Git Sync Murder

Chapter 2

2

Dale jumped at hearing his name, cracking his head against the bottom of the table. Pain flashed from the crown of his skull down his spine. Eyes watering, he heaved himself upright on protesting knees.

The lobby had somehow grown more congested. People in business suits dragged giant suitcases into the chattering mob surrounding the elevators, while a second mob completely hid the crowd surrounding the Recompile registration desk. The sight sent Dale’s pulse ratcheting up a gear, and he couldn’t help swallowing despite the sudden dryness of his mouth.

Dale reminded himself that the crowd wasn’t his problem. No matter how big and loud they were, no matter how many words were being thrown through the air, he didn’t have to recognize or interpret any of them.

He needed to focus on the person right in front of him.

The man across the table could have modeled for the Unix Monthly Calendar. His hair had drained away from his gleaming scalp, leaving a white fringe that trickled down into an impressive white beard. He wore khaki cargo pants supported by bright red suspenders over a checked button up shirt. Wire–rimmed half–moon glasses perched on the end of his nose. His convention name badge bore the number 1518 and an illegible scrawl.

Dale rubbed his head. Nothing seemed broken. Or sticky.

The man looked at him. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah,” Dale managed. “Uh, can I help you?”

“I hope so.” The man’s voice sounded like he’d started chain-smoking as a toddler. “I’m looking for Dale Whitehead.”

“Uh.” What would this stranger want with him? “I’m Dale?”

The man stuck out his right hand. “The name’s Chester,” he said with a tightlipped smile.

Time to start shaking hands, mister. Dale already regretted agreeing to help out this weekend. He belonged in his apartment with his pet gerbils and his rock collection and his split mechanical keyboards, not out here in public with all these people he’d have to listen to and touch and try to comprehend even though there were so many of them.

Dale concentrated on not grimacing or clenching his jaw, and reached out to take Chester’s hand.

He hoped Chester wasn’t one of those people you got at these conventions, who button-holed anyone who couldn’t escape. Dale loathed holding a smile and nodding while someone droned on all about their minor victories against buggy hardware or terrible software or miserable customers. He had enough trouble getting out of those conversations normally, let alone when trapped behind a vendor table.

“I was a friend of Rob Deck’s,” Chester said.

Dale’s stomach plunged to his feet. Sudden sweat broke out along his spine.

A memory flashed through him, as real as the day it had happened: Deck plummeting to his death, crashing into a buffet table inches from Dale’s outstretched hand, his demise scattering cinnamon rolls for yards.

That memory came to Dale more often than he liked. Usually late at night, after he turned the lights off and had hoped for sleep.

“Hey,” Chester said, “it’s okay.”

What had shown on Dale’s face? He relaxed his grip to drop Chester’s hand—no, not so quick, don’t make him think that you think he’s repulsive. “Sorry.” What are you supposed to be sorry about?

Dale had tried to put the events of BSD North behind him. He hadn’t expected anyone to bring them up here.

Chester studied Dale’s face with unnerving intensity. “I just wanted to say thank you. Rob was a friend of mine—we worked for Trans-Canada Carriers for years. I’m truly glad someone figured out what happened to him. If you ever need anything, this weekend or whenever, give me the word.”

Dale felt stunned. What was he supposed to say? I tried to solve a murder, screwed it up, but got lucky and panicked the killer into confessing? If I’d been smart, I would have found the killer after the first murder, before Deck got killed? Or maybe, now that I’m experienced, I’ll catch the next killer more quickly?

No, he wanted to never get near another murder again.

Dale licked his lips. “Uh… thanks?”

“Offering a drink seems inadequate,” Chester said, “but I’d be happy to. Or, if you need a job or anything, I know people who are always looking for good help. If you can solve a murder, debugging a network connection is probably no big shakes.”

Oh, great. Offer to help me find a job in front of my boss. “Thanks,” Dale said, “but a job is one thing I’m set for. I’m pretty much a lifer at the Qwilleran Home for Defective Employees.”

Chester chuckled.

Dale grimaced, then fought to push it away. Don’t tell potential customers our private jokes, dude. That’s not a selling point. We’re supposed to be professional and stuff. He could almost feel Will’s gaze burning into the side of his head.

“Look,” Dale said, “I’d be happy to talk, but I have to get these demo units up and running before everyone gets here.”

“Sure.” Was that look on Chester’s face puzzlement? Or had Dale just hurt the man’s feelings?

Dale tried to soften his voice. “I’m glad I could help, but…” He shook his head. “Nothing there came out well. It’s… it’s nothing I want to celebrate, if you know what I mean?”

Chester heaved a breath. “I fully understand. Then if not a drink for you, perhaps a drink to Deck and Mr. Lash?”

The clench in Dale’s stomach eased, and he made himself give a sad smile. “I could do that.” A drink wouldn’t be bad. He probably need one after talking to people all day, and he’d bet room service didn’t deliver beer. Plus, the lobby bar was little larger than a Kool-Aid stand. The press of a whole hotel full of geeks wanting booze would forcibly shorten any conversation.

Chester nodded. “I shall catch you in the beer hall later then, sir. We can swap horror stories.”

Dale stilled his flinch.

The best place for Dale tonight was in his room, with his laptop, catching up on 1970s Doctor Who. Even that 70s failure Starlost would beat listening to old sysadmins brag about their triumphs of nerdery. If Dale went into the convention tonight, he’d find himself surrounded by people even less socially adept than himself. It happened every time he’d tried a con.

Well, not at BSD North. But that had been a small technical conference, designed for presenting research and techniques. Conversations at BSD North were like choosing from a menu; you found the experts in a field and asked a question. Recompile was run by fans, for fans, for their own amusement. Dale had no idea where he fit.

No, he did know.

He fit right here.

At the vendor table. Talking to passersby about how great Detroit Network Services was, and how his employer’s networking mojo could solve everyone’s problems.

A six-foot-lots gangly woman wearing a long leather coat straight from the set of El Dorado strode past Dale towards the front desk, a broad flat-brimmed hat covering her dark hair, using a six-foot dark-stained wooden staff carved with weird symbols as a walking stick. The clerk had a stunned expression, as if he’d already gone past his quota of strangeness for the day and couldn’t handle talking to another human being.

Dale knew exactly how that clerk felt.

And he had to stay here until Sunday.