Cold Case

David had programs to crack his way in — some of them donated by Leif Anderson.

“How’s it going?” Megan asked, watching a hail of strange characters scroll down the system’s holographic display.

“This stuff is encrypted, so I’m just piping it into my laptop,” he said. “Decoding it is going to take some time — but I bet I’ll be able to crack it on my system back home.”

David gestured to the computer in front of them. “Nothing in here is what you’d call cutting edge.” He grinned. “I’m betting it will be the same with his security.”

“If Hard-Knocks Harry’s system is so rickety, how did he get away with his hacking?” Matt asked.

“Two words come to mind,” David said. “Sheer luck.” He pointed again at the hodgepodge of circuits. “I think that when he cobbled this together it gave Mr. Knox a totally unfounded sense of confidence — he began branching out.”

“Until he began jangling somebody’s alarms. Hey!” Megan said, pointing to the display. “Now we’re getting pictures.”

David took a squint at the title of the file. “Oh, yeah. The Cowper’s Bluff Nature Preserve of Chesapeake Bay. There’s a whole bunch of files about this place. This is a public promo.”

Megan frowned. “Was he thinking of taking a vacation there?”

David shook his head. “Almost nobody gets in. It’s a wildlife sanctuary.”

“But he has a bunch of files about it.” Matt repeated. “I hope you’re getting copies.”

“If I copy them, the question will be what don’t we take,” David complained. “This guy stored data the way squirrels store nuts. He’s got stuff from public-access Net sites — everything from P.R. handouts to nonsensical conspiracy theories, jumbled in cheek by jowl with encrypted data he stole but couldn’t translate. And stuck in between, like raisins in an oatmeal cookie, nuggets of court records, police memos, and who knows what else?”

By the time Mrs. Knox and the kids turned up — two and a half hours later — Megan and her friends had printed out the records and saved them to datascrips, as well as putting the home system back online, and the family financial records in a format that made sense.

They also had their laptop computer and a bunch of datascrips filled with as much of Harry Knox’s mishmash of data and misinformation as seemed relevant — and in David’s opinion, a lot that wasn’t.

Mrs. Knox had tears of gratitude in her eyes as they left. Megan felt an uncomfortable mix of emotions. On the one side, she was sorry for a woman who found herself in such a terrible position. But how could the woman live in such — such ignorance? And how had she let herself get in that position, where both she and her children were at risk because of technology she didn’t understand?

Megan didn’t say a word all the way to the autobus stop.

They had a bit of a wait — the Saturday schedule was much more limited than on weekdays. Even though the automated vehicles didn’t require drivers, they did need maintenance. Most of it was taken care of on weekends.

At last the right autobus came up. They were all ready with their universal credit cards to flag the vehicle down, slipping them in the slot by the entrance door to pay their fare.

The autobus was empty — again, not a surprise. This wasn’t a route that led to a mall or amusement center, so Saturday afternoon ridership would be sparse.

“Well, we’ve got our pick of seats,” Megan said, moving along the bus aisle. She waited till David picked a seat, dropping into the one behind him. Matt chose the seat in front. It was the sunnier side of the bus, offering a little more watery, winter sunlight.

As Megan expected, David fired up his laptop as soon as he was seated. “I still think we’ve got the equivalent of Hard-Knocks Harry’s junk-mail file,” he complained, bringing up another view of the bird sanctuary. It showed a reedy inlet as seen from the top of a hill or cliff over-looking an expanse of water.

“There’s nothing to connect birdland here with the Callivants,” David went on.

Matt shook his head. “The preserve is on the Chesapeake. Where?”

David brought up some flowery text.

“There,” Megan said, pointing at a map. “It’s in Maryland.”

Matt, however, pointed to another part of the display. “But the foundation that supports it is headquartered in Delaware. What a surprise! Haddington, Delaware.”

“Silly me,” David grumped. “Of course! This is where they buried the body. But wait! The body wasn’t buried. It was found — about forty years ago!”

Megan looked out the window to ignore David’s sarcasm. That’s why she saw the black car with tinted windows that pulled up beside them — so close, it almost sideswiped the autobus. The rear window was open, but she didn’t see a face. Instead, Megan saw a pair of hands — actually a pair of shiny black gloves — holding up a complicated-looking metal grid. Some sort of antenna assembly?

“Whoa!” Matt called out as the autobus swerved slightly, trying to maintain a safe distance from the car. “Crazy drivers—” he began.

His words were cut off by the sudden scream of the autobus’s turbine engine. The vehicle lurched ahead, pressing Megan and her friends back against their seats while it cut off a car to the right.

These buggies aren’t supposed to do that, Megan thought in surprise. And they’re certainly not supposed to go this fast. What—?

Matt took the words right out of her brain. “What the frack is going on?” he shouted.

15

How many times, running a bit behind schedule, had Matt sat in an autobus seat, alternating anxious glances at his watch with silent curses at the vehicle’s maddeningly slow speed? The metropolitan autobus system had a national reputation for dependability, safety…and a speed that made turtles look swift in comparison.

Just my luck, Matt thought as he clutched for the metal handle on the seat in front of him. Now I wind up on the one autobus trying out for the stock-car racing circuit!

The autobus was careening madly along the six-lane boulevard, muscling other vehicles out of the way as if it suddenly believed it was a stock car. So far the bus was maintaining its programmed route, but even as Matt watched, the bus roared past a stop where people had been attempting to flag it down.

What are they, nuts? he wondered. This thing’s clearly not doing what it’s programmed to do!

If anything, the computer running the bus seemed to be increasing its road rage. Brakes squealed and horns uselessly sounded as the vehicle cut through traffic even more aggressively. Then came a screech that put Matt’s teeth on edge. Metal against metal — a car scraping its way along the side of the bus. The impact sent the bus shuddering up on two wheels. And when it bounced down, Matt and his friends had to fight to keep from flying.

That left David at a disability — he had too much stuff to hang on to. The bump left his cane skittering one way while his laptop took off in another. David, of course, went to rescue his computer, reaching out with both hands.

Right then the autobus jarred its way through a lane change. Matt and Megan were just jostled. David caught his computer, but he didn’t have a grip on anything to hold himself in place. He went tumbling from his seat, still clutching the laptop.

Matt launched himself into the aisle, one hand clenched on the tubular seat grip, the other outstretched to snag David’s arm as he hurtled by.

The good news was that Matt managed to catch David. The bad news was that the autobus lurched round on a new tack, spinning both boys around in the aisle.

David didn’t cry out, but Matt heard a wheeze of pain hiss from between his friend’s clenched teeth as he landed on his bad leg. Then Matt wasn’t hearing much of anything. The edge of his forehead smashed against a pole set in the aisle. It was supposed to offer a grip for standees during rush hour. But for someone flailing around in a near-empty bus, it was a disaster.