Bones to Ashes

Lesieur and I exchanged glances. The snake’s name was Harpo?

Everyone sat. While Lesieur booted the laptop, the rest of us stirred powdered cream and/or sugar into the opaque brown sludge in our Styrofoam cups. Hippo went with two packets of each.

“All set?”

Nods around.

Lesieur inserted Cormier’s thumb drive. The PC bong-bonged.

“Cormier was security-conscious but amateur.” Lesieur’s fingers worked the keyboard. “Want to know his system?”

“Talk quick, this stuff is lethal.” Ryan pounded a fist to his chest.

“Next time get your own freakin’ coffee.” Hippo flipped Ryan the bird.

Ryan fist-pounded his chest.

I recognized the jesting for what it was. Morgue humor. Everyone was on edge, jittery about the images we might soon see.

“The best passwords are alphanumeric,” Lesieur began.

“Sheez.” Hippo doing derisive. “It’s the jargon not the coffee that’s gonna take us out.”

“An alphanumeric password is composed of both numbers and letters. The more random the combination, and the more characters included, the safer you are.”

“Don’t rely on your puppy’s name backward,” I said.

Lesieur continued as though no one had spoken.

“Cormier used an old trick. Pick a song or poem. Take the first letter of each word of the opening line. Bracket that string of letters with numbers, using the date of the password’s creation, day at the front, month at the back.”

The Windows screen opened and Lesieur entered a few more keystrokes.

“Generates a pretty good encryption chain, but a lot of us geeks are wise to the trick.”

“A double-digit, multiletter, double-digit pattern,” I guessed.

“Exactly.”

Ryan was right. The coffee was undrinkable. Sleep-deprived as I was, I gave up trying.

“Working on the assumption that the password was created this year, I checked music charts, created letter sequences from the opening lines of the top fifteen songs for each of the fifty-two weeks, then ran combinations of all month-day number pairs with all-letter strings. Hit with the program’s four hundred and seventy-fourth alphanumeric chain.”

“Only four seventy-four?” Hippo’s distaste for technology was evident in his sarcasm.

“I had to try both French and English.”

“Lemme guess. Cormier was hot for Walter Ostanek.”

Three blank looks.

“The polka king?”

The looks held.

“The Canadian Frank Yankovic?”

“You’re into polka?” Ryan.

“Ostanek’s good.” Defensive.

No one disputed that.

“You should know him. He’s your homeboy. Duparquet, Québec.”

“Cormier used Richard Séguin,” Lesieur said.

Hippo shrugged. “Séguin’s good, too.”

“The week of October twenty-ninth, Séguin’s “Lettres ouvertes” charted at number thirteen in Montreal. He used the opening line of a song from that album.”

“I’m impressed,” I said. I was.

“A fourteen-character alphanumeric code will keep the average hacker out.” Lesieur hit Enter. “But I’m not your average hacker.”

The screen changed to black. On the upper right was a graphic showing old-fashioned spool film, below it a playlist offering a dozen untitled selections. Digits indicated the duration of each. Most ran between five and ten minutes.

“The thumb drive contains video files, some brief, some with running times of up to an hour. I’ve opened nothing, figuring you’d want the first look. I also figured you’d want to start with the shorter clips.”

“Go.” Ryan’s tone was devoid of humor now.

“This is virgin territory, people.” Lesieur double-clicked the first listing.

The quality was poor, the duration six minutes.

The scene showed things I never imagined possible.

31

T HE VIDEO HAD BEEN SHOT WITH A SINGLE HANDHELD CAMERA. There was no sound.

The setting is a room done in roach-motel cheap. The side table is wood-grain plastic. The double bed is plaid-quilted. A shadow hairlines from a nail on the wall above the headboard.

Normally my mind would have played with that. What had been removed? Terrible mass-market art? A print of beer-drinking dogs playing cards? Something fingering the motel’s name or location?

No speculation this time. All my senses were focused on the horror center stage.

A girl lies on the bed. She is pale and has cornsilk hair. Bows double-loop from the ends of her pigtails.

My breath stopped in my throat.

The girl is naked. She can be no more than eight years old.

Rising onto her elbows, the girl turns her face toward something off camera. Her eyes sweep past the lens. The pupils are caverns, the gaze unfocused.