hot sun and sweaty days. He didn’t last long and he found a job away from the sun and at night… he now cleans offices after closing hours.
He clicked on the evening news and as expected one of the top stories was indeed the little girl, Ripley Newenberg age five. He learned her name. He learned her age, then he learned the most shocking news yet… as the news reporter stated—“Earlier today Ripley Newenberg, age five was taken from this Forest Park recreational park, just slightly before eleven this afternoon, right before she was to have lunch with both parents. Ripley Newenberg is from Fort Valley and is the child of Benjamin and Lindsay Newenberg. Benjamin is the borough manager. Police are doing everything in their power. If you have any information regarding the missing little girl you are urged to call immediately… .” Whatever the reporter said after that fell on deaf ears, for all he could dwell on was the town Ripley was from, Fort Valley, that town was the next town over… “son-of-a—bitch” he said aloud, then thought, everything went so well and now this. Then a picture flashed on the screen, a pencil drawn sketch more like it and he heard the words from the reporter, “walks with a limp”. He was shocked… . and relieved, the picture looked nothing like him… . so he thought.
. . .
Chapter 13
W ith that free cup of Joe in one hand and adjusting her frames with the other, Jorja started to glanced over the daily budget for the 8 th of April; there was such a thing as a daily budget, even though it was a Saturday, even though it was her birthday she was in the office, working, not off, not with her family or what was left of her family, not with friends, not opening any presents, not blowing out candles, but working; there was no birthday celebration for Jorja. She had an invite to her uncle’s but it just didn’t seem right to be there, something in the back of her mind was churning and she knew she would ask the wrong question or questions during dinner so she took the safe bet and opted out with the work excuse. She really wasn’t into work and her mind drifted to her mother, her father, her past and all those nagging questions she had yet to ask. She remembered her mother’s favorite dress, it was yellow, she was trying to remember the last time she saw her mother in it and before she knew it she was lost in a distant memory. When she refocused her mind she found herself looking at the yellow sticky attached to the corner of her twenty-one inch LCD screen. The yellow sticky had just a series of numbers, ending in twelve dot one six eight. She wrote this number down just before or after the shootings at the mall, she couldn’t remember when. She completely forgot about the sticky, it just became part of the monitor, along with other various fruit stickies from apples, bananas, and oranges. They were cheap decorations, a little collection of hers which simply faded into the bezel of her monitor. Then she started to remember why she wrote this IP address down in the first place, and quickly started wondering, wondering where this IP address led. There was some phrase amidst the back of her mind, something about a cat, something about curiosity, as she opened a DOS prompt and tried to communicate with the IP address. A simple command really: ping. Ping and the IP address and hit return. So ping she did and to much surprise she received a reply, very much like dialing a phone number, listening to it ring, and then someone picking up—basically proving that the number was indeed valid. Her answer was returned—three lines on the screen, each with the same exact IP address in return—meaning she was able to reach the computer, the computer that owned that IP address. The IP address ending in twelve dot one six eight. The IP address as of several months ago she herself personally locked down. The IP address that was somehow magically opened without her knowledge.
He clicked on the evening news and as expected one of the top stories was indeed the little girl, Ripley Newenberg age five. He learned her name. He learned her age, then he learned the most shocking news yet… as the news reporter stated—“Earlier today Ripley Newenberg, age five was taken from this Forest Park recreational park, just slightly before eleven this afternoon, right before she was to have lunch with both parents. Ripley Newenberg is from Fort Valley and is the child of Benjamin and Lindsay Newenberg. Benjamin is the borough manager. Police are doing everything in their power. If you have any information regarding the missing little girl you are urged to call immediately… .” Whatever the reporter said after that fell on deaf ears, for all he could dwell on was the town Ripley was from, Fort Valley, that town was the next town over… “son-of-a—bitch” he said aloud, then thought, everything went so well and now this. Then a picture flashed on the screen, a pencil drawn sketch more like it and he heard the words from the reporter, “walks with a limp”. He was shocked… . and relieved, the picture looked nothing like him… . so he thought.
. . .
Chapter 13
W ith that free cup of Joe in one hand and adjusting her frames with the other, Jorja started to glanced over the daily budget for the 8 th of April; there was such a thing as a daily budget, even though it was a Saturday, even though it was her birthday she was in the office, working, not off, not with her family or what was left of her family, not with friends, not opening any presents, not blowing out candles, but working; there was no birthday celebration for Jorja. She had an invite to her uncle’s but it just didn’t seem right to be there, something in the back of her mind was churning and she knew she would ask the wrong question or questions during dinner so she took the safe bet and opted out with the work excuse. She really wasn’t into work and her mind drifted to her mother, her father, her past and all those nagging questions she had yet to ask. She remembered her mother’s favorite dress, it was yellow, she was trying to remember the last time she saw her mother in it and before she knew it she was lost in a distant memory. When she refocused her mind she found herself looking at the yellow sticky attached to the corner of her twenty-one inch LCD screen. The yellow sticky had just a series of numbers, ending in twelve dot one six eight. She wrote this number down just before or after the shootings at the mall, she couldn’t remember when. She completely forgot about the sticky, it just became part of the monitor, along with other various fruit stickies from apples, bananas, and oranges. They were cheap decorations, a little collection of hers which simply faded into the bezel of her monitor. Then she started to remember why she wrote this IP address down in the first place, and quickly started wondering, wondering where this IP address led. There was some phrase amidst the back of her mind, something about a cat, something about curiosity, as she opened a DOS prompt and tried to communicate with the IP address. A simple command really: ping. Ping and the IP address and hit return. So ping she did and to much surprise she received a reply, very much like dialing a phone number, listening to it ring, and then someone picking up—basically proving that the number was indeed valid. Her answer was returned—three lines on the screen, each with the same exact IP address in return—meaning she was able to reach the computer, the computer that owned that IP address. The IP address ending in twelve dot one six eight. The IP address as of several months ago she herself personally locked down. The IP address that was somehow magically opened without her knowledge.
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