The Imp
Anna Drake
Smashwords Edition
Published 2009 by Anna Drake
This is a work of fiction. All characters'
and most locations within this novella are
the product of the writer's imagination.
***
Chapter 1
Geraldine Love scrolled down her brightly lit computer screen and read through her day's work for the third time. Periodically, her stomach clenched as she came upon a word or a phrase which she could not recall writing. It was happening, again. The woman shook her head and ran an unsteady hand through her fading, brown hair.
This was madness, she thought. No one could be inside her computer. No one could be writing with her, changing her words. The idea was beyond reason, and yet how else could she explain what was happening?
She leaned back in her chair and rubbed her damp palms on her jeans. "On the market," she muttered. "I'd never write it that way. I don't think of women and marriage in those terms."
Twice divorced and a woman who considered herself a loser in the marriage-go-round, Geraldine bristled at the concept of marriage contained in the phrase: on the market. "Yeah, like women are something that are to be bought and sold." She laughed, a cold, dry sound which echoed through the slowly darkening, small room. "That's not the way of it, baby. That's not what it's about."
She sighed. Now, she was talking out loud to it? "Swell, 'this way lies madness,'" she muttered.
For more than a year this woman, who was approaching her late-forties, had stationed herself and her laptop computer nearly daily at this dining room table in this dingy apartment with its low rent and bad drains. She'd dreamed of writing a novel for most of her youth and adulthood. She'd decided, one dark autumn day late last year, to turn her present disaster upside down. She'd take this lemon life had handed her and squeeze lemonade from it. She'd sworn it.
And now this.
She leaned forward, resting her forehead in her right hand; she tried to recall when it had started: how it had been then.
She wasn't a bad looking woman as she sat there in the gathering twilight in front of the glowing laptop; that is if you don't mind a slightly disheveled appearance and advancing years. She'd been living on food stamps and odd jobs for two years now. The strain was taking its toll, and that toll was starting to show.
Her friend at the makeup counter, where Geraldine filled in as needed, had already pointed out to her how badly her eyelids were wrinkling, Under any circumstances, this news would be grim news, but coming as it did at a time when she needed to claw her way out of this mess, it was deadly.
It spoke of aging and vulnerability and trash heaps and rejection letters and long, sad, goodbyes as friends moved on, moved out, moved up.
She rubbed her forehead. When had this started?
She'd taken to calling him, or it, or whatever it was that was inside her computer, the Imp. It had been with her nearly from the beginning of this project, at first just collapsing her spacing occasionally. Geraldine had taken this to mean that she'd missed some important point or had moved a step in the wrong direction; she'd back up, rewrite the paragraph and only move on once the collapsing had stopped.
Madness, she thought, yet again,.
But what else was she to do or to believe? The spacing did collapse. That was real. It was visible. It was concrete.
She believed that she'd picked up some hacker, some benign, benevolent, altruistic soul from the writing world who had probably singled her out at one of the numerous online writing sites she visited daily. Whether or not that was even possible she had no idea. She couldn't conceive of how something like this could be done. Yet it must have happened. What other conclusion could there be?
She wrapped her arms about herself. "There are words on these pages that I know I didn't write."
But she knew next to nothing about hacking or hackers, and who had time, or interest, or even access to such information to check it out? So she'd worked on, trusting that this imp was a mild-mannered, friendly being, who apparently liked doing good deeds in unusual ways via the computer. Occasionally, she'd feel a niggling sense of concern over what was happening. But not often.
And this was different. Her eyes flicked back toward the screen. There was an implied hostility in some of the writing now scattered here and there throughout her work. This new approach by the imp made her question her earlier speculations. Perhaps this thing was not so benevolent after all.
"On the market," she repeated aloud. It was a small point, but it worried her -- as had other small points she'd found in recent days. She felt these small points were adding up to something; she just couldn't figure out quite what yet.
* * *
He leaned back in his seat and grinned. Closing his eyes, he pictured her reaction. He could judge her. He could tell when something he'd inserted would get her goat. He could read it in the revisions she'd post to his work the next day. He could feel it in the changes she'd make.
He chuckled. This was fun; the tension he visualized on her face was delicious.
He'd been at this a good bit of time now. She wasn't his first. She wasn't even his only one. But she was his favorite, for now.
He'd already seen her from long distances. The first time he'd stationed himself outside her place one rainy weekend, ages ago. And finally he'd spotted her, head down, collar up, dashing from her apartment entrance to her old, battered car. She'd looked much like her photo on her website. It had been a relief to him.
Sometimes the photos turned out to be bogus or ancient: taken years if not decades ago. Sometimes, the disconnect for him between who he thought he was tracking and who they turned out to be was nearly crushing.
But at least they were all easily found, these poor, confused women. The information was all there, on their computers: their addresses, their phone numbers, their lives. He especially enjoyed reading their emails. Talk about inserting oneself into another person's life. What he found in those emails could entertain him for years.
Through this woman's correspondence, he'd followed her current war with her daughter: their disagreement centering over what the mother should do next in her job hunt. She'd been at it for more than two years, with temp jobs and odd bits here and there managing to keep her barely afloat. But there was no doubt in the imp's mind that the woman was coming up against it financially -- and soon.
Well, that's her problem. He scratched his neck and yawned. I have my own.
* * *
Geraldine glanced up at the time displayed in the corner of her screen, then reached out and switched off the machine. She'd been at it for hours, Her eyes burned. She was thirsty. Her head ached.
She went to the bathroom and swallowed two aspirin. Then she wandered to the small kitchen where she drew water and shoved the cup into the microwave. In short order, she'd have tea and maybe a bite to eat. She'd feel better.
She rummaged through the fridge, finding not much more than a withered apple, a half-finished loaf of stale bread, and some browning lettuce. She muttered a meaningless phrase or two and slammed the door closed.
Groceries, she though. Put those on the list.
"First make a list," she said aloud, waving a hand in the air. Why does life, even my pathetic version of it, require so much maintenance? she wondered.
The microwave bleeped, and she hauled out the steaming cup of water and carried it to the counter where she threw a tea bag into it. While the tea brewed, she stared out of her bare kitchen window at the asphalt and telephone lines and concrete of the ally. She hadn't been raised like this, and the view before her hurt.
Her cell phone chirped. After tracking it down down to the dining room table, she grabbed it and flipped it open.
"Speak."
"Oh great, Mom, I thought we'd gone over this. Speak is not what you say when you answer the phone. What if I'd been calling you with a job offer? How long do you think it'd last after you'd barked your damned 'speak' order?"
"Well, good evening to you, too."
"I'm just sayin', Mom. You're the one who's moaning about finding a job. Geesh."
"It's just a joke, Tasha. A joke, that's all it is."
"Yeah, well, employers aren't usually known for having a much of a sense of humor."
Geraldine rubbed her forehead. "Point taken. Sorry, love. You're right, I'll mend my ways."
She turned and walked toward the kitchen, craving the brewing cup of tea. "So what's up? Why the call?"
"Ted's got a gig tonight. I thought you might want to come over, have some supper with me."
Geraldine felt the tears gather and blinked quickly. She felt again the depth of care and concern her daughter expressed for her almost daily. She blew out a lungful of air. "Yeah. Supper sounds good."
"See, ya' in about an hour then?"
"Yeah. An hour's good."
Geraldine closed the phone and slipped it onto the charger before turning her attention to her steeping tea. She pulled the bag from the cup, and, using a tong-like, little gadget, given to her by her daughter, she squeezed the remaining liquid out of the dripping bag. Then she leaned back against the counter, blew across the top of the cup, and studied the dull, uninteresting world beyond her kitchen window. Well, at least her gaze drifted in that direction, but her thoughts pulled decidedly inward.
Geraldine had thought she'd known hell -- had pulled her share of time there. She thought she'd trotted through it twice in that morose dance called divorce. But this was different, unsettling. There was little one could do in today's world without money. And without work, where was that precious stuff to be found?
She turned and opened the cupboard drawer to her left and withdrew a small slip of paper. She hadn't wanted to use this, to call the number listed on this ripped off bit of stiff, white paper. She'd jotted it down just to be polite, to keep from making waves. She was one of those sorts who hated giving someone a "no." But she'd never had any intention of following through with the gentleman's suggestion.
Now, she turned back to her right and reached out and unplugged the cell phone. Pulling the slip of paper up to where she could easily see the numbers, she fed them slowly, one agonizing number at a time, into her cell phone. Swallowing and blinking back tears, she finally punched the call button.
On the third ring, a man's voice answered.
Chapter 2
The imp stared at his computer screen in disbelief. What was it now: the seventh day, the eighth? This woman had gone off the manuscript before, but never for so many days in a row. Even the number of emails she sent and received in a day had declined.
He reached out and pounded the computer desk before he began tapping keys and scrolling through her emails. He focused on the ones she'd sent, noting the times that they'd gone out. He checked the current time on the computer, nodded, and then shut down his machine.
She was obviously working full time, probably days. Time, he thought, to take himself on a little trip, an exploration.
He heaved himself from his chair and a short time later emerged from the bathroom clean and freshly shaved. In his bedroom he donned faded jeans, a well-worn, light gray sweatshirt, and a thick pair of wooly socks over which he slipped on a pair of pristine, white athletic shoes.
A half-hour later, the Imp eased himself into a chair at a table near the front window of Howie's, a small bar and grill on the city's west side. The place looked more dive than bistro with its scarred tables and sagging booths, but it was located directly across the street from the woman's apartment building. The Imp nodded his satisfaction.
After settling himself at a table at the front of the place, he leaned forward and studied the gathering gloom beyond the steamy restaurant window. Would the day's light last long enough for him to get a good look at her? And what would he do if she suddenly did appear? It isn't like I've got some plan. here, he reminded himself..
A waitress arrived at his side with a name tag identifying her as Joni. She was young and perky with an obvious liking for body piercing and tattoos. "How ya' doing?" She slapped a menu down. He waved it away, the odors wafting around the place making it unnecessary.
"I'll have a hamburger and fries."
"And to drink?"
"Coffee."
The woman looked up at him. "Coffee?"
"Coffee," he repeated.
To any disinterested observer, the man seated at the small table blended well with his surroundings. Neither tall nor short, he was blessed with good looks and a trim body; a bit of a chameleon, he took care to blend in to his setting. He wore jeans when he moved through the casual sections of town. But he was just as capable of donning a quality outfit when the occasion demanded it.
But image was not what occupied his thoughts this night.
He suppressed an impatient sigh and drummed his fingers on the table.
Just where the hell was this woman?
* * *
Across town, Tasha Larkin bounced up and down on the balls of her feet.
"I'm not overreacting," she told a tall, young man with dark, curly hair, and a decidedly stubborn chin.
"You've been overreacting since your mom's life tanked. You know it. I know it. And I think it's time you let up. She's got a job, now. You don't need to baby her any more."
"Baby her?"
"Yeah. That's what I said."
Tasha spun on her heel and crossed to the cupboard in the well appointed kitchen. "Well, you never seem to mind it when I spend my time babying you."
She reached up and pulled out a coffee mug and slammed the cupboard door closed.
"That's different," Ted answered.
"Ooh, men," Trish narrowed her eyes and shook her head in irritation. "You all think you're the center of the universe."
"Well, we are." He advanced and took the slender young woman with the coppery hair into his arms. "Seriously, you need to lighten up about your mom. She's had it rough, yeah. But it's over now. It's time to move on. And I have to tell you, I'm looking forward to our life getting back to normal."
Tasha looked up at the handsome face so near to her and smiled in spite of herself. "I suppose you're right." She sagged back against the kitchen counter. "It's just that I'd expected Mom to be happier now that she's back to work. But I'm not feeling that."
"That's her problem. At least she's working. Your problem is that you need to let go of this. You need to let her face life again on her own terms."
"What? And get back to babying you?"
"Yeah, that'd work." He reached out and pulled her to him.
Tasha nestled her head against Tom's wide shoulder. There was logic in what he'd said. Still, she couldn't shake this nagging feeling that all was not well with Mom.
* * *
In a small storefront not far from her apartment, Geraldine Love stood in a corner of the room, while in front of her the young mother of two, restless children struggled to settle them onto a small quilt.
"Oh, I so appreciate your patience with all of this," the mother chirped
After getting the little girl placed to her satisfaction, she whipped out a hand to catch her son by an arm before he crawled out of the scene. She plopped him back down next to his sister and finished addressing Geraldine over her shoulder. "It's so nice of you to let me take time like this. I want to get this just right, don't you know?"
Geraldine's face felt frozen into a smile. "That's fine."
But beneath the cloth-drapped table, Geraldine's foot tapped out her mounting frustration. She cast a furtive glance at her watch: only fifteen minutes more to go. Even with these restless children before her, she felt she still had a good shot at getting out of here on time.
"Do you think this bow in Tricia's hair is too much?" the mom asked.
"No," she reassured the mother, "it goes well with the little sweater."
The young mother nodded. "Yup. That's what I think, too."
"Um, I think I'll go ahead and snap this shot while they're both sitting still. They look like little dolls right now. What do you think?"
Mom stepped back, observed her handiwork and nodded with enthusiasm. "Yeah. Looks good to me."
Geraldine stepped up and snapped the shutter on the camera several times in quick succession, preserving for all posterity the image of these two children, dressed to the nines and currently smiling in unison.
She had learned quickly to dread multiples. It was always so much easier to get one child to smile and sit still than to get two children to smile and remain motionless together. Toss a third child into the mix, and it took a miracle to pull it all off.
It's the last shoot of the day, she silently reminded herself. She clicked off a couple more angles and nodded. These combined with the earlier shots of the individual children could add up to a hefty sale eventually. Robby would be pleased.
* * *
The imp was finishing his second cup of coffee when he saw her. After all these days, his desire to make contact with her was so strong that he almost rose from his seat and ran to her. But at the last minute he came to his senses. He was the shadow: the unknown and unknowable; the person who existed only in the fictional world within her computer. He hadn't a place in her real world. But recently he'd found himself entertaining thoughts which moved him beyond his computer.
He pulled a handful of bills from his wallet and slapped them onto the table. They were enough by his calculations to cover his bill and allow a for a generous tip. He rose from his chair and moved swiftly toward the door.
"Hey!" It was the waitress.
He turned and faced her. "It's okay. My money's on the table. I'm not ducking out here. I'm just in a hurry."
The young woman scowled. "But your food?"
The Imp shrugged and resumed his scramble toward the exit. She could do what she pleased with the dinner.
The air when he hit it was brisk; a biting, north wind had put a sting into the lowering autumn temperature of the night. He reoriented himself toward his target. She was still making her way down Fisk Street. As he watched, the wind caught and flapped the hem of her trench coat. She plowed on, head down, ignoring the sting of the wind. A bag dangled from her right hand. A loaf of French bread rose from its interior.
The Imp felt a surge of excitement rush through him. He'd never gotten this close to any of his women before. But his desire had never mounted this high before either. Could he actually just walk past her, like any other, ordinary, fellow -- just some guy out for an early-evening stroll? His felt his heart hammering inside his chest.
Not long now, he thought as they drew nearer. He knew he should look away, but he was unable to force himself to do so. To see her with such clarity, to note the creaminess of her skin, the shine of her hair. He took a deep breath. Could that faint, pleasant scent, he wondered, be her perfume? He closed his eyes and savored the fragrance.
After reaching the end of the block, he turned and stared after her. She was just entering her apartment building. He watched, spellbound as she stepped through the doorway and disappeared from his view. The night seemed to darken around him; he stood there, unable for several seconds to move.
Then, he stepped backwards, toward the curb and beyond it, and he lifted his head to study the large front room window in her third-story apartment. When he saw the living room light come on, he nodded with satisfaction. She is safely home.
He jogged to his car and slipped into the driver's seat and fired up the ignition. He needed the warmth from the car's heater. He was glad for the the backup provisions he'd packed before leaving home. Now, he wold settle down for the night here, near this woman he'd known so well for nearly a year, who now had turned so elusive. He dug out his backup packet of salami and crackers from his satchel and smiled. He smiled in satisfaction. He always tried to think two or three moves ahead.
After brushing a crumb from his chest, he threw his down jacket around himself, hunkered down in his seat, and continued his feast of cold cuts while he waited for the car's heater to kick in.
* * *
By the time Jake Clarke arrived at Geraldine's place, she was freshly showered, dressed in a neat, slenderizing, black pants suit, and was now rather proud of the Italian fragrances pouring forth from her small, narrow kitchen.
"Hey, babe," he said in a voice that was deep, resonate, and well remembered.
She hadn't seen Jake for some time and had been surprised by his call. But while in her more reasonable days, she might have questioned his return to her life, she was currently, with her career at this low point, too far gone in despair to care. Comfort, any comfort, was welcome right now. And she had blushed at that realization.
"It's been a long time, Jake."
He pushed forth his right hand. "I was hoping the flowers might take your mind off of that."
Geraldine studied the bouquet. Yellow roses and pink daisies and canna lilies in cream mingled together in a magnificent display. She couldn't help tallying the cost of such excess. But Jake never had done anything in a small way.
"It's good to see you," she finally said.
He nodded and wrapped his strong arms around her. "You, too, kiddo. You, too."
She drank in the fragrance of after shave which now competed with the scent from the blossoms.
After a bit, they pulled apart. Geraldine reached past him and closed the door before leading him down a short hall to the dining room. If they were to sit together, at this stage of the evening, she wanted a table between them.
"I'll just grab a vase for the flowers. Thank you. They're lovely." She nodded her head toward the table and its full complement of plates, cutlery and glassware. "Make yourself comfortable. I'll be right back with the wine."
"Interesting digs, Jerri," he said upon her return with the wine. "What's up?"
With a lurch, Geraldine thought back to his last visit. She'd been living in the condo back then, the one she'd lost when her career crashed.
"My life's changed. That's all."
"So I gather. What happened?" He settled himself back in the chair and pulled a long sip of wine.
"Catalog work is way down. It comes with the drop off in spending."
Geraldine had started her career in journalism, but it had been her photos which had won for her prizes. Eventually, she'd found a comfortable and profitable outlet for her gifted eye -- an outlet which she'd thought would go on forever.
She slumped into her chair. "You still flying?"
"Yup. Seniority rules in my world."
Former Air Force, Jake had swapped jockeying sleek fighter planes for transporting herds of humans in what he sometimes referred to as flying box cars.
"But I'll still get you from one end of this country to the other in the smoothest flight you'll ever have."
Jerri laughed. "You'll never change, Jake."
* * *
The Imp watched, open mouthed, as a man's shadow passed across the woman's living room drapes.
"What the . . . ."
In his own way, he'd been with this woman for over a year now. Never, not in any of her writings or emails, had he caught a hint of another man in her life. He tried to tamp down the emotions now coursing through him.
For the second time this night, he found it impossible to sit still. Unlatching his door, he stepped out into the night. A fine drizzle had moved in on the city. He turned his jacket collar up against it's sharp chill.
A few hurried steps carried him to the entrance to her apartment building. He entered the vestibule and checked out the names on the mailboxes.
He didn't need to do that. He already knew her apartment number. It was there, like everything else, on her computer. But it felt good to see it written here on this solid bit of metal before him. He reached out and stroked the box's cool surface with its slip of paper bearing her name in bold, black ink..
It was an old building, with an old-fashioned security system, requiring the release of the locked door by buzzer from one of the apartments within. But when he glanced at the doorway, he noticed it was slightly ajar. Apparently whomever had passed through it last had failed to secure it. He reached out a hand and gave it a tug. The door swung open before him.
He took the stairs two at a time, keeping to the outside edge of the treads, keeping his weight off the weakest part of the step, reducing the likelihood of making noise as he climbed. He'd never trained for this. As he would eagerly tell you, he was not a criminal; he was just widely read. He learned things; he remembered the details; it gave him great joy to put this acquired knowledge to work. Doing. That was what ultimately mattered to him.
At the third-floor landing he stopped for breath. Her door stood directly before him. He could almost touch it. He took two more steps and brought himself nearly up against its flat surface. He suppressed his breathing, straining to see if he could hear any sound from behind this closed door.
But a mindless television program blared from behind the door to 3-C. If he were to hear anything from 3-B, it would have to be loud, and he doubted those were the kinds of sounds she would make at this hour. He'd seen nothing in her background that indicated she was anything but a proper and decorous woman.
Besides, now that he was here, touching her door, he realized how pointless this mad dash had been. What had he hoped to accomplish? What had he thought he could do from here in the hallway with her blocked off behind a closed door and with another man in her company? What was he doing here?
His shoulders sagged as the bitter sting of defeat rushed through his body. He'd spent nearly a year tracking this woman. He vowed he'd find a way to move through this.
Chapter 3
Samantha Swan snapped her purse closed. "I can't see what you're so stressed about, Jerri. So Jake's back. Big deal. If you don't want him in your life, toss him out. If you do want him there, lie back and enjoy it." The news woman liked to emphasize her pronouncements. It was one of the things Jerri enjoyed most about her--her extreme sense of dramatics. Samantha was fun.
Sam sat across from Jerri now, at this small restaurant, dressed in black slacks and a black sweater with a wild, long, multiple-print scarf dangling from her neck. With the woman's dark hair, light skin and Irish-blue eyes, she could carry the look.
Jerri lifted a spoonful of soup to her mouth, relishing its savory flavor. Inwardly she cringed as she thought what this food was costing her. But she'd do anything to hide how limited an income she now lived on. So she'd said yes when Sam had suggested this bistro, although Jerri had known it would cost her more than an hour's worth of pay to indulge in the fare here.
"So tell me, is that guy still a hunk?" Sam asked with her roasted vegetable sandwich raised half-way to her lips. "You know, if you weren't so besotted with him, I'd have made a run at him myself."
"I'd always suspected that," Jerri answered.
Sammy laughed "Well, now you know."
"And yes. He's still on his game." Jerri lowered her spoon to the bowl and settled back in her seat. "Besotted. That's a good word for it. What . . . I've been like this with him for ten years or more now?"
"I would think you'd be more likely to remember than I, but yes. I'd say that's right. On and off, that is. And more off than on, if you'll pardon my pointing out the obvious. But I've always been amazed at his ability to land . . . no pun intended . . . while you're between husbands."
"Some kind of internal radar, maybe."
The two women laughed.
"But it's not right, is it? The way I keep letting him back into my life. No questions asked?" Jerri looked to Samantha with a worried expression.
"Well, we're both visual women, Jerri. And that guy has the looks."
"Fly-boy handsome." Jerri lifted her turkey sandwich from its plate. "It's what caught me and it's what keeps me hooked . . . or at least has. But I'm wondering if I don't want more than that? Am I content to let him bounce in and out of my life now?"
"Yeah, well, I don't know about you, but even at my age, I notice the lines of available men are dwindling these days. And I'm a good bit younger than you -- no offense intended."
Two tables away, a man adjusted a small gadget on the flat surface beside him. The object looked like a cell phone but it concealed a tiny microphone. Despite its diminutive size, it was extremely effective. It picked up sounds at long distances and feed them into a miniature tape recorder. That little machine now rested inside the gentleman's suit pocket with its tape actively whirling.
The man's sense of anticipation was keen. No locked doors between us today, he thought smugly.
* * *
"What? You had to go to New York to get lunch or did you have to grow your own beef for the sandwich?" Robby Voit knocked back the hinged counter and stepped forward. "I pay you to be here not five or ten or fifteen minutes after the hour but ON the hour. Do I make myself clear?"
"Yes, Mr. Voit. My cab got caught in traffic, and I am sorry," Gealdine said, taken back by this quick and extreme a reaction from her boss.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. If I had a dime for all the times I've had to swallow that word sorry, I'd be a millionaire. I like you, Jerri. You know that. That's why I offered you the job. But there are limits."
The pie faced man with a balding head of grizzled, graying hair shrugged his way into his jacket. "I've made two new appointments for you. I scheduled one of them late. So considering you're back late from lunch, I trust you'll stay late to cover the second shoot? No arguments? Right?"
"Yes, sir. And it won't happen again, sir."
Jerri chewed her lip and watched the disappearing back of her boss as he trudged his way down the sidewalk outside. It was a comedown for her. This dressing down had only served to drive her lowered status even more firmly into her thoughts.
There'd been a time when people had waited for her -- for the magic that her camera, her eye, her sense of style would bring them. It was her word which at one time had been law. She thought back longingly now to the time when she'd been the one barking out commands: raise your arms, more teeth, hold that look, don't move a muscle.
Now, she got yelled at for being, she checked the digital clock on the counter, eleven minutes late. And worse, she'd groveled. But she'd tasted fear at this dressing down. She needed this job. She was tired of trying to keep ends together on part time jobs or special assignments. The work wasn't much, but at least it was steady employment. And she took some satisfaction in trying to make each shot the best it could be. There was still compensation for her in old, well-honed skills.
She bit back a sigh.
A young, robust woman with three tikes in tow just then breezed through the door. "I'm early, I hope you don't mind, but I thought if you could squeeze us in now, I'd have time to pick up groceries on my way home."
"You're in luck. I don't have anyone scheduled in this time slot."
Outside, a long, gray car, bearing only its driver rolled past the storefront window. The Imp chortled. With her safely at work, he could go home now. He'd gotten a lead on the gentleman who'd shown up at her apartment. His fingers tingled with anticipation at the thought of getting back to his keyboard and tracking that fellow down. "What fun," he said to himself.
* * *
Tasha Lantz pulled her car into a parking slot across the street from the storefront in which her mother now worked. If Ted knew she was doing this, she thought, he'd have a conniption fit. But Ted didn't know and if she were careful, he never would, and besides what business was it of his anyway. This was her mother, for crying out loud.
She'd always respected his right to have an opinion on her activities. She didn't want to end up like her mom, twice divorced -- or even once divorced for that matter. But sometimes it was hard to work out a way to do what she felt needed to be done and still fall within Ted's parameters for her life. Oh well, she thought, no one said life would be easy. And she managed to meet most of her goals, anyway, she decided with some satisfaction.
Tasha leaned back in her seat, studying the store and neighborhood in which her mom now worked. The shop was in an aging building, although Tasha noted a modest renovation effort had been made. The store's wide trim around its doors and windows was freshly painted. The sparkling white trim contrasted nicely against the burnished red of the bricks surrounding it. The store's sign above the doorway was neat and somewhat stylishly lettered.
Still, Tasha couldn't help recalling the dramatic and artistic settings in which her mom's assignments used to happen and to feel for this aging woman. She tried to imagine the limitation her mom now faced -- to go from shoots on dramatic city streets or inside fancy, upscale buildings to working in a mundane storefront which never changed in appearance from one boring day to another.
She shuddered and wondered just how long her mom would agree to endure this.
"Hey," Jerri said, swinging wide the door and sliding onto the front seat beside Tasha. "I hope I didn't keep you waiting long."
"Nope. Enjoyed the rest to be truthful."
"You're an incredible daughter." Jerri leaned over and brushed a kiss against Tasha's cheek. "You been busy?"
"Yeah. I'm typing up the transcripts from the Matterly trial." Tasha worked as a court reporter. Part of her life she spent hunkered over one of those funny little machines located near the judge's bench, taking down each word said in the courtroom by lawyers, judges, and witnesses. The rest of her time was spent at home typing up those recorded minutes of court sessions. It was demanding work that required incredible accuracy, but once the trial was over, it also came with flexible hours. And better yet, to Jerri's mind, the job paid well.
She leaned back in comfort against the soft leather seat of Tasha's Lexus. Sometimes, she thought, car troubles brought with them small perks.
* * *
That night, after having downed a quick bite with her daughter at a fast food chain, Geraldine sat herself down at the computer. She hadn't worked on her manuscript in weeks, but why should she abandon it now? The way she saw it, she could manage this day job and still plug away on the book at night.
She pulled the laptop to her and fired up the machine.
Across town, the Imp pulled his chair closer to his screen. He'd reviewed the tape of Geraldine's meeting with that other silly woman countless times during this long, long afternoon.
Geraldine's use of the words, fly-boy handsome, besotted, and still on his game,y still bounced around in his mind. They reminded him of his questionable status in Geraldine's life. In the meantime, none of his efforts to clear his thoughts this afternoon had proved effective. Even had Geraldine not turned on her machine, the Imp would have been inside it tonight.
Let her dream of her handsome fly-boy, he though. "Let me show her what power I have," he said into the darkness around him.
His fingers danced quickly across his keyboard, nimble and graceful in the intensifying glow from his screen.
The first thing Geraldine noticed when she glance back at her computer was an increase in her screen's brightness. This intensified itself until it was nearly glowing.
"What the. . . ?" She glanced over at the small floor lamp beside her. It burned on with the same intensity as it had before. It's steady glow dashed her hopes that a power surge in the apartment might have triggered the change on her screen.
The second thing Geraldine saw were three words which had been inserted into her favorite search engine slot. The words there read, "Enter city name."
Jerri's hands fell away from the keyboard and came to rest limply in her lap. "I didn't type that," she muttered. "I have not touched a single key on this machine yet tonight. There is someone . . . er . . . something inside my computer."
The screen glowed with even greater intensity.
"I don't understand what's happening," she said, glancing about the room wild eyed. "I don't see how someone can do this."
She took a deep breath and leaned forward.
"Who are you?" she whispered.
Across town, the Imp smiled.
Chapter 4
Adam Branch stepped off the elevator and strode toward the attractive woman ahead. "Thanks so much for agreeing to meet me," he said, when he drew near her.
"My pleasure," Samantha Swan answered before turning and leading him to her desk. "You said this was about Geraldine?"
"Yes. It is. I knew her at college. I'm trying to reconnect. A mutual friend suggested you might point me to her."
Samantha suppressed a sigh. What did Geraldine have going on here? First Jake. Now this guy? Sam slipped into her chair and pointed to the comfortable seat on the other side of her desk for her new friend.
"So what can I give you in person that you couldn't have picked up by phone?"
Her eyes feasted on the image before her: tall man, handsome face, well-cut western suit with a large Stetson hat now balanced on his right knee. Good attempt at an image, but something, she thought, was just a bit off. Still she could see him playing well on her arm at parties. He had to be close to her age.
One of these guys is not going to be left standing, she thought. And she'd picked men up on the rebound before.
Truth be told, she rather liked them that way -- somewhat off balance.
"Nothing really, ma'am," Adam replied over her thoughts. "But I like to do business face to face."
"Business," she said, now openly studying the man. "What is it that do you do, again, Mr . . . ?"
"Branch. Adam Branch. I'm a retired dot-com guy, who had the good sense to get out before the bubble burst. I do pretty much as I please, now."
Noticing a pair of black cowboy boots peeking from beneath the man's trousers, she asked, "And just where is it that you're from?"
"Here. I've lived in this city for years. But I grew up in Wyoming. I still get back there whenever I can. Why?"
"Oh, no reason." Sam leaned forward. "What is it you want to know about Jerri? And who did you say our mutual friend is?"
"Paul Banyon."
Samantha relaxed back into her chair. She'd just exchanged an email with Paul. Hadn't heard from him in years. No wonder he gave Branch her name. She'd probably been fresh in his mind.
"Well, I won't give you Jerri's address, but I will give you her phone number. It's cellular only. You won't find her listed in a directory."
Samantha would never give out Jerri's street address. Let this man call her and get that for himself.
That was one thing about Sam. People had been underestimating this woman all of her life. She looked like an image-crazed flake but thought like a Zulu warrior. She'd started out with a small woman's column and parlayed it into one of the meanest political missives in the business. Politicians opened their papers and turned to her work with some small measure of fear in their guts -- every morning.
She sat in her chair now studying this man before her and wondering if she should use ketchup or mustard when it came time to consume him.
"Listen," she said leaning forward in her chair. "Why don't you give me your phone number? Jerri and I are tight. I may be able to give you some help with this. You know, nudge her along, sing your praises, that kind of thing, if you'd like."
Under all that western garb and bravado this man was probably a bit overly reserved, but she liked them shy, somewhat unknowable. It made it fun. And he'd look good in her world, which was always a plus in her book.
Let Jerri keep Jake, she decided. This guy was hers.
* * *
Jake Clarke bit back a sharp comment. This was the second computer glitch to hit his life in the past three days.
"What do you mean you don't have a reservation for me? I phoned it in two days ago."
The gentleman scrolled through his lap top. It was a small restaurant -- one Jake patronized frequently but not often enough to be a preferred customer. There would be no special consideration here.
"I'm sorry," the man said with a shrug. "I'd squeeze you in if I could, but we're booked up. There's nothing I can do."
Jake looked over at Jerri. "There's that steak place a couple of blocks from here. We liked it once a long tine ago. You want to give it a try now?"
"Sounds fine," Jerri answered with a reassuring nod.
"Computers," Jake spat when their feet hit the front sidewalk.
"What do you mean?"
"You saw it. That guy kept reservations on that lap top. I phoned our reservation in two days ago. I know I did. And now it's not there."
"So garbage in garbage out. Happens all the time." Jerri thought about the odd things happening on her computer and realized her words sounded a bit glib. Still, the kind of stuff happening on her machine just didn't occur in the normal world of computers.
"Not in my life," Jake thundered. "Not until just recently. This week, just two days ago, in fact, my electronic salary deposit didn't show up at my bank."
"Oh, Jake," Jerri responded. "I hope that's quickly fixed."
"They said it would be. But it's spooked me. Funny how dependent we're all getting on these machines."
"I was just reading an article on that. It said if the power grid ever went down, we'd be sunk. There'd be no electricity to pump water or gasoline, or to run cash registers or light stores. We'd starve, according to that article."
"I'm not quite that far out on this," Jake replied.
"I know. I'm not either, but still, it was scary. Then I followed that up with some story about spies hacking their way into the computer system that runs our power grid, and how they were leaving goodies there, laying the groundwork to take the power down if we went to war."
"Oh, please. Not another Doomsday forecast."
"I kind of liked the world when it was simpler. Remember when our only worry was whether Russia would ever nuke us? Now we practically strip at airports, and cameras are springing up to keep watch on us all over the place, and these computers running our world are making us vulnerable to all sorts of things."
"That's what I've always liked about you Jerri. You're so upbeat."
"Just sayin'."
"And stay off my turf."
"Well, nobody likes the things we have to go through to fly, now."
"No need to mention it to me, though."
"Okay. Okay."
* * *
Geraldine lay staring at the dark ceiling. Jake had departed nearly an hour ago, heading out to the airport in preparation for his flight to Los Angeles. It wasn't his normal run. He was covering for a young buddy, who'd gotten himself involved with some gal and now needed time to extricate himself from the mess.
Jerri sighed. Did all fly-boys, she wondered, see women as some kind of complication? That was nonsense, and she knew it. There were all kinds of married pilots, just none of them. though, happened to pal around with her Jake.
"And he's only your Jake for the present moment," she muttered into the silence around her. "No telling how long this stint will last."
At last, after having tossed pointlessly for nearly an hour, she rose from her bed and made her way to her computer. Problems with one man were bad enough. But she would not let this other man, this bully, this thing in her computer keep her from working on her novel. She'd put in countless hours on this. She would not let him scare her or push her around. This was her place, her machine. Who did this guy think he was?
But after the machine had fired up, Jerri slumped back into her seat. There in the search engine slot she saw the words, "Enter city name."
"Okay," Jerri mumbled. "I'll bite."
Her fingers flicked a few keys as she fed New Orleans into the slot.
"There," she said to the emptiness surrounding her. "Make what you will out of that, you creep. I'm not going to let you push me around, nor will I cower in some blasted corner. Take that!"
She punched the return button with a flourish,
The first imperative, she thought, was to show no fear. Don't give him that satisfaction.
She worked hunkered over her machine for more than two hours, ignoring words or phrases over which she might have worried before. It was a matter of mind over matter, she'd decided. She could not make progress if she responded to this nonsense. She'd ignore it--those things or writings that night not be hers. She'd pretend they did not exist. She would not let this Imp rule her world.
Finally, fighting exhaustion but buoyed by a sense of satisfaction with the progress she'd made with the creation of two new scenes, she closed out of her word processing program and fired up her browser to check her email for one last time for the night.
The first email enticed her. It was from Sammy, and it was slugged, gotta get there someday.
Geraldine smiled and clicked on the missive. It opened, and she faced a long string of photos showing New Orleans attractions. She gasped and her heart beat jumped into overdrive.
She'd typed New Orleans into the search engine slot. It couldn't be accidental that this email was flooded with photos from there. This missive wasn't from Sammy. This was fresh hell from the Imp.
Taking a deep breath, she scrolled her way through the photos. They were probably, she decided, all from the Internet: all captured from sights promoting New Orleans tourism. That was until she reached the fourth photo. It showed a weathered house with a sagging roof line, the kind of thing no tourism department in its right mind would feature on a public web site. The image reeked of failure and despair and the rest of the photos went down hill from there. Each scene was more bleak than the last.
She shook her head and reminded herself to ignore this, but she could not stop studying the pictures. One, the worst of the lot, featured a crow on an old cemetery urn in a remote location which was covered with creeping vines.
She shivered.
Who is this guy? Why would he do this?
* * *
The young boy cast a nervous glance up at his scowling father.
"Well, go on, Adam." The weathered man said, shoving forth his chin.
The child scrunched up his face in determination and took a timid step forward. His dad looked off in the distance, at the mountains, at the snow-capped peaks, at the world he'd known from his childhood.
"It's only a horse," he spat out in disgust.
Maybe, but to Adam the thing towered. He couldn't imagine sitting that high in the air on the broad, muscled back of a creature which might not like him. It might throw him. He'd heard stories from old timers tossed who'd been tossed and wounded. Crippled even. Wasn't that how old Jim had gotten that bum foot of his?
"When your sister was your age I couldn't keep her out of the corral. She knew all the horses and rode nearly every one of them. What's with you?"
"He's small for his age," his mother offered. She stood just to the rear of father and son. All wore thick jackets to protect them against the wind tunneling through the wide yard. "Honestly, I think this could wait."
The horse skittered two steps to his left. Adam retreated even further from this high-stepping creature.
"This won't wait," Paul Branch said evenly. "I won't let it. It's time this boy learned to ride. I was up on the horses two years before this. Come on, son."
With that Paul scooped Adam up from the ground, depositing him on top of the roan horse. It whinnied and sidestepped, but Adam's dad held the reins tight and still managed to settle his son into the saddle and adjust the stirrups. Keeping control of the roan, Paul mounted his horse, and the two riders, father and son, proceeded out of the yard.
"Don't worry, Mom." Jennifer Branch said. "It won't take long; he'll love it. You'll see."
Evelyn nodded but doubted that forecast. Adam was different. He was meant for a life unlike the one they led here. She'd always known it -- almost from the first moment he'd suckled.
She shaded her eyes with her hand and watched the figures retreat into the distance. Somehow, she'd find a way to get Adam off this ranch. She had money of her own from her folks. It would pay for a good private school. Evelyn could picture Adam roaming the grounds of a pristine boarding school far more easily than she could see him riding the hills around here.
She didn't go up against her husband under most circumstances. And she knew she'd pay a price for what she intended to do. But such considerations did not change her mind or even cause her to question her choice. Adam Branch would not grow up around here.
* * *
The Imp reached forward and logged off his computer. It was nearly three in the morning. But staying with Geraldine while she'd labored over her manuscript tonight had been worth it. They worked well together, he thought.
Leaning back in his chair, he wondered what she'd thought of his photos?
"You can find so many things that serve your purpose on the Net," he said aloud to himself. "It's all there--just waiting for a click of the mouse.
Chapter 5
The next night Wally Meeks pushed back the curtain and studied the dark street beyond his apartment window. His brows drew together. There was no question about it. The man was still there in that dark corner next to the old building housing the Asian food market.
The aging mechanic moved to his left. His shin struck the leg of a small table. He stifled an oath. He'd turned out his lights to make himself invisible to this guy from the window nearly an hour ago. Now, his muscles were stiff from inaction. His desire to walk off his tension was strong. He reached down and rubbed his shin, then stood upright and took another gander at the man.
"It's time somebody checks this guy out," Wally mumbled to himself. Never having been one to call the cops after his bouts with police in his youth, Wally would do this job himself. He made his way to his small kitchen where he grabbed his fleece-lined jacket from its hook beside the back door.
The night air, when he hit it, was brisk. It stung his cheeks and a sharp wind tunneling down the alley drew tears to his eyes. Shaking off an immediate chill, he hunkered down inside his old jacket and stepped forward.
The alley he moved through was narrow and canyon-like, with old, three-story brick apartment buildings lining either side of its concrete surface. Wally was grateful for the soft sole on his athletic shoes. They kept his footsteps from echoing across the close, enclosed space. He didn't know why he felt the need for stealth. Yet he kept to the shadows near the buildings as he made his way down this dark, narrow passage
When he reached the front sidewalk, he turned left. The turn put him on a straight course for the unknown man: The perp, he thought with amusement--the irony not escaping him that he who hated police from his youth was thoroughly enjoying playing their game and using their jargon. Maybe, the thought struck him, he'd missed his original calling. Shoulda been a cop.
But police fantasy or not, Wally's heart hammered as he strode down the uneven sidewalk. And the inside of his mouth felt incredibly dry. He picked up his pace. "If it's to be done, it's best done quickly," he muttered to himself.
He wasn't quite sure what he planned to do upon reaching the gentleman. But whatever it was, he was denied his chance to find out. For at his approach, the man, whom Wally had so dutifully observed for so many hours, turned and scurried away.
Wally stopped, watched the stranger's departing backside, and shook with frustration. How bloody unfair, he thought. He longed to swing his fists and snarl for the gentleman to return. Wally wanted to confront the man and learn just what this jerk wanted. Couldn't be good, Wally thought with a shake of his large head. Men didn't stand around on street corners at all times of night to make nice.
Although Wally had failed to get a great look at the man, he had the distinct impression that he'd seen this fellow hanging around here before. Lately, too.
"He'll be back," Wally mumbled, shoving his fists into his jacket pocket and turning to return to the welcome warmth of his apartment.
Meanwhile, in apartment 1-A of Geraldine's building, Lillian Spooner sank down onto the edge of her bed and smiled. The elderly woman had been pleased to see the gentleman return to his post outside her apartment. She had no doubt why he was there. He loved someone within this building, and he couldn't stand being too far from her.
Has to be what's going on, she thought with intense satisfaction. Lillian leaned back onto the bed and pulled the fading quilt top to her chin. She'd seen this very thing done once in a movie. She found that an intensely comforting thought. Smiling, she reached out and snapped off her beside lamp.
* * *
Adam Branch slipped home the dead bolt behind him. Who, he wondered again, could have been coming out of that particular alley and have been heading directly toward him?
He smoothed his hair which had been tossed about in the night's sharp wind and then made his way to the kitchen. He'd left the coffee maker on during his outing, and he now sniffed the contents of the glass pot. Drinkable, he decided, reaching for a cup from a shelf above the machine.
The telephone rang. He reached out and grabbed the receiver.
"Yes?" He shot a quick glance at the clock. It was nearly two in the morning.
"Sorry this call's coming so late," his sister said.
"Doesn't matter. I wasn't sleeping." He rarely did.
"It's Mom."
Branch drew a deep breath. "She's worse?"
"She's dying. I told you she was a long time ago. I . . . ah . . . the doctor thinks it's time you came out. Adam, you simply can't let it go any longer."
"No way, Sis. It isn't happening. I've already told you that, too."
"She's asking for you."
"Her problem."
"What did she ever do to you to deserve this? You're breaking her heart."
* * *
The small boy stood uncomfortably in the center of the small dorm room looking about. There was not much to see: two desks, two beds, two lamps, and one large window. His roommate had been absent when Adam's mom had ushered them into this room. As he'd felt tears gather in the corners of his eyes, he'd felt nothing but relief over their been alone. Now he cast his gaze toward the large window and blinked rapidly. Tears were still uncomfortably near.
"Well, what do you think?" his mother asked.
Adam snorted. Oh, yeah. Like she cares what I think.
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