Elusion(44)

When Estelle’s lips twitch, I fear she’s going to tell me to take a seat in the lounge area. Instead she leans in a little and whispers, gesturing in the other assistant’s direction. “Just don’t let Andrew see you. He’s so anal when it comes to rules.”

I smirk as she pulls out her passcard and waves it in front of a lockpad near a set of glass doors. “I have been rooting for you two since you were kids. You are the perfect couple!”

“Thanks,” I say, without looking her in the eyes.

There’s less guilt that way.

Estelle glances at Andrew to see if he’s paying attention, and then she turns back to me, mouthing the words “Go ahead.”


I walk down a long, narrow hallway, clenching the bag in my hand, and forge ahead until I reach the corner office—the one Patrick moved into after my dad died. As soon as the motion sensors pick me up, the door opens. I haven’t stepped foot in this room in months, and I’m stunned by how different it looks. The furniture is very trendy and modular. There’s a glass conference table with built-in monitor capabilities, and three InstaComm walls, each of them lit up with holographic screen savers displaying natural landscape scenes.

The floor-to-ceiling window screen in the far corner of the room pictures a wooden cabin set in the middle of a dense forest of evergreens and bare trees, covered in pure, lily-white snow. I recognize it immediately—it’s the cabin described in Walden. I can’t help but think that Patrick must have kept this image as a tribute to my father.

Suddenly I feel like a cold, dead hand is squeezing my heart, and I quickly turn on my heel. It’s almost as if my legs have decided to run out of here as fast as they can, regardless of what my mind has to say about it. But I plant my feet firmly on the floor, refusing to give in to these feelings of doubt. As much as I care about Patrick I simply don’t think I can trust him to tell me what’s going on.

I keep reminding myself of that over and over again, and thankfully, when I pull the QuTap Josh gave me out of my pocket, I’m able to ignore everything else except for my mission. I place the cinnamon rolls on the conference table and finger the button-size piece of magnetic alloy in my hand. It’s hard to believe that something this tiny can do as much as Josh claims, but as I take a seat behind my father’s quantum computer, I’m about to put all my faith into it—and the person who managed to get it for me.

I set the QuTap in my lap and pull my tab out of my pocket. I wake it from sleep mode and see that Josh’s avatar is blinking available on my contacts list. I tap on the touch screen, typing him a message.

Regan: I’m inside. What now?

I barely have to wait a millisecond for a reply.

Josh: Put on latex gloves, then place QuTap on panel B2.

I do exactly as he instructs, taking the gloves out of my other pocket and slowly pulling them over my hands. I need to be prepared in case the keyboard is wired for fingertip recognition and make sure I don’t leave any prints.

Then I pick up the QuTap and look for the panel marked B2. It takes me a minute to find the labeling, but once I do, I aim the device at it, the magnetic pull practically yanking it out from between my rubbery fingers. As soon as I hear it latch on to the panel, there’s a slight clicking sound. I type on my tab again.

Regan: QuTap is on. Next step?

Josh: Wait for the lights, then tell me when you see icon.

As if the computer can read Josh’s texts, all the panels are alive with lines and squares of digitized white light. A virtual keyboard appears at the bottom of the screen as images flash across, the fingertip analysis seemingly circumvented. I wait until the icon from the QuTap blinks on screen, a simple and neat red ball.

Regan: Icon is up.

Josh: Type in //reboot// then press //Alt+Command//

As my pulse beats triple time, I follow Josh’s advice, gently tapping in the word “reboot” and hitting Alt+Command. The lighting on the panel dims a little, then flickers on and off, creating a strobe effect. I cringe, thinking I’ve screwed something up. Just as I’m about to tell Josh that, the lights return to normal, and at the top of the screen a message appears.

Reboot successful.

Good morning, Mr. Simmons.

Time: 7:12 a.m.

My fingers furiously dance across the screen of my tab, my left knee bouncing up and down.

Regan: It worked.

A few seconds tick by; then Josh responds.

Josh: Do generalized programming search, using this code //1r3c70rY5020//

I take a cleansing breath and stretch my fingers, biting my lower lip as I begin to type. Once I’m through, I receive a message from the computer.

I’m sorry, Mr. Simmons. We are unable to locate your information at this time.

Nothing. But then again, we didn’t expect this to be easy.

Regan: No luck.

Josh: Try advanced search //4DV4NC3D 534RC|-|5020//

Again, I attempt to seek the information Josh and I desperately need, but the advanced search leads us right back to the same message.

I’m sorry, Mr. Simmons. We are unable to locate your information at this time.

I hear a noise and freeze in place, but when I realize it’s the whoosh of an automatic door opening a few offices down the hall, I type on my tab at lightning speed.

I don’t know how much time we have left, but it can’t be a lot. Estelle said Patrick’s call wouldn’t run long.