doggy.”
“I will.” Porter did a quick about-face and headed in the direction the man had indicated.
To the GWU Gelman Library.
A bored-looking guard stopped him at the entrance.
“I forgot my ID,” Porter lied.
The Gelman Library was reserved for use by undergrads.
The guard shrugged and leaned forward slightly. Interested, no doubt, by the prospect of a confrontation. “Listen man, you either come back when you find your student ID or you come into the office and fill out the necessary paperwork.” The guard relaxed against the back of his chair.
No doubt he didn’t get many takers on the offer to fill out paperwork.
Porter looked past him through the entry doors. He hadn’t been inside the place in years. A large bank of computers took up much of the ground floor. “I, uh, just needed to get on a computer. Can I get Internet access here?”
The guard’s eyes narrowed. “Whole place is wired. You can bring your own laptop. But I can’t let you in without a valid student ID.” The man pushed his chairback and made as if to stand, signaling this tête-à-tête had come to an end.
But Porter had learned all he needed to know. Caroline could have talked her way past this guard easily enough, especially with an ID that had only recently expired. “Thanks.” Porter mumbled and left.
The walk home seemed to last an eternity, and a million possibilities presented themselves to him along the way.
A dim lamp in the foyer illuminated Porter’s way past the deacon’s bench in the downstairs hall. He activated the keypad, and his office door swung open. The place was silent, save for the ticking of a mahogany grandfather clock. He switched on the computer even before he turned on the brass desk lamp.
The machine whirred to life, flashing through startup screens. It held the key to his future. Anticipation made his skin tingle as though he was wearing it inside out. He scratched at the bumps that were already rising on his face. An excess of emotion always brought out Porter’s old enemy.
After what seemed an eternity, his desktop screen came into view. He clicked on his Internet browser and typed in the address for the Web’s most popular free e-mail account. It was the simplest, most obvious place to start.
His fingers practically shook as he attempted to sign on.
At the prompt for a username he typed “caro-linemoross.” He used “pippin” for a password.
The combination was rejected.
Porter tried using “porter” as password.
It was rejected.
He tried using their wedding date, then Caroline’s birth date.
No luck.
He slumped in his desk chair. But the hairs along the back of his neck were still vibrating with energy, spurring him on. Porter forced himself to slow his thoughts, considering things. He tried again, with a different username.
“Carolinehughes.” Her maiden name.
He entered “pippin” as password.
This time the server’s response was different.
Have you forgotten your password?
Which meant the username was correct. Of course, he thought dully, she would use her maiden name as an act of defiance.
He ran through the obvious passwords and each was rejected. Her birthday, their wedding anniversary, and their street address. But none of these worked.
Porter sat back, his desk chair creaking like a rifle shot in the dim silence. He drummed his long fingers on the mouse pad, thinking.
On a hunch he crossed the room and unlocked the filing cabinet where he stored his patient records and important documents. Flipping to the P’s, he located the one he wanted. The one labeled “Pippin.”
He carried the folder to his desk and opened it, rifling through the papers until he came to the American Kennel Club Certificate of Registry that listed the dog’s date of birth.
He swung around to the keyboard and entered the date at the password prompt. He watched, unbelieving, as the screen blinked once and a different screen took its place.
He was in.
The icon popped up for
“I will.” Porter did a quick about-face and headed in the direction the man had indicated.
To the GWU Gelman Library.
A bored-looking guard stopped him at the entrance.
“I forgot my ID,” Porter lied.
The Gelman Library was reserved for use by undergrads.
The guard shrugged and leaned forward slightly. Interested, no doubt, by the prospect of a confrontation. “Listen man, you either come back when you find your student ID or you come into the office and fill out the necessary paperwork.” The guard relaxed against the back of his chair.
No doubt he didn’t get many takers on the offer to fill out paperwork.
Porter looked past him through the entry doors. He hadn’t been inside the place in years. A large bank of computers took up much of the ground floor. “I, uh, just needed to get on a computer. Can I get Internet access here?”
The guard’s eyes narrowed. “Whole place is wired. You can bring your own laptop. But I can’t let you in without a valid student ID.” The man pushed his chairback and made as if to stand, signaling this tête-à-tête had come to an end.
But Porter had learned all he needed to know. Caroline could have talked her way past this guard easily enough, especially with an ID that had only recently expired. “Thanks.” Porter mumbled and left.
The walk home seemed to last an eternity, and a million possibilities presented themselves to him along the way.
A dim lamp in the foyer illuminated Porter’s way past the deacon’s bench in the downstairs hall. He activated the keypad, and his office door swung open. The place was silent, save for the ticking of a mahogany grandfather clock. He switched on the computer even before he turned on the brass desk lamp.
The machine whirred to life, flashing through startup screens. It held the key to his future. Anticipation made his skin tingle as though he was wearing it inside out. He scratched at the bumps that were already rising on his face. An excess of emotion always brought out Porter’s old enemy.
After what seemed an eternity, his desktop screen came into view. He clicked on his Internet browser and typed in the address for the Web’s most popular free e-mail account. It was the simplest, most obvious place to start.
His fingers practically shook as he attempted to sign on.
At the prompt for a username he typed “caro-linemoross.” He used “pippin” for a password.
The combination was rejected.
Porter tried using “porter” as password.
It was rejected.
He tried using their wedding date, then Caroline’s birth date.
No luck.
He slumped in his desk chair. But the hairs along the back of his neck were still vibrating with energy, spurring him on. Porter forced himself to slow his thoughts, considering things. He tried again, with a different username.
“Carolinehughes.” Her maiden name.
He entered “pippin” as password.
This time the server’s response was different.
Have you forgotten your password?
Which meant the username was correct. Of course, he thought dully, she would use her maiden name as an act of defiance.
He ran through the obvious passwords and each was rejected. Her birthday, their wedding anniversary, and their street address. But none of these worked.
Porter sat back, his desk chair creaking like a rifle shot in the dim silence. He drummed his long fingers on the mouse pad, thinking.
On a hunch he crossed the room and unlocked the filing cabinet where he stored his patient records and important documents. Flipping to the P’s, he located the one he wanted. The one labeled “Pippin.”
He carried the folder to his desk and opened it, rifling through the papers until he came to the American Kennel Club Certificate of Registry that listed the dog’s date of birth.
He swung around to the keyboard and entered the date at the password prompt. He watched, unbelieving, as the screen blinked once and a different screen took its place.
He was in.
The icon popped up for
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