Note: Aftermath chapter. The server will be discussed in upcoming chapters-it's not going to go away. :)
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December 2011
John drove "my" car. I didn't know where we were going. Didn't notice. Didn't care. The city beyond the windshield was a smear of neon and taillights and lit windows in the night—like ghostly ribbons of gossamer and silk, blurred by motion.
My fingers trembled as I ran them along the rough edge of the hole that had been blasted in the bottom of my laptop. Nausea bubbled in my stomach. I tried to ignore it. Told myself I was just coming down off an adrenaline high, that it would pass if I just held on and pretended it didn't exist, but after awhile the thought of being in a moving vehicle became intolerable and I told John to pull off somewhere.
We stopped at a little diner, a real greasy spoon: florescent lights and tattered maroon booths and a checkered red-and-white linoleum floor. The lights were too bright. I could feel a headache forming right between my eyes. My stomach churned.
John guided me to a secluded both near the back. We were the only people in the place but for the waiter, who seemed to know that John and I wanted to be left alone as much as possible. John ordered me black tea. It soothed my stomach; calmed my jangled nerves. At least, that was the idea. My hands still shook around the cup and I hoped the bathroom was within running distance, what with the way my stomach was acting.
"I'm sorry, Ellie," John said. His voice was much more subdued than usual; the playful, mischievous edge was missing from his croon.
"For what?" I said. I couldn't look at him. I stared at the grimy plastic table instead. "I'm the one that got caught."
"I shouldn't have let you stay," John said. "You're too inexperienced."
There was a freckle on my left arm down near my wrist; I focused on it. I said, "Mama always said that the best way to gain experience was to get out there and do it."
"Somehow, I don't think this is what she had in mind," John said. "I'll understand if you don't want to do this anymore. We can go back to breaking into people's houses, if you want. Or we can stop completely."
"You trying to get rid of me?" It came out much harsher than I had expected.
"No. I'm giving you the option of walking away, and I'm saying you should think about it. For your own good."
"Don't you dare get all 'for your own good' on me. I'm a big girl, John. I can take it."
"What I do is dangerous, Ellie. There's a lot of people like Sarim out there."
I took a long sip of tea. Set the cup back in its saucer. A moment later, John leaned across the table and laid his hand on top of mine. His voice was very gentle as he said, "Chances are, if you decide to keep helping me...you're gonna end up hurt or dead before you're thirty-five. Maybe even before you're thirty."
I wasn't sure what to say about that. I wasn't even sure what to think. I didn't want to think right now. Because thinking invariably led to me flashing back to the server room, and Sarim was there with a gun in my face, and oh my god if you hadn't raised the laptop in time and how the hell did it stop a fucking bullet and John just saved your life again and you're on your third life now and most people only get one and what did you ever do to deserve two second chances you selfish bitch?
"I'll think about it," I mumbled, pushing his hand away.
"We can talk about it later. Right now, we need to get you home. Is there anything you need from the apartment?"
"Robin's apartment?" I shrugged. "My original laptop hard drive...some clothes...nothing I can't get later."
"When you're finished with your tea, I'll drive you home."
I slid the cup away from me. Tea sloshed over the rim of the cup.
"Let's just go," I said.
Twenty minutes later, John eased the car into a parking space and cut the engine. Suddenly the world was quiet but for the soft gurgling of the radiator and the muffled hum of an amber streetlight overhead. I didn't want to stir from the comfortable seat, but I knew that sooner or later, I'd have to get out and walk the thirty feet to my apartment.
Or learn how to teleport.
Or have John carry me.
Before I could decide which choice was better—I rather liked the idea of having John to pick me up like a little girl and carry me to my apartment—John spoke up.
"Ellie," he said, "did the laptop hard drive get hit?"
"What?" I said. I looked down at the laptop. "Uh, no, it's—it's over here, see?" I pointed to the front-right corner of the laptop. "Unless it got fried by a short circuit or something, I think it's fine."
"The data on that drive could really help us figure out who Sarim was working for," John said.
"Take it." I dropped the laptop into his lap. He twitched. "I don't need it back. There's nothing I can salvage from it."
"I'm sorry, Ellie," he said. "You can keep the laptop we got you, if you want. Or I can buy you a better one."
"Thanks," I said. "But it won't be the same." Even as the words left my mouth, I was thinking: you just survived being shot at and you're moping about your laptop? Jesus Christ, what is wrong with you?
I sighed. "Sorry. It's just...I've had that laptop since I was twenty-two. It was my favorite one ever." Somewhere, I found the will to chuckle. "I used to tell my friends it was bulletproof, 'cause the case was so sturdy. Never thought I'd actually get to test it."
"I won't lie," John said. "You're lucky to be here."
"Twice lucky," I corrected him. "I'd really rather not think about the alternative right now." I paused, then pushed open my door.
John didn't carry me to the apartment, but he did walk me to my front door. The night air was frigid. My breath formed little clouds of steam that glittered briefly beneath the harsh exterior lights before dissipating into nothingness.
"I'll let you know about Sarim as soon as I find out more," John told me as I unlocked my front door. It was difficult. The key kept missing the lock. "You deserve to know. You did good today, Ellie. You helped get a very bad guy behind bars and you found a suspicious piece of hardware he planted at the ISP. Not bad for a day's work."
"Thanks," I mumbled. I opened the door and reached into the darkness, fumbled around for the light switch.
"We'll talk in a few days," John said. My fingers finally found the switch and my living room blossomed into illumination. "You can decide then if you're still willing to—"
"No." I put my hands on my hips. Tried getting in John's face, but that didn't work out too well since he was so much taller than me. Still, I tried, and I said, "Stop treating me like a helpless little girl, John. I'll decide right now: I'm helping you. I'm—I'm still alive, okay? I'd rather die trying to help people than waste my second life on some safe, boring office job. It's the least I can do."
"The least you can do for who?" John said. "Me?"
"It's 'for whom'," I said.
"I'm not the bookish one. You're avoiding the question."
I wasn't sure how to respond. Really, the answer was something I'd never tried putting into words. I thought about it for a while.
"It's the least I can do for—for everybody." I said. "'Cause most people don't get second chances, and I got two of 'em. Look, I'm not gonna talk about it anymore. I'm helping you even if it kills me for real. You got it?"
"Got it," John said. He patted me on the shoulder. "You sure you don't need anything from the other apartment?"
"No, I'm fine."
"I'll see you in a few days, then. Stay strong, Ellie." He squeezed my shoulder, turned, and ambled away.
"Hey, John?" I called. He stopped, turned around. I wanted to say something, something profound, something succinct that could express all the emotions swirling around my gut like a swarm of butterflies: gratitude, because my God, he saved your life again and how does he keep doing that and you owe him your life twice over now, there's no way you can pay off a debt like that, and you owe him everything including yourself, if only he'd just goddamn ask for you already; and fear, because really, he can decide to leave you high and dry if he wants, you'll never find him if he decides that you're not allowed to help anymore, and what on Earth would you do then? Go off and play vigilante all by your lonesome self? and even desire, because that hair, and those eyes, and that selfless compassion, even if he is kinda awkward in an endearing way, like a little boy, a little boy with guns, and what would Mama say if she found out you were eying some guy that's probably fifteen years older than you, no matter how handsome he is?
I stood there and tried to figure out what to say. In the end, I just said: "Thanks."
John smiled, just a tiny bit. He said, "You're welcome, Ellie," and then he walked away. I stared out into the darkness long after John had become one with the night.
For awhile, it was just me and the crickets. I stood there at the threshold, gazing down the sidewalk where John had disappeared. The chilly air penetrated my clothing, made me shiver, but it was a long time before I stepped inside. I locked the door behind me.
It was like the day John had first rescued me all over again. I felt like a stranger. Like I didn't belong here. I reached down to unbuckle my shoes and realized I was still wearing Robin's sneakers. All of a sudden they were too tight, and I wanted them off. I chucked them away. They hit the wall and landed next to the couch. The socks followed soon after. Like a tree in the wind, I swayed on my bare feet, clinging desperately to the carpet with my toes. I took a step, stumbled. Another step.
Tea, I thought, as Sarim's ghostly face hovered before my eyes, aiming his pistol right at my face. I need tea. It was an instinctive reaction: when stressed, drink tea. Never mind that my stomach was doing all sorts of awful things and I had just passed up on a free cup of decent black tea not a half-hour ago.
Sarim's voice whispered in my ear: I knew you were too curious from the moment I laid eyes on you. His finger tightened around the trigger.
Bile rose in my throat. I ran for the bathroom. Barely made it to the toilet before the remains of my dinner forced its way up and I retched, and retched, and retched. My hands gripped the toilet seat like a life preserver. I struggled to breath. The acidic stench of vomit stung my nose and eyes. Bile dripped from my mouth and even my nose.
"S-shit," I coughed, clutching my stomach with one hand. My eyes watered. I spat into the toilet and flushed it, but I was too weak to stand. I was fine staying down here on my knees for awhile, thanks. The bathroom floor was safe. It brought back memories of all the times Mama had knelt beside me when I'd gotten sick as a little girl: her warm hand on my back as I strained to cough up dregs of stomach acid and the remnants of whatever we'd had for dinner; a warm washcloth to clean my face and a cold washcloth to put on my forehead if I had a fever; cups of 7-up mixed with orange juice, a combination much more comforting than it sounded; chicken noodle soup...
Groaning, I used the toilet to lever myself up to the sink. Braced myself against the white tile counter to keep myself from sliding back to the floor. I wetted a washcloth and wiped away the last of the vomit from my face and chin. Brushed my teeth to rid my mouth of the horrible taste. I looked at my double in the mirror. There were deep, dark circles under her eyes and she looked like she hadn't slept in weeks, or maybe like she'd just been evacuated from a disaster zone. The cardigan hung askew off one shoulder and her blouse was disheveled. Her fingers trembled like a junkie in withdrawals and those eyes were wide, very wide.
"My God, Mama," I whispered to my double. Even in the silent bathroom, my voice was hard to hear. "What am I doing?"
Nobody answered me.
The last of the adrenaline evaporated. Like a car sputtering into a gas station on fumes alone, I somehow made to my bed. Collapsed on top of the sheets. Didn't even change out of Robin's clothes. I fell asleep within moments.
The nightmares came back that night—and they had reinforcements.
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John Reese arrived at the Library early the next morning toting his ubiquitous box of pastries. Her shrugged off his overcoat, hung it on the coat rack. As always, Finch sat before the nest of computer monitors, typing away at the keyboard like a pianist performing a particularly eloquent song. The ruined laptop sat on the desk to the right of the keyboard; the rack server from Connetrix was on the floor near Bear's doggie bed. One of the drive bays on the front of the server was open. A hard drive enclosure was balanced on top of one of the desktops and an indicator light on the front of the enclosure blinked rapidly.
Bear, tail wagging, leapt to his paws and scrambled forward to greet his Alpha.
"Good morning, Finch," said Reese. He scratched behind the dog's ears as he made his way to the desk. "Who's our newest number?"
"No one," Finch said. "Our docket is clear." An eyebrow quirked. "Must be the holiday spirit." He reached into the pastry box offered by Reese and browsed the selection of pastries within, passing over those that had been squashed or were otherwise imperfect before selecting a plain glazed doughnut. He took a large bite, chewed. "I'm examining the server you and Miss Ruben recovered from Connetrix last night. The hard drive is encrypted. I'm not certain we'll be able to get in, but I'll keep trying."
"What about the laptop?" Reese asked, motioning towards the battered device on the desk.
"Ah," Finch said. "As even an untrained layperson such as yourself can tell, the laptop was heavily damaged. Fortunately—"
Reese's phone rang. He pulled the phone out of his jacket pocket, glanced at the screen, tapped it once. The chime cut off mid-ring.
"Sorry," Reese said, pocketing the phone again.
"Was that Detective Carter?" Finch said.
"Yes."
"You should be aware that she called this morning and asked to speak with you. Demanded, really. She sounded quite angry. It is inadvisable to avoid her calls in a situation such as this, Mr. Reese."
"I'm aware. You were saying?"
Finch raised an eyebrow. "The laptop's hard drive survived due to its placement near the outer edge of the laptop. I was able to recover the data our Miss Ruben captured from the network before she was interrupted by Mr. Sarim. It appears as if the server was indeed analyzing all of the Connetrix customer traffic—including traffic generated by home DSL subscribers and business lines. The server was in communication with an IP address registered to a Lachesis Corporation via an encrypted tunnel. The business seems to be a shell, but so far, my research has turned up nothing on the parent company."
"Any idea why Lachesis was using the server?"
"None yet. I won't know much more unless we can crack the hard drive encryption."
Reese nodded and sat down next to his boss. He looked at the laptop. "Any way to repair it?" he asked.
"The laptop?" Finch sighed. "I'm afraid not, Mr. Reese. The bullets destroyed the CPU and GPU, not to mention the damage they caused to the motherboard and several other non-trivial components. It would be far easier to buy a new laptop. "
Reese nodded, leaned his head on his palm. "You know, Finch, I've never seen a laptop stop a bullet before." His voice turned playful. "Maybe this would be good body armor for you. You just strap on a few laptops and you're bulletproof."
Finch turned to glare at Reese. "Aside from the fact that you're suggesting a heinous misuse of computer hardware, it wouldn't work. Most laptops—including stock I60s—lack the reinforcements added by Miss Ruben."
"Reinforcements?"
Finch leaned forward with some difficulty, grasped the laptop with both hands, and showed it to Reese. He pointed to one of the bullet holes. "See the copper plate at the bottom of the hole?"
Reese looked. "Yeah. A lot of...powdery stuff in the way."
"That 'stuff' is the remnants of the GPU. But the GPU didn't stop the bullets—the plate did."
"And she added it?"
"It's a shim," Finch said. "The IFT I60s were originally designed such that there was a two-millimeter gap between the heatsink and the GPU. The specifications called for a thick pad of soft thermally-conductive material to fill the gap—but thermal compound isn't designed for gaps that thick, so the graphics chip often overheated. Our industrious Miss Ruben replaced the pad with a copper plate to better conduct the heat to the heatsink assembly."
Finch pointed to the other bullet hole, which seemed to be a little deeper. "The second bullet missed the shim, but it was caught by another modification made by Miss Ruben—a thin metal spacer between the top of the heatsink and the retaining clip that holds the assembly in place. With the assistance of a little thermal paste, it brings the heatsink into thermal contact with the underside of the keyboard, which is also metal and forms a primitive radiator. The bullet penetrated the spacer and the keyboard, but it was slowed enough for the LCD screen to do the rest."
Finch set the laptop back on the desk. Reese noted he still handled it like it was a functional computer and not a piece of scrap—old habits died hard, he supposed. Finch said, "The bullets hit the two most reinforced areas of the laptop, Mr. Reese. Our Miss Ruben is quite lucky to be alive."
"I have to say, Harold, it sounds like you know more about her laptop than she does."
Finch hesitated, then said, "Miss Ruben...described the modifications to me some time ago."
"Since when are you talking with Elizabeth?" Reese asked, his eyebrows climbing for the heavens.
"She doesn't know who I am," Finch said quickly. "We've...communicated from time to time via IRC. Anonymously, of course."
"Of course, Harold."
Finch appeared cross at the amusement on Reese's face. "She's a skilled programmer, Mr. Reese, not to mention a fledgling hacker. It would be remiss of me to not nurture her talents and provide her with a...moral role model."
"Sure, Harold."
"Mr. Reese, an individual with potential such as Miss Ruben has can easily be wooed by the anonymity and power provided by the Internet, especially while she is in the nascent stages of hacking. I fear that without proper guidance, Miss Ruben might one day travel down the same path that our poor Miss Groves—"
Reese's phone began to ring again.
"You should really answer that," Finch said.
"Carter is angry," Reese said, dismissing the call with a tap from this thumb.
"All the more reason to answer her."
"Later," Reese said.
"To be quite frank, I understand her transcendental rage. Elizabeth Ruben nearly died last night."
"Like I told Carter: nearly doesn't count."
"I highly suggest that you talk with Detective Carter before she makes good on her threats to shoot you."
"I will. Later."
Finch looked at Reese for a long time, his mouth in a tiny lopsided frown, before turning back to his computer.
"I'll pay for your funeral," he said.
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It was only a matter of time before Detective Carter cornered John Reese.
Two days after the Connetrix incident, Reese sat down at a booth near the back of an uptown diner. His phone rang as the waiter set a cup of coffee before him. Reese checked the caller ID to make sure it wasn't Carter, then answered.
"Hello, Shaw," Reese said. "What are you up to this fine morning?"
"I am enjoying not being in the crosshairs of Darth Carter," Shaw said. Her voice, though cool and detached, had a distinctly smug attitude about it. "Just so you know: Finch folded like the cheap suits you wear and gave Carter your location. Wise move—she's on a rampage and he likes not limping any more than he already does. If you make it back to HQ in one piece? Don't be too hard on him."
Reese sat up straight.
"Anyway...I just thought you might want to know that Carter is zeroing in on your location like a guided missile. She's kept Finch on the line for the past five minutes to keep him from calling you. By now, I'd say you have...oh...about fifteen seconds to run, but that's just delaying the inevitable. It's been nice knowing you. Don't worry, I'll take good care of Bear and all your guns. I've always wanted that Barrett."
Reese stood, but it was far, far too late for him to slip out the back entrance of the diner. Through the window, he could see Detective Carter storming towards the building. Her long black overcoat was unbuttoned, and it billowed out behind her like a cape as she moved. Her cell phone was pressed tight against her ear. She caught sight of Reese. Scowled. Pointed two fingers at her eyes, then at him. The message was clear: I see you. Don't you dare slip away.
"Shaw, I'll call you back," Reese said. He could've run—but Shaw was right; that move would've only delayed the inevitable and would make Carter even madder when she finally caught up to him. Best to weather the storm before it turned into a hurricane. So he sat down at the booth and waited.
He didn't have long to wait. Carter yanked open the front door, making the bell clatter in protest, and stalked towards Reese.
"Something wrong with your phone?" she said as she approached like a thunderstorm. "Dead battery, maybe? Or is your secret lair is a dead zone?"
"Good morning to you too, Detective," said Reese.
"Uh-uh." She waggled her finger as she slid into the seat opposite Reese. "Don't you start on that 'Detective' bullshit. You've been avoiding my calls for two days." She leveled the finger at him. "I told you we're gonna talk, and we're gonna talk. Right now. What the hell happened at that ISP?"
Reese knew from experience that the best policy in situations such as this was to tell the truth. He said, "Elizabeth was undercover—"
"Ah-ah-ah," Carter said. "See, that's issue number one. What was that girl even doing working for you?"
John turned his hands palm out and said, "We needed someone inside Connetrix, but Finch was busy with two other cases. Elizabeth had the skills and the knowledge to pull it off."
"Right, right." Carter nodded and rolled her eyes. "So you figured she could just program her way out of a bind when somebody shoved a gun in her face."
"Believe it or not, one time Finch hacked a surround audio system and used it as a distraction when—"
He fell silent as the waiter drifted over.
"Rachael sandwich, to go," Carter told the waiter. She pointed at Reese. "He's paying."
"I'm fine with coffee, thanks," said Reese, nodding to the waiter.
Carter waited until the waiter left before saying, "So you gonna tell me why somebody was shooting at your girlin a server room at ten o'clock at night?"
"We were gonna go in, grab some data, and go back out, but then Conkin started shooting at my two favorite detectives with an assault rifle." Reese tried his charming smile. It wasn't very effective.
"Flattery will get you jack shit," Carter said. "I had Fusco. You left that girl alone without any backup."
"I told her to go home, but she wanted to go through with it that night. For what it's worth, we didn't know Sarim was going to be there."
"We found ten casings, John. Ten."
"One of those was for me. Sarim shot out a light when we were fighting."
"It only takes one shot to kill someone! You are so, so lucky she doesn't have a scratch on her, otherwise I'd—I'd—God, John!"
"People are staring, Detective."
"Let 'em. It's a good thing there's so many witnesses. Otherwise? I'd be strangling you right now." Her glare was the approximate temperature of the surface of the Sun.
John looked away. Peered out the window.
"I made a mistake," he said softly.
Carter scoffed. "Sorry, my hearing aid is goin' bad. Could you speak up a bit?"
"It won't happen again," John said. There was no trace of sarcasm or humor in his voice—he meant it.
"You're damn right it won't," Carter said. "'Cause you're not pulling her in on any more cases. She's almost died, John. Twice." She jabbed the table with her finger. "You need to explain to that girl that just 'cause you saved her life, she doesn't owe you a debt."
"I've tried...she's stubborn."
"Then you need to be more stubborn. It's for her own good."
Reese's eyebrows rose fractionally. "Funny—I used that same line on her last night. She didn't take it very well. She really wants to help us, and not just for me—she was very specific about that."
Carter sighed and reached across the table, pulling Reese's coffee cup over to her.
"That's mine," Reese pointed out. He looked wounded.
"Not anymore, it ain't. You've given me so many gray hairs this week—I deserve a little extra caffeine."
"Caffeine raises your blood pressure—"
"Uh-uh," Carter mumbled into the cup, holding up a finger as she sipped Reese's coffee. "Don't wanna hear it." She set the cup down hard. "Look, John, I don't wanna have to watch the M.E. put Elizabeth in a body bag. Neither do you. So grow a damn backbone. You can handle the Russian mafia and cybercriminal syndicates—you can sure as hell handle Elizabeth."
Carter took another swig of her plundered coffee. The waiter returned bearing a brown paper bag that smelled of hot pastrami and grilled bread. Carter thanked the waiter, grabbed the bag, and stood.
"Don't forget to tip," she said to Reese, and then she walked off. The front door slammed behind her.
Reese exhaled long and slow. Counted to sixty. Tossed a twenty-dollar bill on the table, stood, adjusted his jacket, and sauntered towards the front door.
He had a few choice things to say to a certain middle-aged computer genius...
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