mother took off. Two months ago. I wouldn’t tell you about the girl, ’cept I don’t know what she eats, and she ain’t gonna be let live there much longer. It’s been rented. She sneaks in now.”
“Thank you.” John walked straight back to the door and knocked on it, then tried the knob. The door was locked, but was so loose in its frame that he put a shoe against it, pushed, and it popped open. He called, “Rachel? We know you’re home.” A moment later, “There you are.” He stepped inside, out of sight, then stepped back to the door, looked at the woman, and said, “Thank you,” and to us, “Come on in.”
WE ALL trooped inside and found ourselves looking at a skinny little girl in shorts and a tube top. She wore big unfashionable plastic-rimmed glasses and had a ferociously unhappy look on her face. The house was unlit, with most of the blinds pulled, so she was working in semidarkness. The place smelled of onions and sweat. I could see one piece of furniture in the front two rooms, and that was a kitchen table. A laptop sat on the table, with a wire leading to a telephone. The laptop screen showed three open windows; a digital counter blinked in the lower right corner. She said, “That ol’ bitch gonna get her snoopy nose cut off, one of these days.”
John shook his head and said, “We need to talk.”
“I’m sick.” A sick look slipped onto her face. “I really am.”
Fuck it: she was a hacker. I said, “We’re not from the schools. We’re not from the cops. I’m a hack and I want to know what you have to do with blowing Bobby out of the system.”
That stopped her. She looked at me, forgot the others. “Where’d he go?”
“We don’t know,” I lied. “We’re part of his backup group. He’s not at his house anymore, and something you did caused the trouble.”
“Not me,” she said shrilly. She stepped protectively toward her laptop, eyes wide. “I hardly even know the man.”
“He sent you the laptop,” I said. “You’re the only person who could’ve given anything away.”
“I did not.”
“You did something. You might not even know it.” I bent over the laptop, looking at the screen. “What’re you doing here, running a dictionary? What’re you trying to get into?”
She flinched, put a protective hand out toward her screen. “I didn’t give shit to nobody.” She was loud, defiant, and still pretty small; I loomed over her.
“Then somebody came over and got an address from you. Got it off the FedEx package. Who was that?”
Her tongue curled over her bottom lip and she glanced at LuEllen and John and saw nothing but more adults, all ganged up on her. So she just said it. “That was Jimmy James Carp. He said he was gonna get me a laptop from Bobby and he did.”
“Where does he live?”
She shrugged, and relaxed a notch: she felt the blame shifting. “I don’t know. He used to be a teacher up to Adams and then he moved to Washington, D.C., and I only saw him when he said he came back to visit his momma. He told me to call him if I got the computer. I called him when I got it and he came over.”
“Came over right away?”
“Next day.”
“White man or black man?” John asked.
“White man. Really white.”
“You know his phone number?”
“I got it on my machine. You gonna do something to Jimmy James?”
“Talk to him. We’re trying to find Bobby.”
She went to the machine and her fingers danced across it. She was a hack, all right; the best way to tell is to watch the hands. Hacks are so deep into it that they essentially
will
a computer to act, their thoughts appearing on the screen as if by magic, the fingers working by reflex and so quickly it’s like watching a spider’s spinners as it weaves a web. In a few seconds, she’d closed down her online connection so we wouldn’t see it, dumped whatever program she was using, called up the Address Book from the Windows accessories program, and located Carp’s number.
As
“Thank you.” John walked straight back to the door and knocked on it, then tried the knob. The door was locked, but was so loose in its frame that he put a shoe against it, pushed, and it popped open. He called, “Rachel? We know you’re home.” A moment later, “There you are.” He stepped inside, out of sight, then stepped back to the door, looked at the woman, and said, “Thank you,” and to us, “Come on in.”
WE ALL trooped inside and found ourselves looking at a skinny little girl in shorts and a tube top. She wore big unfashionable plastic-rimmed glasses and had a ferociously unhappy look on her face. The house was unlit, with most of the blinds pulled, so she was working in semidarkness. The place smelled of onions and sweat. I could see one piece of furniture in the front two rooms, and that was a kitchen table. A laptop sat on the table, with a wire leading to a telephone. The laptop screen showed three open windows; a digital counter blinked in the lower right corner. She said, “That ol’ bitch gonna get her snoopy nose cut off, one of these days.”
John shook his head and said, “We need to talk.”
“I’m sick.” A sick look slipped onto her face. “I really am.”
Fuck it: she was a hacker. I said, “We’re not from the schools. We’re not from the cops. I’m a hack and I want to know what you have to do with blowing Bobby out of the system.”
That stopped her. She looked at me, forgot the others. “Where’d he go?”
“We don’t know,” I lied. “We’re part of his backup group. He’s not at his house anymore, and something you did caused the trouble.”
“Not me,” she said shrilly. She stepped protectively toward her laptop, eyes wide. “I hardly even know the man.”
“He sent you the laptop,” I said. “You’re the only person who could’ve given anything away.”
“I did not.”
“You did something. You might not even know it.” I bent over the laptop, looking at the screen. “What’re you doing here, running a dictionary? What’re you trying to get into?”
She flinched, put a protective hand out toward her screen. “I didn’t give shit to nobody.” She was loud, defiant, and still pretty small; I loomed over her.
“Then somebody came over and got an address from you. Got it off the FedEx package. Who was that?”
Her tongue curled over her bottom lip and she glanced at LuEllen and John and saw nothing but more adults, all ganged up on her. So she just said it. “That was Jimmy James Carp. He said he was gonna get me a laptop from Bobby and he did.”
“Where does he live?”
She shrugged, and relaxed a notch: she felt the blame shifting. “I don’t know. He used to be a teacher up to Adams and then he moved to Washington, D.C., and I only saw him when he said he came back to visit his momma. He told me to call him if I got the computer. I called him when I got it and he came over.”
“Came over right away?”
“Next day.”
“White man or black man?” John asked.
“White man. Really white.”
“You know his phone number?”
“I got it on my machine. You gonna do something to Jimmy James?”
“Talk to him. We’re trying to find Bobby.”
She went to the machine and her fingers danced across it. She was a hack, all right; the best way to tell is to watch the hands. Hacks are so deep into it that they essentially
will
a computer to act, their thoughts appearing on the screen as if by magic, the fingers working by reflex and so quickly it’s like watching a spider’s spinners as it weaves a web. In a few seconds, she’d closed down her online connection so we wouldn’t see it, dumped whatever program she was using, called up the Address Book from the Windows accessories program, and located Carp’s number.
As
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