Hunting for Sparrows

By Beatrice Gerard

When midnight’s calm is cast into a state of alarm by attempted breaches of the network firewalls at the datacenter of Wise Woman, Inc., computer specialist Lauren is confronted with an all too urgent need to decipher the source of these cyber-attacks. Are they the work of a band of hackers or is it some sort of implanted ghost in the machine? Hard on the heels of the untimely death of Wise Woman’s founder, Claire Wise, and with a frantic sell-off of the company’s stock set to recommence at the market’s opening bell, the very survival of this progressive, socially responsible corporation hangs perilously in the balance. Hunting for Sparrows is a clever and captivating play on conventions of literary genre and traditional gender roles that stands stereotypes and assumptions on end with a riveting, thriller-paced tale of criminal greed, moral bankruptcy, and indeterminate fidelity.

This fresh, humorous take on classic themes brings to life the hyper-real hue and tone of life amongst West Palm Beach’s social registry and inside its shadowy corridors of corporate power. Here we find Thelma, Claire Wise’s daughter and the novel’s improbable heroine. She arrives in South Florida as a proverbial fish out of water, having spent her recent years in Boston living the life of an over-educated, disengaged woman of privilege. As Thelma’s hunger for certainty and closure leads her deep into a miasma of danger and duplicity, Hunting for Sparrows invokes a world of soap opera histrionics and intense psychological reflection in which lives are lost, reality is challenged, and loyalty is indistinguishable from deception. Can paranoid delusion be explained away by the fact that people really are out to get you? Is there a special providence in the inevitable discovery that everybody dies? Hunting for Sparrows is an intellectually adventurous, playfully irreverent work of fiction, with an ending that will make you want to go back and try to reassemble the pieces of this intricate and inspired literary jigsaw puzzle.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Beatrice Gerard
• Release date: Mar 8, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476304113

Book preview

HUNTING FOR SPARROWS

A Novel

BY

Beatrice Gerard

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.

Copyright© 2012 by Beatrice Gerard

All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Prologue

Thelma hasn't been popular with her fellow patronettes since she attended a gala wearing a Sox jacket over a faded Harvard T-shirt. This time she doesn't expect to turn heads as she walks into the courtyard of the Boston Museum of Fine Arts. But she does. Again. Even now, at thirty-two, she can't hit the right chord when it comes to dressing for the occasion.

Voluptuousness, my dear, has its proper place in the European collection, don't you think?

Bright colors and a plunging neckline, it seems, are not right for the Fall Gala either.

Trying to talk to the museum's director proves an ineffectual pursuit. He has avoided her since she told him how much she loved the museum's magnificent provincialism. Her father handed down the admonition.

The family's status as Patrons doesn't preclude us from showing respect for the institution.

Her mother laughed off the whole deal. What is it with men and their hypersensitivity; she had said she loved it.

Why does she even attend these affairs? They only achieve the impossible task of turning all art dull. The younger crowd is not as bad, but these women are just human hulls. They wear the make-up her family makes, they freeze time with the toxins they manufacture, they are perfumed with the magic happening in her family's laboratories. She knows what they are literally made of.

She joins a group of young artists. She smiles, she talks, she laughs. Her laughter creates a sudden hush in the crowd. She's used to the look; it no longer hurts.

Back in her brownstone, she changes into a loose T-shirt. Her room smells of pot, carryout curry and carried away sex. She shouldn't have come back alone.

She sits in the dark living room and pours herself some rum. She gazes at the river, the rain, the lights of Cambridge on the other side. Her mind is still brimming with ideas, and as the excitement fades, she becomes restless.

Browsing the list of favorite contacts on her phone is a delicate task: how to find somebody available but not desperate on a weekday night. One of the Brads drunkenly accepts her invitation, and she decides to level up with him during the wait.

The bell rings and she knows she overdid the drinking. She fumbles with the locks as he waits outside, puppy-faced and drenched.

You must be freezing. She guides him to her room, helps him remove his clothes, forgets she was about to give him dry ones, kisses him. They fall to the bed. In his arms, she forgets that he, poor and eager like any college freshman, may come to her more for the benefits of her wealth than for the indulgent and often rough sex. What's wrong with not wanting to be alone tonight?

You're so cuddly, he says.

She kisses him. He runs his hands over her hips.

And I mean this nicely, but you're like the cuddliest girl I've ever been with.

She is about to answer when a crashing sound near the front door stops her. She grabs an iron poke from the fireplace, walks out of the room, and searches the house in perfect stance. Nobody. The portrait of her mother lies on the living room floor, she turns it over and the shattered glass pricks her hand. Her mom smiles at her in the dim light.

He walks in with her cellphone. It looks important, he slurs.

Thelma glances at the warning message on the screen.

What is it, babe?

I just lost half my money. The screen shows the falling stock of her family's company.

The phone startles her with a new call.

Dad? What's happening, why are they selling? her voice fades into a hoarse whisper.

Don't be crass, Thelma. I wouldn't be calling to talk about money, Albert says.

She wishes her mind's fog would clear faster. You called, she manages to say.

Thelma, dear, your mother is dead.

Trust him to jolt her. He's wrong. Her mother doesn't die. He's calling the wrong number; he's saying the wrong things. Is mom?

Don't get emotional now, Thelma--

Gone just like that? You don't do that to your children. You don't say it; forever is too long to take it lightly.

You said mom.

Thelma, there are things we need to talk about. I'll be expecting you down here tomorrow, the call ends.

The howl echoes in the empty brownstone, spreads over the wooden floors, reverberates on the scarcely decorated walls. The iPhone shatters against the bricks.

Don't touch me, her elbow hits his chest. Get out. Get the fuck out. Get out of my house, she screams. He retreats to the room.

Get the fuck out of my house, she throws the iron poke at him, falling to her knees, sobbing.

She picks up the portrait of her mother, the wide smile smeared with blood.

Her body bends slowly over the void that opens in her womb. She is being erased by a wave of hurt that leaves nothing but her name, and in that name, she's lonelier than she has ever been.

#

The Boston-West Palm Beach red-eye is almost empty. Lauren drops on her first row seat. She's glad she doesn't need to share the row. She will need all the quiet she can get.

Her cell phone vibrates, on the screen a picture of Thelma wearing a goofy hat smiles at her. Block Call.

Not now, Thelma. I lost your mother too.

Did you say peanuts?

Did I say that aloud? Lauren laughs. I shouldn't be flying so late.

Tell me about it.

Of course, why doesn't she tell her about it? Why not have a little chitchat so she can spill her guts in a shower of self-pity. Why not share with everybody on the fucking plane that the woman who made her who she is has just died.

She speed dials. I am flying right now. I know. Two in the morning.

She can't afford three hours blocked from everything, from everybody. The selling of Wise Woman's stock took on a fury of its own. It started with a trickle, but now it seems to be out of control. They haven't waited for the local markets to open and they are selling futures like there is no tomorrow. In three hours, there may be nothing left.

Yes, you pick me up. She hangs up and starts taking notes on her Blackberry.

She needs to make a list. She needs to deconstruct the mess, simplify it to its minimal components, and put it together again, on her own terms. Or become another victim of chaos.

The flight attendant walks by her seat. You need to turn it off, sweetheart.

Not so friendly.

I will. Thanks. She erases the notes. Better not leave anything in writing.

She falls asleep and wakes up in mid-flight. Time to work. She pulls her hair in a ponytail, stretching the skin on her forehead helps her concentrate.

You look pretty like that, without the glasses and your hair up, the flight attendant sits next to her.

I am trying to work, and we are not friends.

Thanks.

Do you work for Wise Woman? she finally asks, pointing at her laptop bag.

Only freelancing.

I love their products, she thrusts her head towards Lauren batting her eyelashes, Can you tell?

No, what?

The no-run mascara. They even say it's not bad for you.

It's not. Do you cry often here?

She looks around; her eyes rest on the cockpit door for an instant. Sometimes. But I yawn a lot.

Aren't you the poster child for Wise's, Lauren smiles. She made her money with the rest, but she made her products for women like you. Doing hard work and having to look standard-pretty.

I would love to work for Wise Woman.

Yeah, pitch for a job. We can even have the job interview here.

Why?

She laughs shyly, Why? Everybody loves working for them.

They do.

They do have private airplanes, don't they?

Is that what you want to do?

If I can.

You'd better hurry then.

Why?

Because they have been waiting for too long for a chance to destroy Claire Wise and now that she's dead, they will finally do it. Who was she to try to do business unusual? Who was she to try to run her business on innovation? They have been trying to destroy her and her company because Wise's sole existence proved them wrong. They may put up with the Silicon Valley nerds, but never with a woman. They are circling the company like vultures, Claire's body is still warm but for them it's as good as a carcass.

Everybody wants those jobs, don't they? she fakes a yawn.

You don't wear their products.

I do, Lauren smiles, It's the Transparent line.

Oh, it looks plain.

Plain and quiet. Invisible from now on.

That's the idea.

#

Funerals are sparse in Palm Beach. People live too long, or go to die to distant lands. If somebody dies on the island during the winter season, the funeral becomes a welcome distraction from the dread of the interminable holiday fundraising preparations.

The cars pile up on the cemetery path in a slow motion luxury wreck, and the walkers, those always-attentive male companions, use the opportunity to look for replacements for their on-the-brink customers.

The mourners take their seats in the chapel with decorous jewelry tinkling and hushed voices.

Thelma sifts through the hollow-cheeked women in silk Dior and Chanel suits, the younger generation of Prada and Tory Burch, and the somber men in midnight gray Versace. Lauren is not there, and she's the only one who matters.

Get a grip. She digs her nails into her left hand to control the anxiety creeping up her spine. Don't give them more excuses. Tiny droplets of blood surface where her nails prick the skin. They want poise and composure? Then give them as much.

They are not just the many Palm Beach socialites. They are her family, her childhood friends. They have perhaps a single face, just one name.

They are, above all, Steve, who has risen to CEO faster than her mother's soul to heaven. His gray eyes meet hers and she manages a tiny smile when all she wants is to scream at him. Liar, thief, bastard.

She averts her eyes to find those of her father, who seems to have been born to bear his British demeanor in solemn circumstance like this.

And where on earth is Lauren? Thelma needs Lauren to hear that she is letting her imagination get the best of her, that in a few months she will see everything in a new light. But her friend isn't around today to stop the rising heartbeat and the cold sweat running down the nape of her neck.

They follow the pallbearers to a more intimate room. Cindy hurries to hold Thelma's arm when her legs fail her. Cindy is frailer, smaller, younger; but it isn't her mother who is going to vanish forever in a plume of smoke. For once, she is the stronger one.

Thelma thanks her and corrects a pleat in her skirt, recovering her poise and hiding any weakness. They sit in the cavernous orchid-draped chapel, ready to say good-bye, and Cindy holds her hand in a diminutive clammy grip that sends a jolt of discomfort up Thelma's arm.

Music by Bach starts filling the room, and the funerary director asks if anybody wants to say any final words. Albert shakes his head.

Thelma lets out a short sob. Albert lays a hand on her shoulder. She grabs her father's hand, and he lets it go with a pat.

The casket disappears into an adjacent room, floating on a conveyor belt that carries Claire Wise's remains into the blackened belly of the furnace.

Those present could use the occasion to reflect on the meaning of life, but that isn't in their nature. Neither is this death the same to all of them. To some it is the loss of an idol, to others, a weight off their chest, or a business opportunity. To Thelma, it is the entrance to a lightless tunnel.

Out of sight and hearing range, the door of the furnace seals Claire's body and their destiny.

The last step in the ritual finally comes, and Albert carries Claire Wise's ashes into a recently built mausoleum. Thelma turns around from the Greek-inspired marble facade and walks away, relieved to be alone with her feelings at last.

Can I join you? Cindy asks rushing along the gravel path to catch up with her.

Thelma nods.

I don't know how many times today I've heard 'I am sorry for your loss', Cindy says in her musical, tiny voice, It's going to ring in my ears for days.

People need to let us know that they care about us, or at least make sure we know they are willing to waste some time pretending they do.

It's what I am saying. They don't care.

Who cares? And how? And what does it matter if anybody cares?

Well, I do care. You know that, right?

You do, Cindy, I know you do.

Do you want to go out tonight?

Thelma looks at her childlike smile and keeps on walking toward her car. Short of five-four and lighter than ninety-five, you could take the woman skipping by the somber five-eight Thelma for her daughter.

Or I can stop by your house? Cindy grabs her arm and presses her slender body against Thelma's, as if she needed Thelma's warmth against her skin to survive.

Thelma turns toward her and cups her small face in her hand, Cindy, it's okay, she says looking deep into her eyes, you don't need to keep me company.

Cindy blushes, But I want to.

It irks Thelma to have to pick her words to protect Cindy's delicate sensibility, I know that. But I don't want you to. I'd rather be alone right now. She hurries down the path.

You don't want to be with me?

I want to be alone right now.

So.... I call you?

I'll call you.

A lone paparazzo takes their picture from behind a Banyan tree and Cindy, with her uncanny ability to detect intrusive attention, points Thelma in his direction with her chin.

Great. I hope he didn't capture that little Kodak moment of us.

Sometimes you are so paranoid, Thelma.

It's not paranoia. It's called growing up, and seeing people for the garbage we are.

But we are so different.

No, we have more money, that's all.

Chapter 1

Trespasses

The secure control room looks like the bridge of a 1970s conjured-up spaceship: Original Star Trek with better technology. In the watchtower of the network firewall protecting the datacenter of Wise Woman, Inc. the light is dim, softer than the music playing in the background. The room is a bead of cool air inside a bubble of air-conditioned abandon in a land of indulgence created to cater for an island of luxury.

Once inside, day and night become abstract concepts. They govern the life of other people, not of the network security guards, as the security engineers who work in this sanctuary self-effacingly call themselves.

It is midnight, but nobody would be able to tell without looking at one of the many wall clocks hanging in the front of the room, above a wall of large computer screens. And then, the only way of guessing the time would be if they knew where in the world they were, as twelve clocks show as many different times, one for every time zone within the reach of the long arm of Wise Woman, Inc.

Normally, on nights like this, only Frank keeps watch over the monitors casting their pale light over the empty quarters. But there is nothing normal about this night. Nothing has been normal for the past two nights. Brandon has come to replace him early again. The men shouldn't startle when a whir and a crank tell them that somebody has scanned a card and punched the right combination into the door-lock; but they turn around in their chairs when Lauren and Mark walk in. Frank may be in charge of the network security, but he could physically defend the network should barbarians decide to exchange bytes for axes. But not tonight.

Oh. Jumpy, Mark says.

I am going home, answers Frank. The former Ohio State linebacker looks beaten-up, his nerves mowed down by apprehension.

Did it happen again? Mark asks in his raspy voice, still wearing his leather biker's outfit.

Not yet. You may be the lucky one. It's the wait. I just need out.

It's okay if you go home, Mark says.

Hey Lauren. What brings you down to the dungeon? Brandon asks.

She wears her usual forthright smile, her eyes taking in everything and everyone from behind her low-key designer glasses. A lonely silver earring frames her long neck. She's wearing a white silk blouse, a mustard-yellow miniskirt, and matching flats. The perfection in her dress is her conscious acknowledgment that there is more to her than just a beautiful mind.

I told her about these intrusions. The power failures. But it's something we imagine, right?

She crosses the arms over her chest to cover her body's reaction to the cold room. None of them would dare mentioning it, but they will be distracted by it.

Don't put words in my mouth, Mark. I said I'd rather have proof than opinions before I start to worry about this.

I, for one, am glad I am gone. Not sure I want to fight this guy again, says Frank.

Have you tracked him down? she asks.

You try, Frank closes the door behind him.

Here he is again, they follow Mark's voice to the screen.

A blinking yellow dot on the topographic schema of the internal network alerts of an attempt to breach through one of the internal firewalls.

Lauren darts to one of the stations and starts working the keyboard. Let me see who you are, you little prick. Where are you coming from? An anonymizer in Copenhagen. Hack their logs, Brandon.

Ay, ay. Brandon hacks the secure server and sends her the information.

Oh, nice. We have him in Lyngby. Can you get where this guy's actually connecting from?

Let me see. Aalborg, it is. This guy is good. He's hiding behind proxy after proxy.

Don't give me any more proxies, tell me where he is.

Easy there, captain. Ikast it seems to be. Scratch that, it's Ringe. Nope, and the winner is…. Here it is, Helsingør.

Where exactly is he?

Let me see. Denmark. Helsingør. Laboratory of Marine Biology of the University of Copenhagen. A building at Strandpromenaden 5. Do you want me to send the police over?

Is there anybody around we should worry about?

Mark scans a list of businesses, owners and renters of each building, apartment and room within fifty yards of the attacking Internet address. Not that I can tell right now. Just University buildings and the pier. They may be mobile.

Of course, she pauses. Let's not involve the police just yet. Let's have a little fun and see what he actually wants. He's most probably a kid. Let's give him a chance to reform, she smiles, knowing that she had many such chances growing up.

He is no kid.

He's a talented one, Lauren says. This is a neat trick, if I can pull it off. Now, with his IP address, I am going to send a string of commands directly to his GPU.

Nice. Can you actually communicate directly with his graphics card? asks Brandon, whose hacking skills never allowed him to penetrate anything tougher than the State Department.

She stresses the i, I can. Watch this, gents. This is how you bypass the main CPU and the OS. Can't do much in terms of hacking the machine, but I can send messages directly to his screen.

Neat.

Do we have a visual?

Brandon brings a real-time satellite image of Strandpromenaden, complete with a bright moon shining on the fresh snow.

Let's give this guy a mind-fuck. She opens a chat window and connects directly to the intruder's Internet address.

The flashing dot disappears from the screen. The lights go off. The power supplies break in a cacophony of beeping alarms. All the wall screens go dark. The lights come back on and one screen shows a flash of a faded front page of The Economist. Claire's triumphant smile over the text "Can a female company survive in a male world?"

The picture goes back to the 1980s, and the original hangs proudly on Claire's office. The article covered her battles against raider funds and it was as complimentary to her as the financial press could be to a woman back then, or ever.

Brandon turns to Lauren, Do you feel alright?

I am okay. Thanks. I must admit stuff like this belongs under the definition of weird in Wikipedia, Lauren starts working her hair into a ponytail, Claire didn't make many friends when she was alive, and now that she's dead, we may have lost our allies. How can they gain access to our power breakers?

We checked, and we don't know.

What do you mean you don't know? They are entering our defenses as they please. How did they manage to show that image?

We don't know.

Sometimes she would prefer not to be working with the best. When you work with the best and they sound like idiots, when you know you would sound like an idiot if pressed for an answer, you know you are in trouble.

"Whoever is doing this is not doing it for the lulz. If this is what I think it is, it could mean really bad news for the company."

#

Hi, you didn't call. Do you want to go out tonight?

Why? Where? Thelma's voice is hoarse, perhaps she cried in her sleep.

I don't know? Where do you want to go?

Nowhere?

I'll go over there, then.

Cindy, don't. The call ends. Thelma calls back but Cindy doesn't answer. Great, just great.

A shower is what she needs, if only she could make it to the bathroom ten feet away. The distance between her bed and the bathroom door is daunting; every muscle in her body has doubled its weight. She sits on the edge of the bed. This makes her stomach look flabby. She squeezes the flesh between her fingers until it hurts. Her body smells different, a bitter scent coming from every pore in her skin. She sniffs at her hair and the odor is there too. I do need a shower, she walks tentative steps toward the bathroom.

The water is perfect; the strength of the shower massaging her body is perfect. She grabs the hand shower and brushes away the scent of death in her skin. The shower pounds on her head and shoulders, the hand shower massages her body; her skin reddens in the fog, the mist of water cleansing her body and soul.

She turns on the wall sprayers, she smiles again. The hot water envelops her