Programmed for Peril

its own destructive business damaging “healthy” files. Depending on what type of virus was involved, it could infect and cripple one machine, dozens, or thousands. “But I I’m sure PC-Pros had nothing to do with it.”
    “Like hell, woman! I’m sitting here with six stores that can’t take in any work. There was no trouble in the two years; we’ve been running on computers. Then you people get hold of one machine and— whammo —we’re dead in the water!”
    “Mr. O’Day—”
    “Forget arguing with me. Just do something to get me going again. Or my next call is to my attorney.”
    Trish struggled to hold on to her professional voice— I forget that fishwife inside begging to be heard. “I suggest I instead that you call your software vendor and—”
    “They went belly-up six months ago. They shoulda called I themselves ‘Fly-by-Night-Systems.’ You computer types are I all alike. You promise everything—and deliver crapola!”
    “Maybe if I could speak with whoever on your staff is responsible for the system—”
    “It was a college kid we had. He’s been gone so long he’s as much history as Abe Lincoln.”
    “What about your nephew?”
    Lester O’Day’s voice ground deeper into harshness. “No way. No way! You get him tangled up in it, pretty soon it’s all his fault!”
    “Mr. O’Day, listen to me. Someone is going to have to reinstall backup software onto your central processor.”
    Silence.
    “Mr. O’Day, do you understand what I’m saying?”
    “All I understand is I’m going to call my attorney if you people don’t get over here and get me out of this. Every minute I’m losing business!”
    Trish pressed her free palm to her face, took a deep breath. “Mr. O’Day, we’re a hardware maintenance and repair company. Systems aren’t our responsibility. It’s really up to you to do what’s needed to guarantee smooth operation. Things like regularly making backups. If you look at the contract you signed with us, you’ll see—”
    “You brought in the machine with the virus!”
    “You just think we did. There’s no proof. And I can’t imagine why someone here would want to sneak a virus into your system. If indeed there is one. Which I doubt.”
    “Let’s cut the crap, both of us, Ms. Morley!” Lester O’Day shouted. “The bottom line is you got me into this, you get me out. Or I sue!” Down went the receiver.
    Never mind that this was the electronic age, Trish thought. People to the end of time would be ruled by emotions. She, too, felt some specific emotions—dealing with where Lester O’Day and Pristine Cleaners could go and what they could do there. But the professional Trish knew she would have to act for the sake of continued business and PC-Pros’ reputation. She explained the situation to Fred Purdom, her poker-faced seventeen-year-old technician. “I want you to go over there and do what you can to straighten them out. Run some virus-killer software. Use his last backup, tell him all the data after that date is gonzo. And don’t take any of his BS. Got it?”
    “Yeah, I got it.” Fred’s face as usual betrayed nothing. His voice, though, revealed his concern. “If this is a virus Sltuation, I can’t figure how it got on his machine.”
    “Neither can I.”
    After Fred had left for Pristine Cleaners Trish lamented the use of her limited resources to placate “Lowlife” Lester, as Fred called him. For a large company a day of a technician’s time was no big deal. But PC-Pros’ staff was spread thin. The business simply couldn’t absorb these kinds of emergencies. She hoped it was an isolated accident of some sort.
    She absolutely refused to dwell at that moment on Rocco De Vita.
     

4
     
    Melody’s looming vacation meant Trish had to assemble the mosaic of the child’s summer days with all the care of a Byzantine artist. So many days she would spend with Grandma, so many at play groups, half-day summer camps, organized sports and swimming, so many with Mom at PC-Pros, at theme parks, water slides, and varied musical performances. Trish had to write it all out, then go ahead and make arrangements as far ahead as was practical. After the first of June her daughter’s appointments and other demands increasingly infiltrated those of the business. She wrote everything down in her Franklin Day Planner, Supermom’s secret weapon.
    Leave it to her mother to remind her that she was so caught up in Melody’s summer that she continued to