Zero History

36. VINEGAR AND BROWN PAPER
Milgrim didn’t open Twitter as he settled, opposite Hollis, in their business-class
carriage, into what he still thought of as her computer. Instead, he opened the bookmarks
menu and selected the URL for the page with the photograph of Foley modeling an olivedrab
jacket and a black porn-rectangle.
He scrolled down, past other jackets, modeled by other young men with rectangles, to a
shot of black-gloved hands. “Kevlar knit liners,” read the description, “for increased cutresistance,
Velcro closure strap with embossed logo. Superior grip for apprehension and
control.”
Having sometimes been an apprehended suspect himself, he blinked. Frowned. Though
the gloves actually reminded him more of Fiona, her armor. He saw her pale jawline
above the upright belted collar of her black jacket. As if a wing had grazed him.
He glanced guiltily across the table at Hollis, but found her apparently asleep, her eyes
swollen. He tried to imagine her boyfriend, jumping off the world’s tallest building,
wherever she’d said that was.
He looked back at the specialized apprehender gloves. What would the embossed logo
be, exactly? It didn’t say. The whole site was like that. No-name. Sketchy. Half-finished.
No contact information. Why was Foley there? How had Winnie known where to find
him? He’d heard Bigend refer to “ghost sites,” the sites of defunct businesses or product
lines, still sitting there, forgotten, unvisited. Was this one of those, or something
unfinished? There was something unconvincing about it, amateurish.
He went to Google, typed in “Winnie Tung Whitaker.” Stopped. Remembering Bigend
and Sleight talking about the collection of search terms, about access to that. He imagined
Winnie’s PDA alerting her to the fact of someone just having Googled her. Was that
possible? On being introduced by Bigend to the current iteration of the internet, Milgrim
had decided it was best to assume that anything was possible. Often, he’d been
disappointed to learn that something wasn’t. Otherwise, better safe than sorry.
He logged out of Twitter, without checking to see if there was a message from Winnie.
He didn’t want to have to see her, not upon arrival in London, anyway. He had his
appointment with Bigend. He logged out of his webmail. Stared at Hollis’s interstellar
vista. Changed that to a plain medium gray. That was better.
The train entered the tunnel.
He watched as the red dongle launched a window, informing him that the signal was
lost.
He couldn’t be reached. Not electronically.
Hollis’s face was scrunched against the side of her headrest now, but her forehead was
relaxed. He saw that the Hounds jacket had fallen to the floor. He bent, picking it up. It