Yeah. I know.” She laughed and went back to work.
Finch browsed through some of the other photos. They were all of bookcases, some tiny, some that filled entire rooms. Bookcases built into the sides of staircases. Around reading nooks. Around a bar. Around a pool. Some were whimsical, some utterly impractical. All of them were beautiful.
And at the very bottom of the list there was a single subfolder, named ‘Ingram’.
Finch glanced over his shoulder. Christine wasn’t paying attention. Nervous again, he clicked the file open.
There were four pictures in the file, all of the massive bookcase on the front wall of Nathan Ingram’s loft.
He sighed softly. “Where did you get these?”
“Hmmm?” She came and looked over his shoulder. “Sorry. I forgot that was in there. They’re from the real estate listing. Have you been there?”
Finch nodded. “It’s a very beautiful property. And very secure. It’s still for sale, you know.”
“Little rich for my blood. But I like to look at the pictures.”
“I’ll buy it for you, if you like.”
“What?”
Finch gestured toward the screen. “The loft. I’ll buy it for you, if you’ll live there.”
She stared at him. Finch could see her trying to decide if he was serious. He wasn’t entirely sure himself; he very rarely gave in to that sort of impulse. The last time he’d done it, he’d found himself with an infant to care for. But if she took him up on it …
“What?” she repeated.
“Nathan’s loft. If you’d move out of here and live there …”
“Do you know what they’re asking for that place?”
“Yes.”
“No.” She believed him, finally. “I … thank you, but no.” She considered. “Let me be completely unequivocal about this. Absolutely not. You cannot buy me Nathan Ingram’s loft.”
“I think he’d enjoy it, knowing you were there after all this …”
“Random. No.”
Finch sighed, loudly this time. “Very well.” He closed the file. “Would you at least come see the bookcase in person?”
“Harold.”
“Oh, fine.”
After a moment, she said, “I’m almost afraid to ask, but exactly how much money do you have?”
Harold chuckled. “I have … what was that word? Enough.”
Christine shook her head. “It’s always the quiet ones,” she muttered as she moved back to her board. “Always the quiet ones.”
***
Trisha ordered an appetizer and two entrees “ one to be brought to the table and one to be boxed up to go. “You don’t mind, do you?” she asked, after the waitress had already left.
“Not at all,” John assured her. He didn’t bother to tell her that he never even saw the credit card bills. He wouldn’t have begrudged her the food even if he’d been paying for it out of his own pocket.
“You want to know about Garuccio, huh? He’s a skunk.”
“I got that,” Reese answered. “Tell me about these custom videos.”
“That’s what we were doing tonight. It’s stupid, but it pays really well.”
“How’s it work?”
The waitress brought them a plate of fried mushrooms. Trisha picked one up, dropped it immediately. “Hot, hot.” Then she picked it up again and juggled it from hand to hand until it cooled. “These guys come to see Garuccio and tell him what they want. Their fantasies, you know? He gets half the money up front, they give him as many details as they want to. And he’s got a book of all his actors, head shots and body shots, they can pick out who they want in it. We act it out their story and he films it, edits it together, burns a DVD and the client gets his rocks off.” She shrugged, popped the mushroom into her mouth. “It’s not like, real art, you know. There’s no scripts or anything. Just the ideas usually. Sometimes some weird details. Last one I did the client wanted me to wear these certain panties. Lilac, with lace. He brought them in for me. Brand new in the package, cause I said they had to be. He let me keep ‘em, too. They’re nice.”
“Did he say why lilac?”
“Nope. And I didn’t ask.”
“Probably wise.” Reese snagged a mushroom for himself. “Is there ever anything in these scenarios that you won’t do?”
“Oh, sure. All the time. But Garuccio knows who’ll do what for him. It’s not a problem.”
“What about things that aren’t legal?”
Trisha laughed. “Honey, most of what we do isn’t legal.”
“I mean really illegal. Like … children.”
“You mean Lola.”
“Lola?” Reese asked carefully.
“Yeah. Man, that girl works all the time. ‘Cause she looks like she’s fifteen, tops. Like Britney in that first video, you know? In the schoolgirl skirt?”
“Is she really underage?”
“Oh hell no. She’s the same age as me. Twenty … three.”
Reese raised an eyebrow at her.
“Okay, twenty-six.” She brought her phone out, scrolled through her pictures. “Here. That’s Lola and me, last time we worked together.”
John studied the picture. The little dark-haired woman with Trisha really did look like a teenager. A very young one. “You sure she’s your age?”
“Yeah, I’m sure. We were in school together, kindergarten to sixth grade.”
Reese gave the phone back. “You’ve never seen real children involved in any of Garuccio’s projects, then?”
“Nah. Most of us wouldn’t put up with it. I mean, we’re porn actors, but we got standards, you know? Most of that stuff, the pro stuff, comes from overseas. Way easier to make there.”
“Does he have a web site?”
“Sure, for the store. That’s where he finds his movie clients.”
“Do you think he might have another one? Something more exotic?”
Trisha frowned at him. “Exotic?”
“Illegal.”
“With kids.”
“Yes.”
Trisha gave it some thought. “I don’t know. I just work for him, you know? He calls me for a role, I show up, he pays me. That’s about it. I’ve never seen anything like that, the kids and whatever. But if there’s money in it, he’d totally do it. He’d screw his grandmother on camera for a buck, you know?”
The waitress brought their food. Trisha started in eagerly. Reese found he wasn’t very hungry.
***
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