A Girl Named Digit (5 page)

I found myself driving west on Wilshire Boulevard, away from the Beverly Hills Police Department and the only safe place I knew. Creepy was now in the lane to the right of me, giving me a closed-mouth smile like he knew I’d just made the biggest mistake of my life. There were gravestones behind him, and I took that to be a bad omen. But then I remembered that the VA graveyard was across from the Federal Building and looked left to see the building looming in all of its windowless grandeur. A crowd of protesters paced outside with signs expressing outrage over lenient car emissions laws:
CHANGE THE LEADERS, KEEP THE CLIMATE.
Finally, some good guys. Did it make sense to stop here and give the FBI another chance? I didn’t see what other choice I had.

I ran a light and made a left-hand turn into the Federal Building’s parking garage. I was fully prepared to run down anything in my path until I saw the security checkpoint, complete with three Vin Diesel look-alikes and a metal arm that would have made my Volvo the first convertible of its kind. I skidded to a stop and turned around to see Creepy’s car stopped behind me. The security guys were coming to the driver’s side of my car. They’d never believe me and let me in. I’d be shot before I had a chance to explain. Now Creepy was getting out of his car too. I took off my seat belt, made a break for the passenger door, jumped out, and ran toward what I hoped would be the safety of a crowd of protesters.

They were packed into the allotted protesting spot, a long patch of grass that runs the length of the Federal Building, separating it from Wilshire Boulevard. They teetered precariously between being arrested for blocking access to the building on one side and falling off the curb into traffic on the other. They moved as a single unit, swaying with their signs of protest in nearly the same rhythm as the palm trees behind them. I bolted through the crowd’s membrane and entered another, louder dimension. I wedged myself between a huge man in a polar bear suit and an arguably larger woman. I craned my neck to read the polar bear’s sign:
HOT ENOUGH FOR YA?
The crowd shouted, “One Earth, One Chance, One Earth, One Chance!”

My drably colored clothes and my not-quite-average height were all I had going for me at this point. I scanned the crowd for Creepy until I saw his dark suit move through a gap between the swaying bodies. He teetered with the crowd, edging perilously—I hoped—close to Wilshire Boulevard. I nosed my face into the furry back of the polar bear and tried to figure out what to do next. Soon the crowd would disperse to go have a few drinks and mourn the ozone layer. I’d have nowhere to hide. I saw his suit struggling to move closer. It was being pushed left and right, up and down, to the rhythm of “One Earth, One Chance, One Earth, One Chance!” I knew how disoriented he must be, but in a minute he’d adapt. I gave my polar bear one last squeeze, took a deep breath, and sprinted from the back of the crowd into the garage of the Federal Building.

I can’t say for sure why I thought I’d be safe trapped in a dark parking garage, but I knew that they wouldn’t let Creepy in there and that my best chance of survival was to be arrested. I had to make sure I’d broken enough rules that the security guys wouldn’t just send me on my merry way.

With this idea at the core of my half-baked plan, I ran through the parking garage looking for something to smash or someone to kick in the shins. Any infraction would get me arrested for sure; wasn’t I already trespassing and evading security? To make sure, I did the following (for real): I started jumping up and down and making huge circles with my arms, cheerleader style. They saw me all right. It seemed I’d done enough to get cuffed and perp-marched into the building. Thank God.

Two of the security guys lost interest by the time we got into the garage entrance to the building. At five feet four and 115 pounds, I probably didn’t seem like a big flight risk. The remaining security guy put his index finger into the print reader for admittance, while never letting go of my left arm. Overkill, right? Where was I going to go with my arms cuffed behind me?

“Where are you taking me?” My heart was still racing from the chase.

“Intruder interrogation.”

When we got to the lobby, I immediately recognized the line of kooks waiting to report conspiracies. I knew just how they felt. I was led, cuffed, along this line, drawing the sympathy of everyone in line until I arrived at the front. It seemed I’d cut the line to the Fruitcake Room.

John Bennett sat behind his desk, nodding into the phone. “Yes, I’ll handle it. She sounds harmless, but I’ll exercise caution and . . . Okay, bye.” He put the phone down and started talking before he looked up. “Do you have any idea how serious an offense it is to . . .” He looked up and recognized me. A half smile crept onto his face. “You were here with your dad, Mr. Fawcett, was it?”

If I had a dime for every time I heard that one. “No, it’s Higgins. I’m Farrah Higgins.”

“Right, right. With the flashing-numbers conspiracy code. I remember now.”

Was I being mocked? To my face? Was that a slight smile or a slight smirk creeping up on the side of his mouth? The security guard uncuffed me, and I plopped down in the less than hospitable metal folding chair that he offered—Fruitcake Hot Seat. I took a deep breath and tried to compose myself enough to tell my story. But, against all of my better judgment and in spite of my desire to seem sane, I dropped my head into my hands and burst into tears. I couldn’t get it together. I hadn’t slept in three days, I was just in a high-speed chase (as high speed as L.A. traffic would allow, but still), someone wanted to kill me, and no one believed me. This went on for a few minutes. Nose running, the whole thing.

John Bennett got up and came to sit next to me in the other metal chair, hankie in hand. What guy outside of a Jane Austen novel keeps a real linen hankie in his pocket to offer to hysterical women?

“My mom always insisted. It’s sort of a habit.” Apparently, I’d said that last bit out loud.

“Thanks.” I took the hankie and wiped my eyes and nose. Here’s a situation that may be as outdated as the hankie itself: What do you do with the snotty hankie once you’re done? You have to give it back, but it’s disgusting. Do you hand him the hankie and risk smearing your boogers on him, or do you shove it in your pocket and promise to return it in a tiny little dry-cleaning bag?

“It’s okay; just put it on my desk.” Help! My internal dialogue had completely failed me! Why was I saying all this crazy stuff out loud? Deep breath.

“Listen, do you want to tell me why you broke into our parking garage? How old are you? Are you in high school?”

I felt about twelve. “I’m a senior at Samohi. I’m seventeen, almost eighteen. In June.” Usually when people are telling you they are almost something, it’s more like “I’m almost six and a half.”

“So you’re seventeen. Is this all about the secret flashing terror codes?” Mocking me again. Good, because I think more clearly when I’m pissed.

“Yes.” I just wanted to get up and leave. But I didn’t know who was going to be waiting for me when I got back to my car. Plus, I think I might have been under arrest or something. “And if you want me to explain why the codes were such an obvious message about the attack on JFK, I can do that.”

“I’m listening.” He leaned back in the metal chair and folded his arms in a this-ought-to-be-good sort of way.

I was hoping he’d just take my word for it. I wasn’t really in my comfort zone, and I couldn’t remember the last time I’d talked about numbers with anyone but my dad. Talking about them with normal people always ended up being a little isolating. It’s as if they hear me out and then slowly back away, like I was holding a gun instead of a pencil. I just wasn’t in the mood to have that experience with this guy who already thought I was a freak.

“There are a whole lot of people out there waiting to regale me with conspiracies. And you are potentially in a whole lot of trouble. So I’d take the chance to explain it, if you can.”

If I can? That got me going. “All right. The network broadcast three sets of numbers over three Tuesday nights. They were 55431, then 23185, then 3211911, making the number sequence all together 55431231853211911.” I looked up at him to see how glazed over he was. He was still listening, dark eyes focused and eyebrows furrowed a bit.

“How do you even remember all those numbers?”

“I have a thing for math. Want me to write this down?” He slid me a sheet of paper and handed me a pen from his jacket pocket. It was inscribed
PRINCETON ALUMNI
. Not bad. I started writing the numbers by memory. “Got it?”

“I guess. So what?”

“So let’s separate out the last three numbers, 911. And then let’s reverse the remaining first fourteen numbers: 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21, 34, 55. Anything?”

“Is this the Liberace thing? I wasn’t really . . .”

“ . . . paying attention? I could tell. It’s Fibonacci. In a Fibonacci sequence, each number is the sum of the two numbers before it: 1 + 1 is 2, 1 + 2 is 3, 2 + 3 is 5. So it’s a reverse Fibonacci sequence, followed by 911. At first I thought it had something to do with 9/11, but it’s so deliberately a reverse that I looked into 11/9, which happens to be the day that JFK was elected. A long shot, right? But then JFK was bombed the next day.” I looked up, braced for John’s reaction.

He was looking at me, working the half smile. There was no mockery on his face, just sort of admiration and enjoyment. It was a little the way my dad looks at me at moments of mathematical revelation but different somehow. “So you’re a genius.” It wasn’t a question. “Named Farrah.”

“Something like that.” I felt a little empowered by the recognition. What did I care what he thought, anyway? “I have a gift for math and patterns and puzzles. I had a perfect score on the math SAT, the math subject test, and the AP Calculus exam, and I had the highest score in the country on the National Gifted Math Students Exam. I’m going to MIT in the fall.” There. I said it. And it hung in the air for too long for my liking, so I went on. “After you were of so little help on Thursday, I decided that I needed to investigate myself. I went to KPOP, the local station that broadcasts the show, to see what I could find out. I went all the way to Anaheim and found out very little except that the guy who presumably runs the station is incredibly creepy. I guess I asked too many questions when I was there because when I left he chased me all the way here. Which could not be a coincidence.”

“In his car?”

No, on a secret terrorist witch’s broom. “Yes, in a 2007 Chevy Impala, white.” And your shoulders look really good in that crisp white shirt. I checked his face for shock. Nothing. My internal monologue seemed to be cooperating again. “You can see him on the security tapes from the parking garage. You do have security cameras, right?”

He smiled, both sides of his mouth up now. Was this guy too old to be cute? I mean cute in a nerdy-wasn’t-cute-at-the-beginning-of-the-movie-but-was-super-hot-by-the-endsort of way? Maybe it was just the fact that he was listening to me. All patience, he said, “Okay. Let’s go check out the security tapes and see if we can identify your broadcast bomber.”

The mocking was back, but it felt like progress. John escorted me out of his office. I say “escorted” because it is rare that a man opens the door and guides you gently by the elbow to where he wants you to go—I’d gone into the FBI and stumbled upon Mr. Darcy. We walked down a long hall into the security room. It was no bigger than a walk-in closet with twelve televisions on the long wall and a guy who looked like he stared at screens for a living.

“Ken, may we have the parking garage security tape for the hour ending 1300 hours?”

“Sure, you want to watch that crazy hottie running wild past security? I love it, thinking I’d put it on YouTube if it wouldn’t get me fired.” Apparently he did not see me standing behind John.

John laughed and stepped aside, with a dramatic wave of his arm. “Ken, I’d like you to meet Crazy Hottie, of security film fame.”

I waved, eyes down. We took the tape and went back to his office to watch it. I guess the good news is that not much happens in the parking garage of the Federal Building. It didn’t take much fast-forwarding to come across my performance.

John smiled and shook his head. “What were you trying to do?”

“I was trying to get arrested, okay? Now rewind to before I got into the garage. You have to see the guy behind me. That’s him. Zoom in on his face—can you do that?”

“Yes, I can do that,” he said patiently. “There he is. You’re right—he does look creepy.”

“Right? Is he a known terrorist? Is he on the Most Wanted list?”

“I have no clue who he is.”

“Are you kidding me? Don’t you have a database of photographs of known operatives in the L.A. area? Can’t you scan his face and come up with a match?”

“
CSI
fan?”

“Never miss it. Miami and Vegas.”

I had a feeling that either John had nothing else to do (which was unlikely given the length of the Fruitcake Line outside his door), or he thought this was a fun diversion.

We printed out Creepy’s face and went up three flights to what passed for their CSI lab. It differed from TV in two major ways: first, it was populated by both attractive
and
unattractive people and, second, the lights were on. All the way.

John took our photo and scanned it into one of the workstations, typed some stuff in, and said, “Now we wait. This could take a while. Our system has over one million . . .”
Beep.
A match.

And there it was—a profile shot of Creepy, right next to the parking garage shot.

“Jonas Furnis.” John was staring, stunned, at the screen. “Time to call my boss.”

John pulled out his phone to arrange for someone to cover the Fruitcake Room. Then he called his boss and asked if he could meet with him urgently.

Now this was the attention I’d been waiting for. He definitely believed me, and I was definitely thrown a little off-kilter by it. We took a third elevator bank, more fingerprint reading, to get to the boss’s office.