Phillip McCollum

 

I opened the car door and stepped out onto a freshly patched pothole. Apparently unable to determine where the curb was, the computer decided it was going to park in the middle of the street. As if the “CyberCrimes Investigation Unit” insignia splashed across the car doors didn’t attract enough attention, now I had to leave an obstacle in the road for the neighbors. I could already hear my phone call to the department help desk - “Did you try turning it off and on again?” Good question. Yes, five times in fact.

I’ll have to remember to thank the captain for volunteering me to take part in this Automated Driving System beta test.

I turned around and looked toward the house. I felt as if I had taken a wrong turn somewhere and ended up on a movie set. There was the splinter-free white picket fence, a rock-lined garden of rosebushes and pink petunias, and a lawn so perfectly trimmed that it would bring the most surly barber to tears. The tiny wooden house must have been built in the mid-20th century, but it had obviously been maintained with care.

It was quite the contrast from the seedier parts of the city I normally worked in. I understood the Bureau wanted to expose its agents to different departments, but I couldn’t wait for this temporary re-assignment to end and for some real work.

I opened the tiny gate and walked up the brickwork to the front door. After a polite knock, I heard dull clangs and shuffling feet coming from the other side. The deadbolt rattled as it was unlocked and the door swung open quickly, releasing a patch of warm air from the house.

“Well, hello, Sweet Pea,” a tiny voice said.

Standing a foot below my head was a brittle and delicate woman, looking all of the eighty years old the records showed her to be. Her wavy, silver hair settled just above her shoulders, and tied around her waist was a flour-dusted apron, displaying a repeating pattern of a fork and knife chasing a fried egg.

“Come on in,” she said, turning around. “I just pulled the cookies out of the oven.” She scurried into the kitchen without looking back. Despite the first impression that she might collapse if a fly were to land on top of her head, her motions exhibited a youthful energy.

I closed the door behind me and stepped into the entryway. It opened up to a small living room that reminded me of my late grandmother’s home. Faded yellow and baby blue floral prints covered a loveseat, an adjacent leather recliner bled pea-green and against one of the walls was a shabby off-white credenza, its surface covered in colorful postcards.

A few oil paintings hung throughout the room, ranging from autumn landscapes to your basic fruit bowl. Among them was a single eight-by-ten photograph. It was a typical family-style portrait, probably taken at a local department store, yellowing from age. A younger Mrs. Cartwright was standing to the right of a seated man, presumably her husband. He wore sharp-rimmed glasses and had no discernible hair on his head. Though she wore a large smile, her husband appeared quite stiff and serious. Part of me expected to see other photos showing children and grandchildren, but there were none, in accordance with what the records showed.

I heard a clatter behind me and turned to see Mrs. Cartwright walking back in from the kitchen. She was carrying a tray which held a pair of tea cups, a steaming pot of tea and a full plate of cookies. They appeared to be more chocolate chip than cookie.

“You haven’t lived until you’ve had my double-chocolate chip cookies.” She motioned towards the recliner. “Please, have a seat and help yourself.”

As I sat down on the edge of the recliner, she lightly blew into her cup and took a sip. I noticed she kept staring at me through the rising steam.

“Well, aren’t you hungry?” she asked. “Have a cookie! I promise you won’t be disappointed.”

No reason to not be polite. I grabbed a cookie sitting on top of the pile and took a bite. She kept staring at me.

I chewed a couple of times and finally swallowed. “They’re delicious.”

Her already long smile seemed to stretch a little more. I put the rest of the cookie back down on the plate and dusted the crumbs from my hands.

“Mrs. Cartwright, I believe you know why I’m here.”

“Yes, I received a notice that I was to expect you today. And as of a year ago, it’s Miss Cartwright. But please, call me Mona.”

I paused. “I’m sorry, Mona. I didn’t see in the records that your husband passed away.”

“He didn’t,” she replied. She took another sip of tea. “He left me for another woman.”

“I’m… I’m sorry.”

Though she didn’t appear to be bothered, I was sure she didn’t want to discuss it any further. After an awkward moment of silence, I cleared my throat.

”Mona, as required by the Online Cheating and Gamesmanship Abatement Act, I’ve brought recorded evidence of your online activities. You do realize that since the passage of that act, any sort of cheating within a multiplayer online video game is considered a Class 6 felony?”

She put down her cup. “And what may I call you, young man? You haven’t even told me your name.”

“Agent Winchell.”

“I hope your parents were kind enough to give you a better first name, Agent.”

I cracked a smile. As innocent as Mona seemed, I couldn’t help but feel she wasn’t all she appeared to be. But why shouldn’t I play along for a little while? After all, she had been nothing but kind to me and I couldn’t just throw her up against the wall, slap on the cuffs, and treat her like some of the other criminal scum I’ve dealt with. Because she was so old, I wanted to make this as smooth as possible for her.

“No, they decided on Charles,” I replied.

“A very distinguished name, Charles. It fits you well.”

“Thank you.”

After another moment of awkward silence, I straightened up, reached into my pocket and pulled out a small holoprojector. I pushed the little red button, generating a floating translucent display over the coffee table. On the left side was a photo of Mona including details about her age, height, weight, hair color, and a multitude of personal notes. To the right of that, a video played showing a cartoony dwarf in a forest of digital trees. He was wearing a funny looking helmet with deer antlers and running around with a large iron axe, chopping away at various woodland creatures. He was moving at an incredible rate and the axe took a bite out of everything in its path. The giant spiders and rabid wolves attempting to maul him didn’t stand a chance.

“According to the official Land of Lorecraft records,” I began, “you amassed fifty-thousand character kills within only three weeks of your account registration date. Of course, this raised several red flags within their corporate security department, and we were brought in to take over the investigation. Their system log files enabled us to obtain a warrant so we could tap your gaming sessions, the results of which you see on the display.”

I turned from the image to look at Mona. She was gazing silently at the frenetic dwarf, trying to keep up with the action. All was quiet except for the dwarf’s canned death cries.

I looked back at the projection and continued. “Between August and November of 2034, you rose in rank on the competitive ladders from the very bottom to number 3 in the nation. You were even invited to join an elite guild, The Fancy Fraggers. They elected you as their chairperson within the first month. That’s quite extraordinary.”

Mona remained speechless, the reflection of the rabid dwarf dancing in her eyes.

I reached out and tapped my fingers at the interface. A new image popped up over the video and showed lines of computer code. I dragged my finger across a subsection of text, highlighting it.

“Please observe this section of code. It was identified as an abnormality in the client-server routines. This programming sequence was illegally inserted into the network packets during your repeated gameplay sessions, allowing you to manipulate the speed algorithms assigned to your character. In essence, your dwarf was able to outmaneuver other players at an absurd rate, and therefore, become almost unstoppable.”

I reached down and pressed the red button, causing the hologram to disappear. I turned to her.

“And there you have it, Mona. The evidence against you has been presented. Do you have anything to say before we head down to the Bureau for processing? I can help you gather your things and give you time to make arrangements with friends.”

Mona’s eyes remained in the same position, staring at the air where the image once hung. Her lips were tightly pressed and her jaw showed signs of tension. She turned and looked directly at me.

“Please try to understand, Charles. I’m a very old woman. My husband abandoned me for another woman last year. I was never blessed with children and so, of course, no grandchildren to spoil over the holidays.” She gazed wistfully down at her bony arms and age-spotted hands and looked back up at my face. I could see her eyes beginning to moisten. “I don’t expect that I’ll be around much longer. Can’t an old woman be granted some happiness in her final years? A bit of excitement that’s been missing for far too long?”

I wanted to avoid her gaze. I looked up and found the photo of smiling Mona standing beside her stoic husband. A solitary photo among a sea of generic paintings.

“I’m sorry Mona.” As painful as it was, I looked directly into her eyes. “My hands are tied.”

She nodded slowly and focused on the teacup in her hands. Her tired, old hands. “I understand,” she whispered.

At least that’s what I think she said as the image of her staring into the cup unleashed a torrent of emotion. I remembered spending a day in my grandma’s house. Grandpa had just passed away a couple of weeks prior, and my mother and I were helping her clean out his things, deciding what to keep and what to donate to their church. Through all of the commotion of emptying closets and packing boxes, one thing had seared itself permanently into my consciousness: an image of my grandmother sitting at the kitchen table. She never moved a muscle except for the occasional blink. She just sat there, gripping a cup of coffee with both hands and staring down at the dark liquid, never saying a word. There was a heaviness that permeated the air and gripped my throat. I remember finding it hard to breathe when I looked at her and feeling a dull pain in my chest. I’d never felt pain like that before.

And now here I was in Mona’s living room, finding my throat constricted and fighting that same ache in my chest.

I pushed the projector button and the image showing the offending code reappeared. I poked my fingers at the air a few times and was prompted for a password. After punching in my key code, another prompt displayed:

Are you sure you wish to permanently delete this file?

I hesitated for a second and saw Mona still looking down at her tea. I hit Yes and a few moments later, a message flashed across the screen:

File deleted successfully.

I cleared my throat and shook my head.

“When are they going to work the bugs out of these things? You know, these new system upgrades they’ve been putting in have been nothing but trouble. Every once in a while, information gets corrupted or even lost.”

I powered off the projector and put it back in my pocket.

Mona looked up at me and I could see where tears had stained her cheeks. She promptly stood up, wiped her face and smiled. I could feel the pain in my chest beginning to ease.

“Let me wrap up these cookies for you.”

She returned shortly from the kitchen and emptied the plate of cookies into a brown bag. I followed her to the front door, and as I exited, I turned around.

“I’m sorry to have bothered you today Mona. Please take care of yourself and be careful.”

She smiled back. “Thank you, Charles. You’re always welcome to stop by for tea and cookies.”

I nodded and headed toward the car.

* * *

Mona slowly shut the door behind Charles and grabbed the tray sitting on the coffee table. As she was returning to the kitchen, she heard a rustling behind her.

The old man emerged from the hallway leading to her bedroom, one shaking hand on a cane and the other in his pants pocket.

“Who was that, dear?” he asked.

“Oh, no one, Sweet Pea. Just the paperboy collecting his payment.”

 

Phillip McCollum hatched from the sleepy, but always interesting, Mojave desert in Southern California. He currently lives in Orange County and spends the majority of his day looking at network packets and plugging in cables. When he’s not working the day job, his time is divided between writing fiction, composing electronic music, playing video games and spending time with his patient and lovely wife.