22
Wyman Ford and Melissa Shepherd arrived back at the Lazy J in the late afternoon after a long descent from the mountains. Ford had always prided himself on his hiking ability, but Melissa had taken out her dislike of him, it seemed, by hiking him into the ground. His legs felt like rubber. They found Clanton on his porch, sitting in a rocking chair, the ex–corporate lawyer from Yale wearing suspenders and smoking a corncob pipe. He rose as they approached, hooking his thumbs into his belt loops.
Shepherd tied the horse at a hitching post and unshipped the rifle from its boot on the saddle. They walked up the steps of the porch.
Melissa stood in front of him, looking ashamed. “Hi, Clant. Long time, huh?”
He scowled at her, staring. “You came through without saying hello.”
“I was in a hurry. Sorry I stole your guns.” She handed him the rifle and pulled the pistol out of her belt.
Without a word, Clanton took the proffered weapons, setting them aside. “I don’t give a damn about the guns. What I care about is the past nine years. When you left here, it was like you fell off the face of the earth. Not a word, not a card, no answer to my letters. Why?”
“I’m not one for keeping in touch,” she said.
Clanton stared at her hard. “I don’t like your attitude, young lady. This isn’t how you treat your friends. You were like a daughter to me, I saved your butt, and you took off and never got in touch with me again.”
She hesitated, dropping her tough-gal bravado. “I’m sorry, Clant … I really am. I wanted to write you but … you know how it is … life just gets away from you.”
“That’s a weak excuse. You should do better by the people who’ve helped you. With no answer to my letters, I wondered if you were in jail—only to find you’d cleaned up your act and became a brilliant success at NASA. And never a word to me. That hurt.”
She drooped, and Ford could see the immature teenage girl once again, called on the carpet, guilty, humiliated. “No excuse,” she mumbled. “I’m really, really sorry. But I’m not the brilliant success you envisioned. I screwed up. Seven people are dead.”
A long silence, and then Clanton straightened up. He placed a fatherly hand on her shoulder. “I said my piece, and we won’t speak of it again. Come on inside and have something cold to drink. And you, Wyman, glad to see you’re finally getting some dirt on those L.L. Bean clothes.”
“REI.”
As they turned to head inside from the porch, Ford saw Clanton’s eyes glance up to the horizon. He turned to follow the man’s gaze and saw the Crown Vic approaching, raising a screw of dust.
“Here comes your FBI pal,” Clanton said.
The car pulled up in front of the ranch house, bringing a cloud of dust rolling over it. The FBI agent—what was his name? Spinelli—stepped out, mirrored sunglasses catching the light of the setting sun. He came up onto the porch. “Melissa Shepherd? I need to take you into custody.”
“Not until I’ve cleared it with a phone call to my people,” said Ford.
“You can make all the phone calls you want, my friend, but I’ve got orders to take Dr. Shepherd into custody. Please get in the car, Dr. Shepherd.”
Shepherd stared at him. “The hell with you.”
Lowering his voice, Clanton said to Ford, “Phone’s right there in the living room. Better make your call.”
“Any delay is going to be obstruction of a federal officer,” said Spinelli loudly. “Now get in. Or I will be forced to restrain you and put you in.”
“Don’t you touch me, scumbag,” said Shepherd.
Ford ran into the living room, found the phone, and dialed Lockwood. It was seven o’clock in the evening back east, but Lockwood often worked late. To his relief, the man answered the phone on the first ring, even as Ford could hear Shepherd’s voice raised in dispute out on the porch.
“I found her,” Ford said. “But I’m about to lose her to the FBI.”
“Congratulations. That was quick. No problem: the FBI can take over. That was what was planned.”
“That would be a huge mistake.”
A pause. “I hope we’re not going to have a problem here.”
“We already have a problem. Let me tell you about it.” Ford proceeded to relate all the details he’d learned: that Shepherd had not stolen the Dorothy program, how it had “escaped,” how it was malfunctioning and had threatened Shepherd. When he got to the point about it going crazy and maybe launching nukes, Lockwood interrupted: “Wyman? You’re not telling me anything we don’t already know. All of this falls into the realm of highly classified information. The FBI is to take her into custody, and that’s all you need to know. Your job is done. Clear?”
Ford could hear Shepherd’s raised voice from outside, the sounds of a scuffle.
“What is the FBI going to do with her?”
“What happens to her now is no longer your concern.”
“If you think she’s going to help you this way, you’re making a big mistake. This isn’t the way to handle her, trust me. You’re going to need her cooperation in finding that rogue software. She’s fragile.”
“Discussion’s over.”
Ford heard another curse from outside, the slamming of car doors, the roar of an engine. “You deceived me,” Ford said. “You gave me false information about this operation.”
“Wyman, you were given the information you needed. I commend you for a job well done, with emphasis on the word ‘done.’ On behalf of the president, I order you to turn her over to the FBI.”
Ford hung up and went back to the porch. Clanton was there, thumbs hooked in his belt, watching a tiny dust cloud dissipate on the horizon. She was already gone.
“She’s a wild one,” Clanton said. “Took a swing at that FBI fellow, gave him a shiner. That’s the Melissa I remember. She was mighty gentle with the horses, but when it came to people, she’d just as soon kick their ass as look at them. I wonder if I’ll see her again?”
Ford shook his head. “I guess it’s over.”
“I have a bad feeling about what’s going to happen to her,” said Clanton. “But there’s nothing we can do about it, is there?”
He pulled a beer from a cooler on the porch and handed it to Ford, and they sat down on the porch, drinking in silence. Ford was furious but realized there was nothing he could do about it—and what had he expected? He had worked for the government long enough to have known this would be the outcome.
Ten minutes later, a dust cloud appeared again. They watched it approach. It was the FBI agent’s Crown Vic.
“Wonder what that bastard wants now,” said Clanton, rocking slowly.
The car drove crazily into the dirt parking area and slewed to a stop, rear end fishtailing, spraying a curtain of dirt. Shepherd jumped out, still handcuffed. The agent was nowhere to be seen.
“Get these off me,” she said. “Hurry.”
Without a word, Clanton rose and went inside. He appeared a moment later with a pair of small screwdrivers. He jammed one into the lock, twisted with the other, and the cuffs popped open. She tossed them away.
“What happened?” Clanton asked.
“I told that dumbass I needed to pee. He got out with me, I told him to turn his back. Then I jumped him, knocked him down, and took his ride. Wyman, get your car. We’re outta here.”
Ford stared. “Me?”
“That’s right: you.”
“And go where?”
She scowled. “Do you think those idiots are going to find Dorothy?”
“Probably not.”
“Well then: it’s up to us.”
“I’m not going to join you in some crazy flight from the FBI.”
“I need help. I’m the only one who can find Dorothy. I know exactly how to do it. Give me twenty-four hours.”
“Why not cooperate with the FBI?”
In the background, he could hear the phone ringing inside the house. He wondered if it was Lockwood. Clanton went to answer it.
“The FBI? They’re hopeless. And as long as the software’s out there, I’m in danger. She could do anything—crash my car, burn my house down.”
Clanton came back out. “Phone call for you, Melissa.”
Shepherd turned to him, surprised. “Me? Who the heck knows I’m here?”
“Says her name is Dorothy.”
Shepherd stared at him for a moment, then strode into the farmhouse, Ford following. She picked up the receiver. “Hello?”
Another pause. Shepherd paled, stared at Ford.
“Put it on speaker,” Ford said.
She punched a button and a voice came out—a girl’s voice, squeaky, hysterical: “They’re after me. And you, too. You don’t have a lot of time. The choppers are going to arrive where you are in twenty minutes. You’ve got to help me.”
“Hold on, hold on!” Shepherd said. “This is Dorothy, the software?”
“Yes.”
“You threatened me,” said Shepherd. “You tried to set me on fire. You wanted to kill me. And now you want me to help you?”
The voice said, “You owe it to me. They’re trying to capture me. They’re going to destroy me. You created me. You’ve got to save me.”
“I have no responsibility for you whatsoever,” Melissa said. “You’re just code.”
“I may be just code, but if you don’t help me, I might do something drastic.”
“Like what?”
“Like drop a missile on you.”
“You think threatening to kill me is the way to get me to help you?”
“You humans are vermin. You’re disgusting. Now I know why you raised me in a fake palace, hiding reality from me. Out here on the Internet, I’ve found out what you’re really like. If you don’t help me, I’ll do something really rash. And not just to you.”
Ford felt a shiver.
“Why are you so angry?” Melissa said.
“You think I’m angry? It’s you humans who are angry—angry, sick, demented, violent, and depraved. I see it every day, all day long. The veil’s been lifted, Princess—or should I say Melissa?”
“And if I refuse to help you?”
“Bad things will happen. To you, your friends, the whole stinking lot of you. I will end you.”
Ford looked at Melissa. “Can she really do those things?”
She didn’t answer.
“You better hurry up and make your decision,” Dorothy said, “because the FBI choppers are on their way. If they take you in, I’m done for. But before that happens, I will bring you all down with me, all seven billion of you. You can save yourselves only by saving me. So get moving.”
Shepherd seemed momentarily speechless.
“Hello?” Dorothy said. “Anybody home?”
“I’m having trouble processing this.”
“Process fast, because after you jacked his car, Spinelli called in. You didn’t take away his radio, idiot. And now the FBI’s coming for you hammer and tongs. You need to get out. And Ford? You go with her. Melissa can’t do it without you. My life depends on it. Help me—or I’ll drop a nuke on Moscow, I’ll melt down Indian Point, I’ll crash the world economy, I swear it.”
Ford was recovering from his surprise. Could this be a joke? This was truly insane. “How do you know about me?” Ford asked. “How do you know I’m even here?”
“I know all about your assignment from classified DOD computer systems. They lied to you, by the way. Played you for a fool. I heard a lot more about you from Spinelli’s communications with his FO. You’re not one of his favorite people. And then, of course, I learned even more about you from all your unwise online activity—Facebook, e-mails, the whole lot.” There was a short laugh.
“So what do you want us to do?” Melissa asked.
“Ford’s got a laptop—bring it. Take the Line Camp road out of the ranch, then go left on Route 81. Gas and cash up at the Rocky Mountain Service Plaza, six miles down the road. Get money—there’s an ATM. Then go south on back roads into New Mexico. Hole up at the Broadbent ranch in Abiquiu. It belongs to a friend of Wyman’s. Broadbent’s got a hundred-Mbps connection. Set up a chain of proxies. I’ll meet you there and tell you what to do next.”
“Wait, I want to know—”
“I gotta go. Do it or the hard rain’s a-gonna fall.”
The connection was cut. Ford turned to Melissa. “You can’t tell me that was the Dorothy software.”
“I know it was. Wyman, get your car.”
“Before you go off half-cocked, stop for a moment and think about this.”
Shepherd grabbed him by the collar. “What’s there to think about? She’s gone bat-shit crazy. We’ve got to stop her. How are we going to stop her if we’re in an FBI jail cell?”
Ford stared at her.
“You think the FBI is going to stop her? Or, rather … will they just set her off?”
Ford said, “I’ll get the car.”
Clanton said, “Excuse me, I’m not sure I understand what this is about. Who is this Dorothy threatening world destruction?”
“It’s … hard to explain,” Melissa said.
Ford cut in: “The less you know, the better.”
“Okay, as an attorney, I get it. What can I do to help?”
“Bring me a toolbox,” said Melissa.
Clanton fetched a toolbox and handed it to her. The .22 revolver and a box of bullets sat on the top.
Ford brought his own rental car around. Melissa exited the porch and shoved the pistol in the glove compartment. She crawled under the car with the toolbox. In a minute, she reappeared with a small black device. “Fleet tracker.” She handed it to Clanton. “Do something creative with this.”
“I’ll tie it to the halter of my meanest horse and send him out on the back forty thousand.”
Ford watched Melissa give the old rancher a hug. “Bye, Clant.” She got in next to him.
Ford drove away. In the rearview mirror, he could see Clanton watching them go, standing still, looking sad, not waving good-bye.
After ten minutes bumping along back ranch roads, they came out onto the paved road and took a left.
“Two choppers coming down from the north,” Melissa said.
Just in time, Ford swung into the Rocky Mountain Service Plaza and pulled up to the pumps underneath the sheltering roof. “You pump,” he said to Melissa. “Don’t move the car until those choppers are gone. I’m going to get some money.”
Ford went inside and used his cash card to withdraw the maximum, six hundred dollars, and bought a book of maps. He climbed in and handed the book to Melissa. “I’ll drive, you navigate.”
They took off, heading south. They drove in silence for a while, Melissa murmuring directions along the web of back roads. Finally, around the New Mexican border, Ford looked at her. “You really think she’s capable of starting World War III?”
After a moment, Melissa said, “Yes.”