The Millionaires

62

The pre-rush-hour traffic is easy and the midday sun is shining bright as Charlie, Gillian, and I cruise up the wide-open lanes of I-95. But even with the engine revving, and the radio humming the local pop station, the car itself is way too quiet. For the entire twenty minutes it takes to get from grandma’s old condo to Broward Boulevard, no one – not me, not Charlie, not Gillian – says a single syllable.

From my jacket pocket, I pull out the strip of photos. The white edges of the paper are starting to curl, and for the first time, I wonder if the people are even real. Maybe that’s why it came from a color printer. Maybe the photos are doctored. Fake IDs to help with a disguise. I stare down at the four faces in my lap. I change the redhead to blond; the black man to white. To me, they’re still complete strangers. To Duckworth, they were important enough to sock away in his best hiding spot. And while we’re still not sure if they’re friends or enemies, one thing’s absolutely clear: If we don’t figure out who they are and how they knew Duckworth, this trip is about to get even more uncomfortable.

“Here we go,” Gillian says, eventually breaking the silence as she points to the exit ramp. “Almost there.”

I flip down the passenger seat sun visor and use the mirror to check on Charlie.

In the backseat, he doesn’t even look up. Three days ago, he’d be scribbling in his notebook, feeding on adrenaline, and turning every awkward moment into stanza, verse and, if he were lucky, maybe even a full-fledged ballad. Rob from reality, he used to say with full adolescent swagger. But for all his bravado, Charlie doesn’t like danger. Or risk. And the problem right now is that he’s finally realizing it.

“It’s okay to be scared,” I tell him.

“I’m not scared,” he barks back. But I see his reflection in the visor. His eyes drop to his lap. For twenty-three years, he’s set his sights low – living at home, leaving art school, refusing to join a band… even taking the filing job at the bank. He’s always played it off on being carefree. But, as we learned from dad, there’s a fine line between a carefree spirit and a fear of failure.

“It should only be a few more blocks,” Gillian says, quickly clamming back up.

Like Charlie, she’ll only give me a quick, short sentence. I’m not sure if it’s our lying about the money, the loss of her dad, or just the simple shock from the attack, but whatever it is – as she grips the steering wheel in two tight fists, her childlike aura is finally starting to fade. Like us, she knows she’s jumped on yet another sinking ship – and unless we get a break soon, we’re all going down with it.

“There it is,” she announces as she makes a right turn into the parking lot. The sun ricochets off the glass-front, four-story building, but the purple-and-yellow sign above the front door says it all: Neowerks Software.

“So you’re Ducky’s daughter?” a bushy-haired man with tight wire-rimmed glasses sings as he grabs Gillian in an overexcited both-hands handshake. Dressed in a schlumpy blue button-down, high-tech wrinkle-free khakis, and leather sandals with socks, he’s exactly what you get when you cross a fifty-year-old Palm Beach millionaire with a Berkeley teaching assistant. But he’s also the only guy who came out to the lobby when we asked if we could speak to one of Duckworth’s old colleagues. “So, it’s Gillian, right?” he asks for the third time. “God, I didn’t even realize he had a daughter.”

Gillian nods sheepishly, while Charlie slingshots me a look. I raise my shield and let it bounce off my armor. After everything she’s done – everything she risked – I’m not getting into his petty mindgames.

If she wanted to turn us in, she would’ve narced on us at the condo and at the house, I say with a glare.

Not until she gets her money, Charlie stares back.

“And you’re friends as well?” Bushy Hair interrupts.

“Yeah… yeah,” I say extending a hand as he once again shakes with both of his. “W-Walter Harvey,” I say, almost forgetting my fake name. I lower my voice to keep it down, but can’t help but notice the dark-haired secretary who’s staring me down from the Star Trek black shiny reception desk. She lowers her eyes back to whatever magazine she’s flipping through, but it doesn’t make me feel any better. The whole lobby – with its space-age chrome chairs and silver amoeba-shaped coffee table – is so cold it can’t help but pump up the fear factor. “And this is Sonny Rollins,” I add, pointing to Charlie.

“Alec Truman,” he announces, clearly excited to introduce himself. “Sonny Rollins, huh? Like the jazz guy.”

“Exactly,” Charlie says, already unnerved. “Just like the jazz guy.”

“Listen, Mr. Truman,” Gillian jumps in. “I appreciate you taking the time to come out and-”

“My honor… it’s my honor,” he insists. “I’m telling you, we still miss him here. I’m just sorry I can’t stay long – I’m right in the middle of this bug hunt, and-”

“Actually, we just had one quick question we were hoping you could help us with,” I interrupt. Reaching into my jacket pocket, I take out the horizontal photo strip. If these headshots belong to people who helped with Duckworth’s original invention, we’re hoping this is the guy who’ll know. “Do any of these faces look familiar to you?” I ask Truman.

His face lights up like a kid eating crayons. “I know that one,” he blurts, pointing to the salt-and-pepper-haired older man in the first photo. “Arthur Stoughton.” Reading our confused looks, he adds, “He used to be with us over at Imagineering – now he runs their Internet group.”

“So you were at Disney too?” Gillian asks.

“How’d you think I met your pop?” Truman says playfully. “When your dad left and came here, I followed two years later. He was the front line – first in; least paid.”

“And what about this guy Stoughton?” I ask, pointing to the picture. “Did you guys all work together?”

“With Stoughton?” Truman laughs. “We should be so lucky… No, he was the old VP of Imagineering – even before he went to Disney.com, he didn’t have time for grunts like us.” As he says the words, he catches himself and looks at Gillian. “I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to… your dad was great, but they never gave us a chance to-”

“It’s okay – it’s fine,” Gillian offers, refusing to get off-subject.

“What about the other people in the photos?” Charlie leaps in.

Truman takes a long look. “Sorry, they’re strangers to me.”

“Are they even Disney people?” I ask.

“Or someone from here?” Charlie adds.

“Or are they just people he used to be friends with?” Gillian pushes.

Stepping back at the onslaught of questions, Truman goes to say something… then hesitates. Pulling away, he adds, “I really should get going…”

“Wait!” Gillian and I shout simultaneously.

Truman freezes. None of us moves. That’s it. He’s officially wigged out. “Nice meeting you,” he says as he hands me the photos.

“Please,” Gillian begs. Her voice cracks; her hand reaches out to hold his wrist. “We found the photos in dad’s drawer… and now that he’s gone… we just want to know who they are…” Letting the thought dig deep, she adds, “It’s all we have.”

Glancing over at Charlie, then back to me, Truman’s dying to walk away. But as he looks down at Gillian’s hand holding his wrist… as his eyes lock with hers… even he can’t help himself. “If you wait out here, maybe I can take the photos inside and see if anyone knows the other three.”

“Perfect – that’d be perfect,” Gillian sings.

Holding the photos and promising to bring them right back, Truman heads for the main entrance behind the receptionist. I’m tempted to follow – that is, until I see the security keypad that’s clearly designed to keep us out. It’s the same as the one they had at Five Points, except here, there’s a digital screen – like a small TV – built into the wall above the keypad. Just as Truman approaches, the screen blinks on, and nine blue square boxes appear like a telephone touchpad. But instead of numbers, each of the boxes fills with one human face, making it look like the opening credits of The Brady Bunch. Even with Truman’s shoulder blocking our view, we still see the reflection off the polished black walls.

Touching his pointer finger to the screen, Truman selects the face on the bottom right. The box lights up, all nine faces disappear, and just as quickly, nine brand-new headshots take their place. Like he’s entering the password on an alarm, Truman presses the touch-screen and selects the face of the Asian woman on the top left. Once again, the faces disappear; once again, nine new ones take their place.

“You guys really got the whole Buck Rogers thing going, don’t you?” Charlie asks.

“This?” Truman laughs, motioning to the screen. “You’ll see Passfaces everywhere in the next few years.”

“Passfaces?”

“Ever forget your PIN code at the ATM?” he asks. “Not anymore. There’s a reason people don’t forget a face – it’s embedded in us at birth. It lets us know mommy and daddy, and even friends we haven’t seen for over a dozen years. Now, instead of random numbers, they give you random stranger’s faces. Combine that with a graphical overlay, and you’ve got the one password that cuts across every age, language, and educational level. Global authentication, they call it. Let’s see your PIN code do that.”

Tapping the center square, Truman selects one last face. The box with a blond woman blinks on and off. Magnetic locks hum, the door clicks open, and Truman heads for the back with our pho-

A rush of adrenaline flushes my face. I don’t believe it. That’s it.

“Did you say Stoughton still works at Disney.com?” I call out as he leaves.

“I think so,” Truman says. “You may want to check the website, though. Why do you ask?”

“No… nothing,” I tell him. “Just curious.”

The door slams shut and Truman disappears. Charlie’s still lost, but the longer I eye the touch-screen…

“Sombitch,” Charlie mutters.

Gillian’s mouth drops open and we’re officially on the three-person bike. “You think that’s-?”

“Abso-friggin-lutely,” Charlie whispers.

I can’t help but smile.

All this time, we’ve been staring at the inkblot upside down. Like Charlie said on the way back from Five Points: You don’t safekeep what’ll get you in trouble – you keep what you want to protect. Like the combination to your bike lock. When I was in eighth grade and Charlie was in fourth, I used to keep my combo in his knapsack; he used to keep his in my Velcro wallet. It’s no different now. We thought the key was to figure out the faces; but now… it’s clear that the faces are the key. Literally. Forget random strangers; Duckworth used people he knew.

Charlie’s so excited, he’s even stopped staring at Gillian. He’s bouncing on the balls of his feet. Let’s go, he says with a nod.

As soon as Truman brings back the photos, I nod back. “I’m sorry to interrupt,” I say to the receptionist as she looks up from her magazine. “But do you have any idea where we can get some Internet access?”