Free Invasion of Privacy by Christopher Reich

toward the door. “And the girls?”
    “Jessie is in her room with her door locked. Gracie woke up and cried until she fell back asleep. They’re in shock.”
    “Does Jess know about the message?”
    “No,” said Mary forcefully, surprising herself. “I won’t tell her. It wasn’t her fault I missed the call. She was just doing what she always does.”
    “She’s really into that tech stuff,” said Carrie. “Programming and creating apps.”
    “Her summer school teacher told me that some people just get it, and Jess is one of them. He said she has the gift.”
    “Mark was that way, too. Turned out good for him, even if he is still a geek.” Carrie stood and came closer. “What’re you going to do, hon?”
    “I’m not sure. I can’t imagine moving again. The schools are good. Grace likes her new doctor. Besides, where would we go?”
    “I’d imagine you’d want to be nearer your folks.”
    “They’re all gone. I’ve got a brother floating around on an aircraft carrier somewhere in the Pacific, and Joe’s got two sisters in Boston. That’s it. I don’t have anyplace to go.”
    “Texas has done right by us. You could do worse.”
    “Do I have to become a Republican?”
    “Mandatory after five years—otherwise they kick you out.” Carrie went to the door. “Can’t keep your fan club waiting forever.”
    “Five minutes.”
    “Take ten. I’ll stall for you.” Carrie winked and closed the door.
    Mary picked up the newspaper again. She looked at the shattered windshield and the body on the ground. She contrasted the picture with Bennett’s muddled explanation of what had occurred. Something didn’t match. Or, as she’d heard some good ol’ boy say, “That dog don’t hunt.”
    Mary walked to the bathroom, washed her face, put on makeup, and brushed her hair. It wouldn’t be right to show them how devastated she was. The admiral wouldn’t stand for it.
    She picked up her phone on the way out, pausing at the door to access the calls log. She spotted the number she wanted right away.
    “Federal Bureau of Investigation. How may I direct your call?”
    “Don Bennett, please.”

12
    It was not this hot in England.
    Ian tried not to hurry as he crossed the broad expanse of lawn known as the Meadow. Christ Church, and the comfort of his air-conditioned office, were ten steps behind him and already he was sweating. He continued up Dead Man’s Walk, then cut over to Merton Street, passing Oriel and University before reaching High Street.
    Oracle had its “Emerald City.” Google had its “Googleplex.” Ian had his own private Oxford.
    There was New College and Radcliffe Camera and the Bodleian Library. There was even the River Isis. The buildings were exact replicas of the originals, built from the same English limestone and mortar on a three-hundred-acre plot of land overlooking Lake Travis, five miles from the Austin city limits. A little bit of England in the Texas Hill Country.
    He crossed the High and entered a warren of alleyways, heading toward Brasenose, the “college” that housed ONE’s research-and-development labs. Each “college” contained offices, a cafeteria, and a quad where employees could get outside and recreate. New College housed the Server Division. Oriel housed Online Sales. And so on.
    Great Tom sounded the quarter hour. Like the original hanging in Tom Tower, the bell weighed six tons and was cast from smelted iron. It tolled over a hundred times at nine each night, not in memory of the original students enrolled in Christ Church, but to celebrate each billion dollars of ONE’s annual sales. In the year of our Lord 2015, Great Tom was programmed to toll 201 times each night.
    “Ian!” It was Peter Briggs, coming out of the White Stag.
    “Come on,” Ian called. “They’re waiting on me.”
    Briggs pulled up alongside him. “That bastard May’s remarks made it into an article about the race in the Reno papers.”
    “The sports section.” Ian had seen