Devil's Plaything - Matt Richtel [110]
I walk down the aisles until I come to it. The Surface to Air is a twenty-foot sailboat with a covered outboard motor. Beside the motor, beneath a ledge, stands a lonely pair of yellow rain boots on an otherwise clean-swept deck. In the center of the boat, a rectangular cabin protrudes from the deck, darkened windows on all four sides.
I look around the marina. Seeing no one, I step over the edge of the pier and onto the boat. I walk to the cabin, and peer into a window. The dark tint makes it difficult to discern what is inside.
I take a breath and hold it, and then reach for the handle on the cabin door. To my surprise, it turns.
Inside, a modest cockpit; along the sides, a small refrigerator, fishing equipment, industrial-size food supplies, like two large plastic jugs of orange juice.
It also seems ordinary. Except that there’s a table in the center with a laptop chained to it.
Chapter 61
My cell phone buzzes and, surprised and anxious, I nearly hit my head in the small space. I pull my phone from my pocket. It is a text from Polly that reads: “Craving maple frostd.” I text back: “Cmng up.”
I turn off my phone.
The laptop is sleek, black, relatively new. I hit the space key. The monitor flickers to life. On the screen is an icon for a program I’ve never heard of: “InterneXt.” The word is enclosed in a graphic of the human brain. I click on it.
Onto the screen pops a rectangular login box. The user name says: “LaneElizaIdle.” The password is blank.
I stand. I walk to the door of the boat. I open it, and I poke out my head. I look around the dock. Halfway down the pier, a woman sweeps the deck of her boat. I duck back inside. I lock the door. I sit.
Into the password section, I type: “NatIdle.” I hit “enter.” A message returns: “Your password is incorrect. After three incorrect attempts the program will be permanently locked out.”
I stand. I clench my fingers together, hang my head, squint my eyes. I’m scouring my brain for connections, memories, mnemonics, cryptic references that only Lane Idle would know. Would she know anything at all?
Twinsons, Lovesreading, doublelife, Voted4Kennedy, SnakePuker, Maverick, EnglishTeacher, Coloradan, DadwasBAKER.
Can Grandma’s life be summed up with a phrase or word? What connection or concept or secret of hers has someone inserted as this password?
I sit down at the computer. I put my hands on the keyboard and I type: “Pigeon.” I hit “enter.” The message returns: “Your password is incorrect. After three incorrect attempts the program will be permanently locked out.”
Screw it. Screw all of it. What does it matter?
One more password, then I will let this all go. I will return home with a maple donut and kiss Polly’s belly. I’ll take an editing position or a staff writing job at a magazine. I’ll put this behind me, the Chasing and the Coming Up Just Short. I’ll help raise a beautiful son or daughter or twins and I’ll let them use the computer all they want because it will hinder their ability to remember that their dad was a sometimes malcontent.
Let the fates decide.
From my back pocket, I extract my wallet. I pull out a piece of paper on which I’ve written the series of numbers and letters I generated before leaving home from the binary decoder.
The code looks like this: “214–5682 89Marina”
I know that “89Marina” stands for the address. What do the other numbers stand for?
I type them into the empty password spot. I put my finger on the “enter” key. I pause. Maybe they’re supposed to go in the reverse order, like Newton said. And like I said: Screw it. I hit “enter.”
The login screen starts to dissolve. In its place, a document starts to materialize. The first page reads:
InterneXt
Internet 2.0
Human/Data Transfer Technology
The information herein is copyrighted and classified. Use or copying of this information is strictly prohibited and may have deleterious medical consequences.
At the bottom of the page is the word “Next.”
I inhale deeply, hold my breath, and click.
A new page appears.
The first Internet protocols were developed in 1973, leading