The Warehouse
I arrived at the address that Janet had written down on the piece of paper she gave to me before her hasty retreat from my apartment.
It was some sort of warehouse on the edge of the city and it didn't look like much had been happening in it for quite some time.
I took a bus three-quarters of the way there, and then hopped out and into a cab and then zig-zagged out of my way on foot to get there and the whole time a brown sedan carrying two men was almost always in sight.
After I swiped the access card and entered the password (NOT 45317, but thanks for wondering), I found myself in this massive room that contained file cabinet upon file cabinet. I had no idea what I was looking for, so I just started randomly grabbing bunches of paper. I couldn't figure any of it out. Some of the papers were just line after line of binary code. Others were written in a language or combination of languages I had never seen or heard before.
All the files were numbered and in reasonable order. I found file #45317 and opened up the manila folder. It was empty. Well, except for one thing. A copy of my credit card receipt from Paragon, the place I was at before the break-in.
I'm really starting to chase my tail. And I'm really worried that I am going to have to have another face-to-face with Janet and fess up to not remembering anything before the night of the intruders. She's going to ream me out for not telling her right away. How can I explain to her that I didn't know if she was a friend or an enemy? Or that I still don't know if she is a friend or an enemy?
I made it back to the apartment and about halfway home, the brown sedan guys veered off my trail.
I was settling in, pacing around the living room, picking up the phone and putting it down about twenty times, trying to psych myself up to call Janet when I heard something coming from the bedroom.
I tip-toed across the living room with my trusty baseball bat in hand and found someone going through my dresser.
I have a pretty good swing. So now, I have to sit here and hope that the son of a bitch wakes up.
It was some sort of warehouse on the edge of the city and it didn't look like much had been happening in it for quite some time.
I took a bus three-quarters of the way there, and then hopped out and into a cab and then zig-zagged out of my way on foot to get there and the whole time a brown sedan carrying two men was almost always in sight.
After I swiped the access card and entered the password (NOT 45317, but thanks for wondering), I found myself in this massive room that contained file cabinet upon file cabinet. I had no idea what I was looking for, so I just started randomly grabbing bunches of paper. I couldn't figure any of it out. Some of the papers were just line after line of binary code. Others were written in a language or combination of languages I had never seen or heard before.
All the files were numbered and in reasonable order. I found file #45317 and opened up the manila folder. It was empty. Well, except for one thing. A copy of my credit card receipt from Paragon, the place I was at before the break-in.
I'm really starting to chase my tail. And I'm really worried that I am going to have to have another face-to-face with Janet and fess up to not remembering anything before the night of the intruders. She's going to ream me out for not telling her right away. How can I explain to her that I didn't know if she was a friend or an enemy? Or that I still don't know if she is a friend or an enemy?
I made it back to the apartment and about halfway home, the brown sedan guys veered off my trail.
I was settling in, pacing around the living room, picking up the phone and putting it down about twenty times, trying to psych myself up to call Janet when I heard something coming from the bedroom.
I tip-toed across the living room with my trusty baseball bat in hand and found someone going through my dresser.
I have a pretty good swing. So now, I have to sit here and hope that the son of a bitch wakes up.
posted by Dim at 5:23 PM
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