Signwave (13 page)

Everything merges together. Digging core truth out of the mess that's left, who could do that?

There may not be totally trustworthy truth in anything. It feels more and more like that all the time. But there are universal truths, and I'd learned many of them before I was even old enough to want a woman.

—

I
realized I wasn't seeking the whole truth, just looking for a path to a piece of it.

So I went to the library.

The reason people around here look at
Undercurrents
is that the newspaper prints only what it is told, not what it discovers. But I saw enough to see that Benton was an important man. A wealthy one, too.

What the newspaper also told me was that he was a homosexual. Not from this “reading between the lines” things people claim to be able to do, but from his own public statements. When he was interviewed for a “profile,” he'd been quite clear about that. Not only did he live with his “life partner,” he was a big supporter of same-sex marriage, and had donated considerable amounts to the effort to make it a federal law.

That hadn't happened yet; it was still a state-by-state decision when that interview had been done. So he also contributed to the campaign to get the same benefits for a “life partner” as for a spouse: health insurance, Social Security, the right to inherit if one party died without a will.

“The way the law is written now is insane,” the paper quoted him. “A
single
gay man or a
single
lesbian can adopt a child. That is, a single
half
of a family unit. The other half of that family unit is going to do his or her share of parenting, from changing diapers to helping with homework. But if the parties ever decide to separate, for any reason, only the one whose name is on the certificate has
any
rights.

“He or she could even bar
visitation
with the child, and the courts would not intervene. Don't we have enough children rotting away their lives in foster care, moved from place to place like furniture? Don't they deserve parents?”

“Is that why you and your partner have never adopted?” the interviewer read her question from the sheet her editor
would have told her not to deviate from—the one Benton would have memorized.

“No,” he had responded. “We intend to do so as soon as we can be legally married. And, yes, I know: we could simply drive up to Seattle. But we both believe this would be morally wrong. We live
here
, we expect to spend the rest of our lives here. And we would rather stand our ground and fight than run away.”

All the right words, in the right places. Most of those benefits he wanted made sense to me, but I had to read the parts about “the right to sue for wrongful death” and “loss of consortium” a couple of times before I felt I understood everything he was talking about.

When I did, I was even more grateful that Dolly had married me. She owns everything on paper, but until I read what Benton was fighting for, I never realized all the advantages. Not taxes—that wasn't something that mattered. But I
really
liked thinking about how a plane crash or a drunken driver could put some money in my wife's hands. It would be like I was leaving her something in a will I'd never write.

Benton was also a major backer of what the paper called “the arts.” Everything from bringing in authors from out of town to speak at the library, to the huge art center where they put on plays and had exhibits of paintings. Only residents could display their art: sculptures, blown-glass creations, all kinds of stuff. Each one with a price tag, in case anyone wanted to buy it.

Benton's checkbook was always open, and always to the right page.

Everyone took it for granted that he didn't have to work. Nobody seemed to resent that. In fact, just as the paper said, the town was proud a man like him had chosen our village as his home.

—

I
'm usually someplace else when Dolly and her girls are working on their projects, even if “someplace else” is my basement.

But when I got back from the library, I had to navigate the whole gang of them. Dolly gave me a “keep walking” look. Rascal did a quick inspection to see if I had any rawhide to bribe him; when I didn't, he walked over to where Dolly was sitting and stretched out at her feet.

I would have kept going all the way to the basement, but the voice of one of the girls cut through the separating wall like it was looking for me.

“Look! That evil little crowd, you see what they're doing?”

“I don't get it,” a young woman said. I recognized MaryLou's harsh voice. I hadn't seen her when I came through the kitchen, but I hadn't been looking around. Anytime I had to come in while they were all doing something, I did it that way. Nothing dramatic, but enough to deliver the message: I wasn't interested in checking them out so I wasn't worth their attention.

“Are you for real?” another girl snapped. “Look at her Facebook page. Look! It wasn't enough for them to post messages that she was a pig. And a slut who'd do anyone for free. Now they're saying if she had any school spirit she'd hang herself—that'd make a great yearbook photo.”

“I saw it,” MaryLou answered. “What I don't get is why she lets them do it.”

“How
could
she?” Dolly echoed MaryLou. “Can't you, I don't know, ‘un-friend' someone? Or block them off your page?”

“That wouldn't make a difference,” another girl said. “They'd just make up new names for themselves. They can tag her, too—every time her name gets typed in, it shows up on her page.”

“So why
have
a damn page?” MaryLou said. “What does she get out of it? Why would she even look at it?”

“Not have a Facebook page?” another girl said, as if such a thing were beyond imagination. “That's like telling the world that you don't have a single friend.”

“That's pathetic,” MaryLou said, disdain coating her words. “But even if you're
that
pitiful, why not just let it sit there? Why
look
at it all the damn time?”

The big room went silent.

Maybe none of them had an answer. Or all of them remembered that MaryLou was a killer. She might not have been convicted, but the boy she shot wasn't coming back to complain about that.

There was a tentative little tap on the door, like whoever was there wasn't sure they'd be welcome.

“What?” MaryLou's voice—it sounded like she'd been taking elocution lessons from Spyros. I looked at the mirror I keep mounted in the corner before the hall to the basement steps. MaryLou was at the door. I couldn't see who she was talking to.

“I wanted to talk to Dolly. I heard you could—”

“You ‘heard'?”

“It's okay, MaryLou,” Dolly said.

As Mary Lou moved closer to me, a girl stepped gingerly past us. All I could see was that she was stringy-haired and fat—in youth culture, chum to always-circling sharks.

—

“T
hey know me,” the girl said. “I don't mean we're friends or anything, but…I guess I think
everyone
knows me now.”

“I recognized your picture,” one of the girls said. “From Facebook. You're—”

“Petunia,” the girl said, her voice already breaking around the edges. “You know, the one they all call ‘Tuna.' ”

“That's enough!” Dolly growled. Rascal growled, too. He
couldn't tell what was making Dolly angry, but, whatever it was, he was ready to nail it.

It was quiet for a couple of seconds.

“Come over here,” MaryLou said, her voice still hard, but a comforting kind of hard. “Sit down next to me.”

I heard some noises, people moving around.

“I don't know what to do…,” the girl was saying as I turned away from the mirror and headed for my basement.

—

T
his time, the ghost was waiting. Not the ghost himself, just the trail signs he'd left before he vaporized.

When I assembled the machine, there it was:

|; 2004 +9; 2004 +4/-5; 2006 +4; 2007 <>; 2008 +1; 2009 +1/-4; 2010 -20. 2011–2014 <>As of 1/2015, 22 currently cleared.>|

I moved quickly, eye-scrolling.
Undercurrents
had grown, but it wasn't a linear process; some years, more members were removed than added. High was forty-five members in 2008, housecleaning started the next year; it had been pared down since then, and was now seven less than when started. No indication as to why members were removed or added.

It kind of
felt
like it was all young people to me, but if this “Originator” was an old-school investigative reporter, then
maybe more like a classroom than a collective. A course you could take for life, and flunk out of at any time.

|>ID on 1 added 2009?<|

—

B
y the time I went back upstairs, everyone was gone, with only the glow of Dolly's tablet breaking the darkness.

I sat down next to her, waiting for her face to stop scrunching from concentration. When it did, I asked her, “How do you get something to the people at
Undercurrents
?”

“Me, personally?”

“Isn't it the same for everyone?”

“You mean, like, do I have a private contact there?”

“Yeah.”

“No, Dell. Remember what I showed you? You just tap Confidential, then Info or Investigations. Anyone can do it.”

“Do you have to give your own identity?”

“They don't
want
you to do that.”

“But those…‘cookie' things? Wouldn't they…?”

“You don't have to allow cookies. I told you—you can even run script blockers, or go through one of those anonymizer services. They don't care.”

“Huh!” is all I said. I wasn't any computer genius, but the ghost was way above anything most people could even imagine. And if he could get into their main server, he must be able to…

—

I
t only took me a few minutes to snap the machine back into place. Even less to ask the ghost what I thought I already knew the answer to.

|>Does using ‘confidential' button to send info ID sender?<|

I climbed into the charcoal jumpsuit, grabbed my helmet and gloves, and went back upstairs.

“Won't take long” is all I said to Dolly. She'd known from what I was wearing that I'd be wheeling my motorcycle out of the enclosed space behind the garage.

—

“D
ell, is everything okay?”

“Why wouldn't it be?”

“It's almost three in the morning, baby. You come up here, see me working, sit there, patient like you always are, ask me a couple of questions I've already answered, go back down to your basement, and
now
you're going out?”

“There's something I want to look at.”

Dolly gave me a look, but she didn't say anything—she knows I don't need daylight to see things.

—

I
rolled the motorcycle to the road, made sure it was in neutral, and let it go. I had to brake it pretty hard as I neared the bottom of the hill. Then I unclenched my left hand to pop the clutch in second gear, sparking the bike to life.

It didn't make much noise. It wasn't fast, either. But it was good for what I wanted—no cop would give a rider wearing a helmet, faceplate, and gloves a second look.

I guess Benton could afford any house he wanted, especially around here. And no gated community would fit a man building the public profile he'd been working on. So it was easy enough to glide by and pick up some intel.

Good-sized house, but not a mansion. Three stories, down-sloping yard. Professionally landscaped by people who knew what they were doing. Not Spyros's work. I couldn't say how I knew that, but there was something missing—it was just too geometrically strict to have come under the old man's touch.

There was a heavy-gauge wrought-iron fence all around the front of the house—black, with a touch of gilt around the more elaborate pieces. A wide driveway leading to a big garage, with what looked like a separate apartment above it.

No floodlights. No dogs, either—my headlight would have reflected in their eyes, and there was no barking noise. But that driveway was at least a hundred meters long, so maybe he had a more sophisticated system in place, closer in.

Circling behind, I could still see the top of the house, but that was all. On the back side, the slope was a lot steeper, and fully wooded.

That was enough for now. The ride had cleared my head. Focused it, too. I couldn't go where I had to in daylight, so I'd have to wait a full twenty-four.

I couldn't use Dolly's ragged old Subaru without leaving her stranded. And worried.

But for my next trip I wouldn't need a car; I'd need an alibi. So I pulled out my disposal cell, and went to work.

—

“W
hat?” MaryLou's raspy voice—I guess that was how she responded to any visitor, even one on the phone.

“I'd like to talk to you.”

“About what?” she said, telling me she knew who was calling. And that I hadn't woken her up.

“Not on the phone.”

“Come to—”

“Can't,” I cut her off. “Tomorrow, anytime past noon you say, anyplace you want. I only need about five minutes.”

“You know where I am. Ten in the morning.”

“Thanks,” I said. It was just a reflex—the dial tone was already sounding in my ear.