Chapter 7-1
2013 Words
The Barb Goffman Presents series showcases
the best in modern mystery and crime stories,
The Barb Goffman Presents series showcases
the best in modern mystery and crime stories,
personally selected by one of the most acclaimed
personally selected by one of the most acclaimedshort stories authors and editors in the mystery
short stories authors and editors in the mysteryfield, Barb Goffman, for Black Cat Weekly.
field, Barb Goffman, for .
byToby Hayes parked in the gravel lot and honked the horn, like always, and a minute later Dew Jackson opened the flimsy door of his trailer, locked it behind him, and stomped down the cinderblock steps. Like always. But this time Dew, holding a large duffel bag, stopped at the foot of the steps. He stood there staring, his mouth hanging open.
Toby couldn’t help smiling. It took a lot to surprise Deward Jackson.
Dew, not smiling, continued across his sandy yard and climbed into the passenger seat, the bag in his lap. His eyes had narrowed to slits. In a low, tight voice he said, “Where’d you get the car, Toby?”
notToby had rehearsed this on his way here. Borrowed it from my cousin. Rented it from the dealer on North Main. Bought it used, from a guy strapped for cash at work. But he didn’t say any of these things. After all, Toby had no money for either renting or buying, and no cousin of his would give him the time of day. And the car—a silver AltaStar coupe—damn sure didn’t look used. It looked brand new. It even smelled brand new.
Borrowed it from my cousin. Rented it from the dealer on North Main. Bought it used, from a guy strapped for cash at work.So he told the truth. “I jacked it. A guy was parked at the curb just down from my house when I was walking to my truck. I pulled my g*n, tapped on his window, made him open his door.”
Dew shut his eyes and sighed. “Where is he now, this guy?”
“Layin’ in the tall weeds beside the road. Don’t worry. Nobody saw me, nor him neither.”
“Tell me you didn’t shoot him.”
“I didn’t shoot him. Whacked him on the head with my g*n barrel.”
Dew turned and glared at him. They were still sitting there, still parked in the sad little lot next to Dew’s sad little mobile home. The stolen AltaStar looked as out of place here in the midmorning sun as a diamond in a mud puddle.
“Do you remember what we’re doing today, Toby? What we been planning, for weeks?”
“Course I remember.”
“And did it occur to you that we don’t need complications like this? Anything that might make a hard job harder?”
“I know that. This won’t make it harder. It’ll make it easier.”
“Yeah? What if this dude you bopped on the head wakes up and calls the cops?”
“He won’t wake up, not till we’re through. We’ll be out of town and gone by then.”
Dew was still fuming, Toby saw. But that was okay. Dew didn’t know yet about Mary Jo.
“Did you rob him, at least? Guy owns a car like this, he must be rich as Donald Trump.”
Toby shook his head. “He didn’t own it. Said he was evaluating it.”
“Like on a test drive? Seeing whether he wanted to buy it?”
“No. What I’m telling you is, the guy had no money. He was a programmer.”
“A what?”
“He said he was making sure the program worked. Said it was his job. The car belongs to his company—it’s a phototype.”
“A prototype, you mean?”
“Photo, proto, who cares? Anyhow, he said that’s why he stopped on my street. He’d pulled over to write notes on his phone.”
“Did you take his phone?” Dew asked.
“I busted it and threw it in the bushes.”
“What kinda notes was he writing?”
“Performance stuff. About the car. It’s an experimental design, he told me.”
Dew shook his head. “I ain’t following this, Toby. You stole the man’s ride. Why’d he tell you anything? Why’d you even ask him anything?”
anything“Because when I told him to give me the keys he said he didn’t have any.”
“What?”
“He said it didn’t use a key.” Toby pointed to the steering column. “See? No ignition switch.”
“So how does it start?”
“The driver gives it commands. He showed me how.”
“Commands?”
“Orders. Instructions.”
“The driver being him, you mean? The programmer guy?”
Toby grinned. “The driver being me. I told it the password, now it responds to me.”
me“But—why would this programmer give you the password?”
“Cause I said I’d shoot him if he didn’t.”
Dew took in some air, let it out, and rubbed his eyes. “What’d you mean a minute ago, that this would make our job easier?”
“Just what I said. Simpler. Safer, even.”
“Safer how?”
“Watch this.” Without breaking eye contact, Toby said, “How long to the corner of Fourth and Cedar?”
Dew made a face. “What?”
“Twenty-two minutes,” said a woman’s voice, from the dashboard.
Dew snapped his head around. His small, squinty eyes were wide as quarters.
“Is that the fastest way?” Toby asked.
“Yes. Take Hamilton Street west to Pineview, north to I-Ten, west to Desert Lane, north to Fourth, and east to the intersection with Cedar Drive.”
Dew said nothing. He was gaping at the speaker grille on the dash.
“Any police on that route?” Toby said.
“Three units. One moving south on Pineview, two parked at Fourth and Lewiston.”
“Find a route with no patrol cars.”
“Go west on Hamilton,” the voice replied, “then north on Bailey all the way to Second, east to Cedar, and north to the intersection with Fourth. Twenty-eight minutes.”
“Sounds good. Let’s go.” To Dew he said, “Buckle up.”
Immediately the AltaStar’s engine turned over, the gearshift moved to DRIVE as if pushed by an invisible hand, and they eased out of the lot. Toby rested both palms on the steering wheel but exerted no pressure; the wheel turned by itself onto Hamilton. He also kept his feet away from the accelerator and brake.
“Good God,” Dew blurted, watching. His face was pale, and he was gripping the passenger seat with both hands. “This is insane.”
“It’s the future,” Toby said.
“But how can it scan for the location of police cars? How can that work?”
“Legally, you mean? It’s no worse’n radar detectors, the guy told me. You know—Fuzzbusters. Also, if a cop car does get in range, this one’ll slow down to the speed limit. Think about how much help that’d be today, when we finish our, ah…business.”
Dew squeezed his eyes shut again. “I can’t believe I’m hearing this. What a time you picked to go crazy on me.”
Toby Hayes just grinned. Maybe he was crazy. He wasn’t really sure what he was right now or what he was feeling. Things were all lumped together in his head. He was pleased at having stolen a new ride, he was excited that they were finally putting their big plan into action, and he was a little scared and worried about the event itself, and what they were about to do in half an hour. But most of all, at the moment, he was thrilled by this incredible machine.
wasA driverless car. He’d heard about them—everyone had. But most were still pipe dreams. To be sitting in one now, speeding through the city streets…
He’d grilled the programmer at gunpoint for ten minutes or more, with questions both important and trivial. Was it safe? (Yes.) Could it do everything a real driver could do? (Almost.) Why did the computer’s voice have a British accent? (Beats me.) And maybe the most puzzling thing for Toby: Why’d the car have a steering wheel and pedals if it needed no driver? Turned out that was partly a precaution in case an override was required and partly a disguise. In fact most of the vehicle’s outward appearance had been intentionally kept the same so as not to alarm other motorists. A moving car with no driver was always a scary concept.
“Tell you what,” Dew said. He seemed to have calmed down a bit, though he was still breathing hard. “Let’s stop and talk about this.” In a loud voice he said, “Pull over.”
“Sorry,” Toby said. “She won’t answer you. I’m the one who gave her the password.”
“Her?”
“Mary Jo. That’s the control program’s name. You know, like Siri or Alexa.”
Dew wiped his face with both hands as if scrubbing it clean. “Oh man,” he said, “I ain’t got a good feeling about this.” He dug a cigarette out of a pack in his pocket, stuck it in his mouth, and with trembling fingers flicked open his lighter. It was his favorite, with a shiny Confederate flag on its side.
“Toby?” said the female voice.
Dew paused with his thumb on the lighter wheel and the unlit cigarette dangling from his lips. “She knows your name?” he asked.
“It was ‘required input,’ the programming guy told me. What is it, Mary Jo?”
“Who’s your passenger?”
“His name’s Deward Jackson,” Toby said, before Dew could stop him. “Why?”
“Tell him he can’t smoke in here.”
Amused, Toby glanced at him. “You better tell him yourself, Mary Jo.”
Hesitation. Then: “I always interact only with my controller.”
“I always heard rules are made to be broken.”
“Very well,” she said. The electronic voice changed slightly, as if aimed in a different direction. “You can’t smoke in here, Turd.”
Dew’s face reddened. “Deward,” he growled. “It’s pronounced Doo-wurd.” Then, as the thought occurred to him: “How’d you know I was about to smoke?”
“I recognize a wide range of sounds,” Mary Jo said calmly.
He snapped the lighter shut, spit out the cigarette, drew a snub-nosed revolver from his belt, and aimed it at the dashboard. Slowly he c****d the hammer. “Recognize that sound?”
“If you plan to blow your brains out,” she said, “please lower your passenger-side window first and aim with your left hand.”
Dew looked up at Toby. “Can I shoot her? Tell me I can. Or will we wreck if I do?”
“Can’t say. We’re going pretty fast.”
With a sigh Dew put the g*n away and pocketed his lighter. “This doesn’t make sense. How do they expect to sell a car that insults the passengers?”
“I told you, it’s a phototype. A work in progress.”
“In other words, not perfected yet.”
Mary Jo replied, “That makes two of us.”
“Yeah? What kind of a name’s Mary Jo anyway, for a British gal?”
“Sounds a lot better than Turd,” she said.
Dew groaned, and Toby said, trying not to laugh, “It’s Deward, Mary Jo. Like Seward.”
- Writer
