Palm Sunday (2 page)

He walked to the foot of the bed, picked up his chart, and tore out all the pages with any writing on them, stuffing them into his pockets. Then, gathering up the rest of his meager belongings, Robert Slocum simply walked out of the hospital.

“It doesn’t add up.”

“You keep saying that, but I think the evidence proves otherwise.”

The pair of psychologists had been at it for an hour. The slim, forty-year-old Japanese woman had been with the agency nearly since its inception fifteen years earlier. She knew they were moving ahead too fast, but her opinion was a minority view. Her adversary, a staunch proponent of societal profiling, seemed cocksure, unwavering in his belief in his own theories.

“You want to know why it doesn’t add up?” Kayoko was soft-spoken, but firm. Her accent could be both charming and infuriating at the same time.

“I suppose you’re going to tell me.” Tom Snelling stood with his arms crossed, towering over the diminutive Kayoko.

“Yes, I’ll tell you. It’s because you can’t extend individual psychological precepts to the societal level. At least not with the degree of certainty you claim.”

“That’s not what we’re doing. SP is an entirely new science, that…”

“Eh, new science. What you call societal profiling is no science at all. And what you are doing is irresponsible.” She glared at him. To her, psychology was a thing to be used for helping individuals, using tried and proven techniques. She accepted the theoretical basis for monitoring societal patterns, up to a point, but Snelling seemed intent on labeling theories as facts. That, as she said, was not science.

“Listen, Kayoko. I know we have our differences. But the fact is, this project is going ahead whether you like it or not.”

That much, she knew, was true. Before the advent of the Internet the project had languished, prone to failure as one effort after another ran into the same brick wall–insufficient data. Oh, they had a lot of data, but it was out of date almost as soon as it was ready for analysis, and it was the wrong type of data, anyway. Now things were different, and while Kayoko believed in what the agency was trying to do, and supported moving forward, the scientist in her demanded that the approach be validated. She couldn’t help but think that she herself was becoming one of the few remaining controls.

“Tom, I just don’t have time for these silly games. You’ll have your report in the morning, and the numbers will speak for themselves.”

“Good. Just remember, we’re on the same team, right?”

“Yeah, right.” She turned and left his office.

When she had gone, Snelling picked up his phone and dialed a four-digit extension. Charles Mason, the agency’s stern, fifty-year-old Director, answered immediately. Mason was the sort who loved to play the role of benevolent overseer, viewing himself as more of a father figure than a corporate leader. This self-assessment was mostly delusional, however. There were few under his authority that didn’t outright fear him.

“Good morning, Snelling,” said Mason. “What’s up?”

Snelling hated the little displays on the phone that showed the identity of the caller. He felt it degraded what little control he had.

“Hello, Mr. Mason. I just wanted to let you know that I spoke with Kayoko, and the preliminary calculations for the new quotient indicators will be ready tomorrow.”

“Anything else?”

“No, that’s it. Well, maybe one other thing. Kayoko’s not happy. I think she has a problem with how fast things are moving.”

Mason paused for a moment, weighing his words carefully. “Nothing has changed as far as our basic mission is concerned. Only the tools have improved.”

“I know, I know. It’s just that, well, she’s an integral part of the team, and…”

“At this point just let her do her job. Numbers are numbers, right?”

“She is good at what she does,” said Snelling.

“And as long as she gets results that move the project forward, I’m happy.” The way that Mason said ‘I’m’ left little doubt that the issue had been settled.

Snelling quickly changed the subject. “Have you heard anything from the computer department about the raw data?”

“They say we’re close,” replied Mason. “Internet traffic hasn’t shown any sign of leveling off, but the overall percentages aren’t what we’d like to see yet. It’s your formula, what do you think?”

Snelling was noncommittal. “The amount of input from the Net seems satisfactory, but it takes time to sift through the volumes we’re dealing with. A lot of what we get is unusable.”

“The geek unit tells me the same thing.” Mason derided anyone who knew more than he did, and his computer people were eons ahead of him  “I tried explaining that…hold on, my secretary’s buzzing me on the other line.”

“That’s okay, I have to go,” said Snelling. “See you at the meeting Tuesday.”

Mason pressed a button on his telephone’s control panel. “Yes, what is it?”

“You have a call from Mr. Pampas,” said his secretary. “He says it’s urgent.”

“I’ll take it.” The line briefly went dead, and a moment later George Pampas, the barrel-chested head of security, was put through.

“I’m sorry to bother you, Mr. Mason, but we have a situation with one of the implementers–Robert Slocum. Apparently he was mugged.”

“Where is he now, is he okay?”

“He’s fine. He’s in a phone booth near a burger joint.” Pampas paused for a moment. “He missed his appointment Thursday night.”

Mason let a silent moment pass. “That’s not good, George. We pay him to keep appointments, not miss them.” He paused again. “We’ll just have to reschedule. Get him some money and whatever else he needs to replace what was lost. When can he meet with the client?”

“Well, sir, that brings up another dilemma.” The grimace on Pampas’s face was almost audible.

“Which is?”

“It’s his palmtop. It’s missing.”

A cold silence followed. When Mason responded, his voice was icy.

“That’s not acceptable.”

“Whoever cracked him over the head must have taken it. But don’t worry, it’s locked down in full secure mode.”

“Don’t tell me what to worry about.” Mason could feel his neck getting hot with anger. “I don’t have the people available to clean up after him, so he’s going to have to do it himself. There will be no further appointments for Mr. Slocum for the time being. As of now, his only mission is to recover his palm unit. Do so, and he’s back on the team. Fail, and he’ll become someone else’s client. Do we understand each other?”

“Yes, sir. Perfectly,” said Pampas.

“Is he still on the other line?”

“Yes.”

“Have him stay on while we back trace his location. Tell him a car will arrive within the hour.”

It was Saturday morning. Stanley Whipple looked curiously at the palmtop. He had spent the better part of an hour trying to figure it out the night before, with no success. It didn’t seem to be broken, yet he was unable to access any data, or even get past the menu system. He only wanted a clue as to the owner’s identity so he could return the device, but the exercise was becoming intriguingly annoying. He turned it over yet again and examined the electronic interface on the back of the unit. Not a standard connection.

“Hey Bobby.” He yelled loud enough for his son to hear him in his room. Within moments the sound of running feet echoed downstairs.

“Yeah, Dad?”

“Wanna go to the mall? I have to buy a cable.”

“Sure. Right now?”

“I think so. On the way back we’ll stop for take out. Sound good?”

“Yeah!”

The two grabbed their jackets and piled into the Chevy. It was typical Stanley–functional, but not ostentatious, the perfect blend of dependability and obscurity. Before leaving, Stanley grabbed the palmtop and put it in his coat pocket. He wanted to make sure he got the right cable. Twenty minutes later they arrived at the mall and were walking towards the electronics boutique, situated in an alcove at the far end of a long corridor. Stanley thought he detected the faint sound of music.

“You hear something?”

“Yeah,” said Bobby. “Sounds like it’s coming from up ahead.” As they drew closer, the music grew louder. It was a bagpipe concert, one of the many functions put on by mall management to attract shoppers.

“Let’s watch for a while,” suggested Stanley. He loved the pipes.

They moved up close to the platform in the central pavilion where a group of eleven pipers in full Highland garb stood in a circle, belting out a series of Celtic tunes. Stanley was lost in the memories that came flooding back, of a different time, another place, when he and his future wife were in college. The school had boasted a large contingent of bagpipe players, and there had been frequent performances. The music was a bittersweet reminder. After several songs, Stanley motioned to Bobby, and the two continued on to the electronics store, the sound of the pipers fading behind them.

The store was crowded, mostly with customers interested in cell phones. Stanley knew the store manager and showed him what he needed. It was a custom job, but the manager assured him that his technician could have a cable ready in about an hour, so Stanley left the palmtop at the store, and poked around the mall with Bobby. They returned a short while later and picked up the cable and palmtop. As they pulled out from the mall parking lot Stanley glanced at his son.

“Shall we stick with burgers, or are tacos more to your liking this afternoon?”

“Burgers.”

“Drive thru okay with you?”

“Sure, Dad.”

Five minutes later they pulled into a nearby fast food restaurant. Several cars waited at the drive thru ahead of them.

“What’ll it be?” asked Stanley.

“Cheeseburger, fries, chocolate shake.”

“Same as always, huh?”

“Yep.” Bobby smiled. He liked spending time with his dad, and the burgers were a bonus. The car moved as the line inched forward, and at last they paid for their order and pulled up to the pick up window. The familiar smell of fast food permeated the interior of the Chevy as they pulled out of the parking lot and turned right.

Perhaps it was the smell of the food that distracted him, or the riddle of the palmtop that occupied his mind. In any event, Stanley nearly pulled out in front of a car, causing its brakes to squeal and its driver to salute him with a most unkind gesture.

Across the street, next to a phone booth, Robert Slocum saw the entire incident. Bony-nosed Stanley Whipple, with his dark-rimmed glasses, would stand out in any crowd. To a man who prided himself on his ability to recall detail, it was a photograph. Without thinking about it, Slocum took a mental snapshot. Then both cars were gone, and one more small drama in a world filled with big events had passed.

Stanley had no problem connecting the palmtop to his PC, but now he stared into the display at something that baffled him. The handheld device had successfully linked up with his computer, but the numbers and symbols that flashed by weren’t in any file format that he was familiar with. He checked the cable connections both at the palmtop and the back of his computer. Everything seemed fine. The data stream from the palm unit was intact–it just didn’t make sense. Then the screen suddenly stopped displaying the cryptic symbols; end of file.

“Hmm…”

Stanley opened an edit session on his computer and scanned the lines one by one. Guessing that it was an encrypted text file, he opened a command window and launched a program to process the downloaded file. It ran for about ten minutes, applying a substitution algorithm to the jumbled characters. In the end, two words were displayed. One of them was nonsense, evidence of an apparently confused spell-checking subroutine.

The second was at least recognizable–florida, all in lower case. Stanley looked again at the first word. Pascua. Pascua florida. Was it a place, a town in Florida? He quickly logged on to the Internet and brought up an interactive map. The name Pascua, in Florida, returned nothing. That left him with Florida, a big state, and pretty far away, and he still had no name to put with it. A name! That was it! Pascua must be the name of a person. He switched to an Internet person finder utility and entered the name Pascua, location, Florida. The browser hesitated, refreshed, and displayed the first of over two hundred names. He tried his own city. Three names. He printed out the list and was about to disconnect the palmtop when Bobby walked into the room.

“Hey, kiddo. I Think I have a clue who might own this.” Stanley nodded towards the black device.

“Great, Dad. I’ll be outside.”

“Don’t go far. I’m going to call around and see if any of the people on my list lost the palmtop. We may be taking a ride.” Stanley was caught up in the excitement of the chase, and failed to note Bobby’s lack of enthusiasm.

The boy simply nodded and went outside to loaf around the yard while his father made the phone calls. Ten minutes later Stanley called out the back door.

“Never mind, Bobby. Total dead end. I’m not giving up though.” He smiled at his son.

“Yeah, that’s nice.” Bobby looked at the ground as he trudged around the yard. He wished he’d never found the stupid palm thing. He stopped and looked up, a smile forming on his face as an idea came to him. He glanced at the house, then towards the highway where he had found the palmtop. He knew what he had to do.

It was Monday, so the bar was nearly empty when Robert Slocum sauntered up to the counter and ordered a beer. The bartender drew a mug from the tap and placed it in front of him.

Slocum took a sip before speaking. “I was in here late Thursday night, around midnight.”

The bartender wiped off the counter top and put away some glasses. “Lots of people were in that night.” He didn’t look up.

“Yeah, but most of them didn’t get mugged when they walked out the front door.”

The bartender stopped wiping. “You got mugged?”

“Whacked on the back of the head and robbed. I guess you’d call that a mugging.”

“Sorry to hear that. You tell the cops?”

Slocum shook his head. “Didn’t want to involve them. But I do want to find out who did it.” He looked meaningfully at the bartender.