The Aether and the Lie is a story of greed, art, and murder. How many deaths does it take to re-open a back door? Enzi asks Pascal for help. Iteration means to repeat and repeat and ...
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The Aether and the Lie is a story of greed, art, and murder. How many deaths does it take to re-open a back door? Enzi asks Pascal for help. Iteration means to repeat and repeat and ...
Visit MontanaVoice.com for more information and to listen to additional episodes.
From the novel, "The Aether and the Lie," by Steve S. Saroff
Chapter 12 – Iteration
Back from Butte. Back to Missoula.
Running away, then returning.
My present was feeding on my past, and my future was waiting for the recursive loop to complete.
Again, I parked several blocks from my house, which was lucky because as I walked up to my front door, someone was sitting in the dark on the steps. He said, “Hello, Mate.” Then he lit a cigarette and said, “Kept myself busy waiting for you.”
I had stopped several paces away from XX and expected him to do something fast and violent, but he didn’t. Instead, he just shook the match out, and in darkness, said, “Give me a bell tomorrow. Left you the number inside. With another present.” Then he walked past me and was gone.
I went inside and turned on a light. Torn apart and scattered on the floor of my house was all I owned. Poured over everything were cans of house paint and motor oil from boxes out in the carport. There was also a gagging bite of insecticide fumes, and I kicked at an empty can of wasp spray. Books, papers, dishes, clothing. Everything in my house was in a ruined confusion. I went from room to room, turning on the lights. Every wall had multiple, large holes bashed in between the wall studs. And I saw that XX had spent time individually ruining even small things. Clothes were dumped from my dresser drawers, and those draws were then smashed. Legs off chairs were broken. Books were torn in half along their spines. Water was running out from the bathroom, where the sink and toilet had been smashed with a sledgehammer --- a sledgehammer I did not own, which was left lying on the bathroom floor.
The only things in the house that weren’t destroyed were the ceiling lights, my computer, and the desk. And one chair. Everything not needed for me to “push some buttons” was ruined.
He had not broken the windows nor the door, probably meaning that he did not want neighbors to hear, but other than that concern, it seemed that he hadn’t cared if I had walked in on him while he had been doing the trashing.
It did not look like he was searching for anything. This became clear when I found, laying on top of the computer’s keyboard, another school daypack like the one he had thrown at me in Seattle. I unzipped it, and there was another jumble of ten-thousand-dollar bundles of cash. And a note which read, “Mutual friend says your debt has grown.” The note also had a phone number, followed by “NOON.”
I turned on the computer and using several private networks, each located in a different country. I connected to the version control server at SLAM. I could modify, replace, and then check in my backdoor code in less than an hour, making it look like I had done it while in Seattle a few days before.
But Dave Cheat would still be dead.
Why?
Every three months, publicly traded companies release financial reports --- computer files from spreadsheets created by accountants. Information that then was placed on SLAM’s network. A network that was trusted to be encrypted and absolutely private. Knowing the numbers in those quarterly reports while they are being worked on, even a few hours before they are released, would make it trivial for options and futures traders to place lucrative trades. Trades that would make millions of dollars in moments.
How much had Tsai and his ‘partners’ --- partners who now seemed to include Fritter, the CEO of SLAM --- made in less than a month of siphoning secret data? Enough to make daypacks of cash, and at least one life, insignificant.
I could still do what Tsai wanted me to do, which might get him and XX to leave me alone. But there would be other security audits. How long would it then take for someone else to stumble across a new backdoor? It had taken Dave just four weeks. And now he was dead. Who else would die?
I had rolled out of a car once and walked away with nothing but my clothes. Did I still know how to do what was right?
I turned off the computer.
The fumes from the paint and wasp spray were making me dizzy. I grabbed the latest daypack of cash, and went outside. I walked the dark neighborhood streets, making sure no one was watching me, for about half an hour, then I walked back to where I had parked the Subaru. I opened its back hatch and tossed in the new bag of cash. Its heft felt like another half million. That meant it my insignificance to Tsai had accumulated to one and a half million dollars. The scale of what I had gotten involved with felt larger than a mountain of copper. It felt like a mountain of arsenic.
I walked back to my house and examined my legit car in the carport. I opened the hood and looked at the engine. I didn’t know what I was looking for, but I wanted to find something tangible to take apart, disarm, and fix. But there was nothing. I closed the hood and drove downtown to the office.
Even though it was late, O’Neill was working. I saw him at his desk through the ground floor office window. When I went inside, he was surprised to see me.
“Nostalgic?” He asked, “Feel like you need to pound some late-night code before you can sleep?”
I said, “More than you will ever know.”
O’Neill said he never saw me code anymore, “Not since you became establishment.”
“Same salary and stock options as you,” I said to him, “You are establishment now too.”
“Remember when this wasn’t about the money?” He asked, “Remember when it was fun?”
I looked at O’Neill, and I did remember. “You know what?” I said, “Dave Cheat, he wasokay. He was a juggler too. I Found that out when I met with him before his car wreck.”
“You two get to juggle?”
I said we did, said that we were outside by the waterfront in Seattle and that a third person came up and joined in, and then Cheat, and he passed clubs for a while. I said, “Watching the two of them reminded me of when you and I first met.”
“Passing is where it is at,” O’Neill said. Then he got up from his chair and picked up a cloth bag near the corner of the room.
“Now?” I asked, “Eleven at night?”
He said, “Parking lot is empty. You look way serious. This will help.”
I had gone to my office to be behind a heavy, locked door and to sleep for a while. I had not expected to see O’Neill, but it felt safe and good to be near him, near someone I knew.
We went outside to the middle of the Central Square parking lot, under a streetlight, and then started passing the clubs. Even though my hands were cold, and even with everything I owned having just been violently destroyed, I started laughing. O’Neill started laughing too, which caused both of us to shift our focus, and we dropped the juggling clubs and then were standing there looking at each other, both of us still laughing. “Like the old days,” O’Neill said.
Then, from the shadow outside the streetlight’s cone of light, someone started clapping, slow and loud. O’Neill and I stopped laughing and looked. There was XX, and he said, “Brilliant.”
I turned away from XX and told O’Neill that we needed to go back inside. XX heard me though and said, “Wait a minute boys,” and he walked up to O’Neill and said, “Show me how this works, Mate.”
Before I could say anything, O’Neill had knelt and picked up three of the juggling clubs and said, “Here, you hold these,” and handed them to XX. O’Neill then saw the tattoos on his neck, wrists, and hands and asked, “Those mean anything?”
“Mementos of a misspent youth,” XX said. Then he dropped two of the clubs and held the remaining one in his right hand and slapped it hard and repeatably against the open palm of his left hand. He looked at me and said, “Light. But could still mess a bloke up. Go right through metal detectors.”
“Where are you from?” O’Neill asked.
XX looked at him and said, “Passing through. Always passing through.” Then he walked back into the shadows and away from us, taking the club with him.
“Hey!” O’Neill shouted.
I put my hand on O’Neill’s shoulder and said, “Forget about it. Not worth it.”
O’Neill said, “Too much hostile energy. Totally Agree. One club is not worth that.”
Neither of us then wanted to be outside, and we went back into the office. I checked the main door’s locks, and then I went around and closed the window blinds. O’Neill asked me what I was doing, and I said, truer than he would ever know, “That guy gave me the creeps.”
“I hear you,” O’Neill said. Then he said, “I drank a cappuccino in the afternoon, think I will work a bit more. Then go home and do a soak.”
“You and your hot tub,” I said, “Now that is establishment.”
I went into my office and laid down on the floor, wrapped in a sleeping bag that I kept in the closet. I was thinking about what I should do, about the threats that Tsai and XX had delivered, and then acted on. Dave Cheat was dead. My house was trashed. Because I hadn’t done what Tsai had told me to do. But I did not think there was another immediate urgency. I decided that I would call XX at noon, as he and his note had told me. I would also try to reach Tsai and talk. Maybe Dave Cheat’s wreck had been a coincidence. And all my possessions didn’t add up to much value. I even tried to smile about XX walking away with a plastic juggling club, thinking he was just messing with O’Neill’s and my juggling break.
I fell asleep listening to the chattering of O’Neill’s typing from down the hallway, the “pressing of buttons,” the pounding of code. And then I dreamt of nothing at all.
----------------------
The thin detective woke me up by kicking at my shoulder with the tip of his boot. Next to him was a uniformed cop. I sat up. In the hallway, I also saw Suzzy. She had a terrified and bewildered expression. I looked at the clock on the wall. It was eight in the morning. Saturday morning.
“Awake?” Thin asked.
“Stop kicking me,” I said, and then got up, sat in a chair, and put on my shoes. Then I asked him why he was there.
Thin said, “We were at your house. When were you last there?”
“Yesterday morning,” I lied. “I worked late and spent the night here. Why?”
Thin asked, “When did you last see Nate O’Neill?”
I said that he had been here, at the office, when I fell asleep last night, about midnight.
I looked past the police to Suzzy, who was still in the hallway. She had started crying. I asked her what was wrong, and she said, “They called me...” but then the uniformed cop put his hand near Suzzy’s face and said, “Shhhh,” and then walked her down the hallway.
Thin said to me, “I know you work down here. I called your assistant. She’s the one listed by the alarm company as the person to contact to get in. We found your partner dead this morning.”
What!? Dead!?
Thin continued, “Neighbor of his, a few hours ago, heard something. But that’s all I am going to tell you now. I’m thinking you should tell me a lot more.”
I stayed silent.
Thin then told me that after finding O’Neill, they went to my house looking for me. He asked, “Sure you haven’t been to your house since yesterday morning? Now would be the time to say so.”
“No,” I lied again, and then I asked the detective if I was under arrest.
He said, “Almost. But I want you to take a drive with me. I might arrest you if you say no.”
On the way out of the building, I squeezed Suzzy’s arm and told her that things would beokay. She said, questioning, “How?”
How? Why?
All four of us got into a patrol car. Thin and me in the back, and the patrolman and Suzzy upfront. On the way, they dropped Suzzy off at her home, then the patrolman started to drive again, and Thin asked me, “Know where we are going?”
“To Nate’s, I guess,” since O’Neill lives in the same direction as my house.
Thin stared straight ahead and said, “One homicide detective in town, and I am it. Three, four cases a year. Five tops. Past month three murders, and each has your line on it.”
The patrol car did not go to O’Neill’s. It stopped in front of my house. I saw Thin looking at me for any response that I might have given away. The patrolman let both of us out from the back seat, and then Thin asked if he could look around inside my place.
“No,” I said. “You need a warrant to go in.”
He nodded. Then he said, “Normally. But Lars was already in,” he nodded towards the patrolman, whose name on his badge was ‘Larson.’
“No warrant necessary when there is active crime visible from outside the premises, or some such legal blah-blah.” He looked closely at me again. Then he said, “Go and take a look yourself.”
I was terrified then that O’Neill’s body would now be in there, tossed onto the growing mountain of my ruin. But I went up to the front door. Standing at the top of the steps, I saw what Lars would have seen through the kitchen window, the shattered dishes, torn blinds, and the house paint that was poured over it all.
“Uggg!” I yelled and then said to Thin, “You said that O’Neill has been killed. Is he in here? I don’t want to go in.”
“He’s been killed. But not here,” the detective said. Go on in. Lar’s has already been through the place. It’s nice in there.”
I opened the door, stood for a moment, then asked both policemen to come in with me.
“Now you invite us in, now you want us,” Lars said with a smirk.
The three of us walked in together. Water was running across the floor from the shattered sink and toilet, and I heard it dripping through the floorboards into the crawl space beneath the house.
Thin asked, “Can you explain this?” He asked me this as he was standing by the undamaged chair, desk, and computer above the blinking lights of the working internet modem.
I said, “This is awful. I have no idea why anyone would do this.”
Lars sarcastically said, “Hope you have tsunami insurance,” and then asked, with a laugh, “You want to report a burglary?”
I was overcome with sorrow and overwhelmed by the wet wasp-spray fumes. I rushed outside and was sick. But this time, not in a shared hallway-toilet way, but loudly and into the open, cold air.
“You just saved yourself an arrest. For now.” Thin said as I was wiping my face off with a handful of snow.
“Come on,” he said to Lars, and the two walked out of my yard. The detective stopped before he got into the patrol car and yelled back at me, “Just for you, we’ll call your burglary in. An officer might get up here sometime in the next day or so.”
Then the two of them were gone.
----------------------
I went down into the dripping crawl space and turned the water off. I thought about calling the insurance company. I also thought about driving out of Montana. But mostly, I was thinking about what could have happened to O’Neill. Between the time I fell asleep and when I was woken by Thin. I also was thinking about what XX would say to me if I did call him at the number he had left.
And then I thought about Suzzy.
Suzzy!
Tsai had said to me, “They will start with your business partner. And then the one who answers your phones. They won’t stop.”
I got out of the crawl space and looked at the mess. There was nothing I wanted to try to salvage or save. I left the house, walked to the Subaru, and drove downtown, towards the vacant river frontage.
Pascal’s truck was parked there. I parked next to it, got out, and then banged on the camper shell. It was still early. I banged again.
I saw the curtains move at the camper’s window. Pascal looked out at me. He didn’t ask what I wanted or why I was there, he just yelled, “Give this Fella a moment.”
The camper’s topper was the same height as the top of the pickup’s cab. Pascal reached out the back and opened and dropped the truck’s tailgate, which he then swung his legs over and sat on. He yawned, stretched, and reached back into the camper for his cowboy boots and hat and put them on. He was already wearing his long winter coat. “Please tell me a Fella has brought a cup of coffee,” he said.
I told him that I hadn’t and had an emergency that I needed to ask him about.
He asked, “Can it wait until after some caffeine?”
I shook my head no and said, “I don’t think so.”
“Who is it this time?” he asked.
I said, “I’m in trouble. But that’s not the emergency.”
Pascal didn’t say anything. He was waiting for me to say more.
“I think someone is going to try to kill…” and I paused and then said, “… a friend of mine.”
Pascal waited.
I asked, “Will you sell me that gun, the one you taught me to use?”
“The 1911,” he said. He was quiet for a bit, and then he laughed and said, “A gun would just make whatever troubles a Fella has worse. A first rule for guns, is: No Fuckin’ Way!”
I sat down on the edge of the tailgate.
Pascal said, “Tell me about this friend. Who is going to kill him? And why.”
“She. And she has nothing to do with anything. But last night someone killed another friend of mine. And I think I have until about noon today before they might try to kill her.”
I paused and then asked, “how much should I tell you?”
“Well,” Pascal said, “Normally, I don’t want to know anything other than how much a fella has in his bank account. Or if there is a house deed with a fella’s name on it. But in this case, sure. Talk away.”
I didn’t know where to start. Instead, I said, “You would not want the house.” Then I stood up from the tailgate and said, “Let me show you something like a bank account,” and I motioned to Pascal to follow me. “Ok. Persistent again, for sure.” Then he walked with me to the back of the Subaru.
I saw Pascal noticing the out-of-state plates. “It’s a burner,” I said.
Then I opened the Subaru and said, “This might help get the explanations going,” and I moved the blanket that was covering the two daypacks and unzipped the top of one of them. “There’s about a million dollars in these two bags. It’s threat money. Money that I didn’t want and didn’t ask for.” Then I zipped the bag closed, covered the bags up again, and closed the Subaru’s back hatch.
Pascal said, “A Fella has surprises. But a gun is still not the answer.” Then he said, “Now I know I need some caffeine,” and he walked back to the open tailgate of his truck, pulled out a small propane stove, turned it on and, said, “Fella can do some explaining. While the water boils.”
I said, “I won’t tell you anything that will get you in trouble, but I won’t lie to you either. Someone gave me money to write software for them. Which I did. But then they wanted me to do more. And when I wouldn’t, they killed someone I knew, in another city, and then they gave me more money,” and I pointed towards the Subaru.
I waited for Pascal to ask questions, but he didn’t, so I continued. “Police woke me up an hour ago and told me that my business partner is dead. I think the people who gave me the money that I showed you, I think they killed him. And I think they might kill another person I know unless I do what they are demanding and write their software fast. Or unless I stop them faster.”
“You tell the police this?” Pascal asked.
“No,” I said.
“The Gal in jail, she part of this?”
“No,” I said, “not in any way. But the cops probably think there is a connection.” I didn’t want to explain anymore. I didn’t say anything about Tsai, and I didn’t describe XX. Or my house.
“I like that bank account. But I’ll tell a Fella again, gun is not the answer. Fella going to wild west someone on the street at high noon?”
We were both quiet.
“Giving the money back to them an option?” Pascal asks.
“I’ve offered. All they want is the software. The code.”
“Why not give them the software then?” he asked.
“If I do, it won’t end. Mistake was that I started.”
“That’s the truth,” Pascal said, all mistakes start by starting.”
I laughed and said, “Wise.” Then I said, “And all criminals drank milk when they were babies.”
Pascal smiled then too.
“The bad guys I’ve known,” he said, “usually are after getting money. Never knew one who was about giving it away. Shows I don’t understand this Fella’s problem much.”
Then he was quiet for a long time, drinking coffee from a paper cup. When the cup was empty, he crumpled it and threw it back into the camper, and said, “I’ve been wrong a lot. I was wrong about that gal of yours too. Stay put a bit,” and he crawled under the topper.
He had the 1911 wrapped in a black bandana when he came out and said, “I wiped it down. Wiped the shells too. A Fella did not get this from me. And if asked, a Fella got it at the August gun show at the fieldhouse. No ID needed. Remember that story. Now a Fella also needs to remember some more ‘number one’ rules. And all gun rules are ‘number one’ rules. Rule’ number one’, guns are always loaded. And this here one is for sure. Round in the chamber. Flip the safety off, pull the trigger, it goes. And another ‘number one rule’, never point at what a Fella isn’t trying to put a hole into. And the last ‘number one rule.’ Here in Montana, it helps if someone is trying to kill a Fella first before trying to put that hole in them. But if a Fella does shoot someone, a Fella will probably still go to jail. At least for a while. I wouldn’t be carrying this in a pocket. I’d carry it in a small pack. Law is vague about guns in a shoulder bag. Especially if a Fella remembers to say they were heading out to where they can use a fishing license. Again, Fella did not get this, or any advice, from me.”
I went back and opened the Subaru and dumped all the cash out of one of the school daypacks. I put the .45 into the empty daypack, picked up four ten-thousand-dollar bundles, covered the other bag and the loose bundles, closed the car, and went back to the truck.
When I gave Pascal the money, I said, “And you did not get this from me.”
Like cards in a deck, Pascal thumbed the bills of the banded bundles and then said, “Waaayyy too much. Buy a couple arsenals with all this. That gun is only worth about six hundred. Fella can have it for seven.”
“You can have it. More if you want. Maybe you will bail me out if there is some extra,” and I laughed.
He laughed too and said, “Then its waaayyy not enough. Again, let me tell a Fella, gun is no answer.”
He put the money in his coat pocket and said, “Sure a Fella won’t consider the obvious? Nine-one-one? Calling for help has been known to work.”
“Not this time,” I said to Pascal, and then I got back into the Subaru and drove towards Suzzy’s. I needed to try to break the iteration with some simple algebra. Like X minus one. Or Tsai minus XX.
(c) 2021 Steve S. Saroff
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