Free The Rasner Effect by Mark Rosendorf Page B

straighter in his chair. His eyes took on a mind of their own. If she bent a little further forward, he might get a glimpse of…
    “Show me what you have,” she barked.
    Derrick slapped his hands together like a dealer ready to hand out the cards. “Take a seat.”
    Jen remained standing.
    “Or don’t, that’s okay, too.” Derrick cleared his throat and waved a hand at his computer. “Now, just to point out, I shouldn’t have been doubted in the first place, especially considering how often my psychic abilities helped our group over the years.”
    “As I recall, your psychic abilities ,” she stressed the last two words as though they left a bad taste in her mouth, “were always reported after the fact!” Jen smiled, but it wasn’t friendly. “You know this is a very sore subject for me. It brings back a lot of pain. So I want you to offer me something—other than your smugness—that I barely tolerated and could never stand, even back when we were kids.”
    Derrick swallowed. How did she always suck the confidence out of him? He drew in a breath. “Okay, remember that chat room I set up online in case one of our own needed to find us? With all the abrupt relocating we always had to do, it kept us accessible to everyone as long as they knew how to get in.”
    “As I remember, I told you a number of years back to kill it off.”
    “Yes you did, and luckily, I didn’t follow your order.” Derrick felt a resurgence of his haughtiness. “I still keep close track of our chat room. I know if anyone signs in—day or night.”
    Jen remained unimpressed.
    “Now,” Derrick continued, “knowing your boyfriend’s lack of computer knowledge, I made sure this IP address and password would lure him into the chat room. He was always so impatient, so quick to jump into situations. It was expected he would get separated from us whenever we needed to retreat. That’s what your father always said about him, by the way. Before we, well you and he…you know.”
    Derrick rolled his right thumb across his neck.
    “And your point is?”
    He stifled a burst of irritation. “It was because of this I made him type in that IP address and password so many times over the years, again and again, until it became instinctive. Were he ever to sit in front of a computer, his fingers would type in that information before his brain could even register what he was doing.”
    Jen, with an annoyed smirk, tapped the knuckles of her right hand against the edge of the table, a signal for Derrick to hurry up with his explanation. He placed both his elbows on the table and slapped his hands together. “Okay, do you remember about four months ago when I told you we had a visitor in our chat room?”
    “I do remember.” Her tone made him glance at her feet—leather-thong sandals, pink nail polish—he expected her to be tapping a toe in irritation. “It was just one of the dozens of times over the last seven years that someone stumbled into that chat room of yours, even without your valid password . It wasn’t the first time you thought it was him.”
    “True, I may have jumped the gun a few times, no pun intended.” Derrick’s eyes rested on the revolver tucked into Jen’s belt. “But keep in mind, every single time someone stumbled into the chat room, I was able to track the user and figure out their identity.”
    Derrick folded his hands and leaned forward, unable to keep a huge goofy grin from spreading across his face. “Every single time, that is, except this one.” He pointed a finger in the air. “There was no username, there was no identity attached to the login.”
    “I remember. And I believe I told you to come to me only if your investigation led somewhere.” Now the toe did start tapping on his linoleum floor. “Has it?”
    “Thanks for asking. As I said, I couldn’t track the user. I believe it’s because I tried the next day and the account was removed from the Internet. Didn’t leave a trace. Naturally,