The Heaven Trilogy (31 page)

From all indications, it seemed that Cliff was on to him. Somehow that little snoop had gotten a hair up his nose and decided something needed exposing. So then why not undermine the kid? Showing him to be a kook might be a tad difficult; after all, the guy had already demonstrated his competence as a programmer. But that didn't mean he was squeaky clean. For starters, he was a snowboarder, and snowboarders were not textbook examples of conformists. There had to be some dirt out there on Cliff. Just enough to spin some doubts. Even a rumor with no basis at all.
Did you know that Cliff is the ringleader for the Satanist priesthood that murdered that guy in Naperville?
Didn't matter if there was such a priesthood or a murder or even a Naperville. Well, maybe it mattered a little.

By the time Kent got to work he knew precisely how he would spend his morning. He would spend it dragging Cliff into the dirt. And if need be, he would create the dirt himself with a few clicks of his mouse. Yes indeed, twenty years of hard study and work were gonna pay off this morning.

His ritual
Good mornings
came hard, like trying to speak with a mouthful of bile. But he managed them and rushed into his office, locking the door behind him. He made it halfway to his chair when the knock came. Kent grimaced and considered ignoring the fool—whichever fool it was. It didn't matter; they were all fools. It was probably Cliff the hound out there, sniffing at his door.

Kent opened the door. Sure enough, Cliff stood proud, wearing his ear-to-ear pineapple-eating grin.

“Hey, Kent. What are you doing this morning?”

“Work, Cliff.” He could not hide his distaste. The realization that he was sneering at the man flew through his mind, but he was powerless to adjust his facial muscles.

Cliff seemed undeterred. “Mind if I come in, Kent? I've got some things you might want to look at. It's amazing what you can find if you dig deep enough.” Cheese.

Kent's right hand nearly flew out and slapped that smiling face on impulse. But he held it to a tremble by his side. Things had evidently just escalated. It could very possibly all come down to this moment, couldn't it? This snowboard sniffer here may very well have the goods on him. Then a thought dropped into his mind.

“How about one o'clock? Can you hold off until then?”

Cliff hesitated and lost the grin. “I would prefer to meet now, actually.”

“I'm sure you would, but I have some urgent business to attend to right now, Cliff. How about one o'clock?”

“And what kind of urgent business is that, Kent?”

They stared at each other without speaking for a full ten seconds.

“One o'clock, Cliff. I'll be right here at one.”

The programmer nodded slowly and stepped back without answering. Kent closed the door, immediately breathing heavily. He scrambled for the desk, frantic, his knees weak. It was the end. If he had any sense at all he would leave now. Just walk out and leave Niponbank to its own problems. He had not broken any laws yet; his coworkers could do little but gossip. He would become “that poor man who lost his wife and son and then his mind.” Too bad, too, because he showed so much promise. Borst's right-hand man. The thought made him nauseous.

This whole notion of stealing twenty million dollars had been foolishness from the beginning. Insane! You just don't think up things like that and expect to pull them off. He grabbed a tissue from a box on his desk and wiped at the sweat wetting his collar.

On the other hand, if he did leave he might very well kill himself. Drink himself to death.

Kent wiped his palms on his slacks and stabbed at the keyboard. A moment later he was into the human resources secure-data files. If anyone caught him in the files without authorization, he would be fired on the spot. He ran a query on Cliff Monroe. A small hourglass blinked lazily on his screen. This exercise now seemed like a stupid idea too. What did he expect to do? Run out into the hall, ranting and raving about the programmer who was really a werewolf ? Maybe the bimbos in the lobby would believe him.
Honest, gals! He's a werewolf ! Spread the word—quick, before my one o'clock meeting with him.

A record popped on the screen, showing a home address on Platte Street in Dallas, a social security number, and some other basics. According to the record, Cliff had been employed exactly one week before his transfer to Denver in response to a request placed by Markus Borst. The reason was listed as “Replacement.” So Borst had not expected to see him back.
Surprise, Baldy! Here I am!

The rest of Cliff 's record noted a basic education with high scores, and a list of previous employers. The kid had worked with the best, according to his short history.
Well, not for long, fella.

Kent glanced back at the door quickly.
Here goes nothing
. He deleted the employment history from Cliff 's record with a single keystroke. Then he quickly changed the file number so that no corresponding paper file would match this record, and he saved the modifications. In the space of ten seconds he had erased Cliff 's history and lost the hard copy file. At least for a while.

He leaned back. Simple enough, if you knew what you were doing. Although the crashing of his heart belied that fact. Now the real test.

Kent picked up the phone and dialed Dallas. He was patched through to a Mary in human resources.

“Good morning, Mary. Kent Anthony here from IS in Denver. I'm checking on the qualifications of an employee. A Cliff Monroe, file number 3678B. Can you pull that up for me?”

He stared at the modified file on his screen.

“Yes, what can I help you with?”

“I'm trying to determine his employment history. Can you tell me where he worked before taking a job with us?”

“Just a second . . .” Kent heard the faint sound of keys clicking. “Hmm. Actually, it looks like he has no history. This must be his first job.”

“You're kidding! Isn't that a bit odd for a high-level programmer? Can you tell me who hired him?”

Mary clicked for a minute and then flipped through some papers before answering. “Looks like Bob Malcom hired him.”

“Bob? Maybe I should talk to Bob. He works there?”

“Sure. Talk to Bob. Does seem a bit odd, doesn't it?”

“Can you transfer me?”

“Sure, hold on.”

It took a full five minutes of refusing to leave a message and holding to finally get the man on the phone.

“Bob Malcom.”

“Bob, this is Kent Anthony from Denver. I'm looking into the employment history of a Cliff Monroe . . .” He went through the spiel again and let Bob look around a bit. But in the end it was the same.

“Hmm. You're right. It does say that I hired him, but, you know, I don't remember . . . Hold on. Let me look at my log.”

Kent leaned back. He bit at his index fingernail and stared at the screen.

Bob's voice crackled again. “Yep, we hired him. So it says. How long did you say he's been working there?”

Kent scooted to the edge of his seat. “Six weeks.”

“On what kind of project?”

“AFPS.”

“The new processing system? And you have management control over him?” Suddenly Bob's voice rang with a note of concern.

“No, I'm not his direct supervisor; I'm just running a query to understand his qualifications for a project he's working on for me. And yes, it
is
the new processing system. Is there a problem with that?”

“Not necessarily. But you can never be too careful.” He paused as if thinking things through.

It sounded too good to be true. Kent was trembling again, but now with waves of relief at this sudden turn of fortunes. “What do you mean?”

“I'm just saying you can never be too careful. It's odd we sent someone without an employment history to such a sensitive assignment. You never know. Look, I'm not ready to say that Mr. Monroe is anything but what he appears to be; I'm just saying until we know for sure, we should be careful. Corporate espionage is big business these days, and with the implementation of that system of yours up there—who knows? I'll tell you what. Why don't you have Mr. Monroe give me a call?”

No, that wouldn't do. “Actually, Bob, if there's any possibility that what you're saying proves to have merit, I'm not sure we want to tip Mr. Monroe off.”

“Hmm. Yes, of course. You're right. We should begin a quiet investigation right away.”

“And we may want him recalled in the meantime. I'll check with the department supervisor, but seeing as he's on temporary-replacement assignment anyway, I don't see any sense in keeping him in a sensitive position. AFPS is too valuable to risk, at any level.”

“Reassign him?”

“Reassign him immediately,” Kent insisted. “Today. As soon as I've talked to Borst, of course.”

“Yes. Makes sense. Call me then.”

“Good. In fact, maybe you could send him on an errand. Run to the bookstore or something—get him out of here while we sort this out.”

“I'll call him as soon as we hang up.”

“Thank you, Bob. You're a good man.”

Kent hung up feeling as though the world had just been handed to him on a platter. He stood and pumped his fist. “Yesss!” He walked around his office, thinking through his next play. He would tell Borst about the possibility that they had a spy working under their noses. It was perfect! Cliff the kook, a spy.

Twenty-five minutes later it was all over. Kent talked to Borst, who nearly lost his toupee bolting from his seat. Of course, he had to call Bob himself— make sure this removing of Cliff happened immediately, barking orders like he owned the bank or something. Kent watched, biting his cheeks to keep the grin from splitting his face.

The plan proceeded flawlessly. Cliff left on some errand for Bob at eleven, after popping his head into Kent's office to remind him of the one o'clock, clueless as to his impending demise. It was the last they would see of him for at least a few days while Human Resources checked out this whole business. They would discover that Cliff 's file had mistakenly been wiped out, possibly, but by then, it would not matter.

Borst changed the access codes to AFPS within the hour. Cliff Monroe was history. Just like that. Which meant that for now, all was back to a semblance of order. As long as ROOSTER had not yet been discovered, there was no reason not to continue.

Actually, there was plenty of reason not to continue. In fact, every reasonable bone in his body screamed foul at the very thought of continuing.

It was noon before Kent found the solitude he needed to check on ROOSTER's status. He virtually dove at the keyboard, punching through menus as if they did not exist. If Cliff had discovered the link, he would have left tracks.

Kent held his breath and scrolled down to the MISC folder containing ROOS-TER. Then he exhaled long and slow and leaned back in his chair. The file had been opened one week earlier at 11:45 P.M. And that was good, because that had been him, last Wednesday evening.

A small ball of hope rolled up his chest, ballooning quickly. He closed his eyes and let the euphoria run through his bones. Yes, this was good. This was all he had. This was everything.

The pinhead cop's face suddenly flashed before him, and he blinked it away. The authorities had not made further contact, and he had decided that Lacy was correct about one thing—they were just doing their job. At least that's what he insisted on believing. They simply could not know about ROOS-TER. And without ROOSTER, they had nothing. Nada. This bit about Spencer was absolute nonsense. Why Pinhead had even gone on about everything one day being found out, Kent had no clue. Certainly the man was not a psychic. But no other explanation fit. And psychics were nothing more than con men. Which meant that nothing fit. Pinhead simply did not fit into any reasonable picture.

Once he executed the plan, the point would be moot anyway. Cops would be crawling all over the bank.

He had to do this now, before some other menace cropped up. Before some other propeller-head walked into his life, flashing a pineapple-eating grin. And
now
meant within a week. Or next weekend. Which meant beginning now.

“YOU WHAT?”

“I moved in with him.”

“You moved in with Kent?” She did not answer. “Why?”

“I had no choice in the matter. Actually, I did have a choice. I could have ignored him.”

“Kent
asked you to move in?”

“No. I meant I could have ignored God. He told me to move in. And don't think I wanted to, either. Believe me, I fought this one.”

Bill Madison shook his head slowly. Helen had been walking for over two weeks now. Eight hours, twenty miles a day, without any signs of weakness. It was Jericho all over again, and Bill was not sleeping so much these days. His wife had accused him of being distracted on several occasions, and he had not bothered to deny it. Neither had he bothered to tell her about Helen's little daily ventures out into the concrete jungle. It seemed somehow profane to talk idly about the matter. And he would be less than honest to deny that a small part of him wondered whether she had somehow conjured up the whole thing. A senile intercessor suffering from delusions of walking in God's power. It was not unthinkable. Actually more plausible than believing her.

But that was the problem—he did believe her. In fact he had
seen
her.

“So how did you talk him into that?”

“It wasn't pleasant.”

“I'm sure it wasn't.” He paused, choosing his questions carefully. They spoke every other day, give or take, and Bill found himself begging time to skip forward to their conversations. Once on the phone, he fought for every minute. Invariably it was she who ended the discussion.

“I'm surprised he didn't flatly refuse.”

“He did.”

“I see. And still you're there. How is he?”

“He's no nearer the truth than he was a decade ago,” she returned flatly. “If I were walking in circles and he was the wall of Jericho, I might feel like we had come to the end of the first day.”