Karma

by Grant McKenzie

  When had his parents become strangers?

  When had he?

  Cypher typed in the remote address of his home computer and waited for the password prompt. With access granted, he keyed in the simple command that would encrypt the hard drive, erase it, and encrypt it again.

  If the cops broke the first encryption — which Cypher highly doubted, at least not without outside help — all they would find was a blank drive. If they were clever enough to spot the second encryption, it would take them years to break it and reassemble the data.

  Even the FBI, with its contentious distribution of spy cookies and Big Brother viruses, didn’t know every encryption package out there. The one Cypher used came from a German hacker who had worked closely with a Chinese genius, comically nicknamed Hong Phong.

  Hong Phong had perfected 256-bit encryption months ahead of the U.S., and he had been working on the next level before being labeled a threat to the nation and executed by the Chinese government.

  The real reason for his execution, and common knowledge within the hacker community, was the CIA planted evidence against him. Fortunately, Phong managed to smuggle most of his code to his German friend before his death.

  To date, not a single hacker has been able to break the Phong code.

  Cypher absent-mindedly patted the breast pocket of his nylon jacket to reassure himself the backup flash drive hadn’t been lost when he stumbled on the sidewalk. His second backup was still inside the house, but the only way the cops would find it was to strip the house back to its foundation.

  Cypher was positive his father would never allow that.

  With the encryption of the computer in progress, Cypher logged off.

  Next, he logged into his parents’ online bank account and transferred their entire savings of $7,457 to his own account. All it took was their debit card number and a simple, secret password. His father had made the same mistake of so many frazzled parents out there by setting his computer to automatically remember the password, which made it child’s play for Cypher to locate and memorize it.

  Although the bank would only allow him to withdraw $500 a day, Cypher had established several accounts in separate names. Within seconds he had moved the money into five different accounts.

  Now all he had to do was collect it.

  Feeling confident, Cypher deleted the browser cache from the hard drive, and left the café.

  Chapter 80

  Gray suit and Brown suit talked quietly with Carol in the corner of the private room they had moved Chandra to.

  The room was located in the psychiatric ward and was easily twice as large as the cubicle Chandra had been in previously. The walls were painted a cheerful yellow, the television had better reception, and there was no need for the thick, over-washed curtains to separate her from other patients. Even the large, south-facing window offered a nicer view of the parking lot ten stories below.

  The detectives had stationed a uniformed guard outside the door, and a kindly female psychiatrist had spent close to an hour talking Chandra through the trauma of her ordeal.

  Chandra hated every second of it.

  “Get me out of here, Hackboy,” she growled. “If I lay here much longer, someone is going to steal my story.”

  “You are the story,” Hackett reassured. “No one can steal it.”

  “Of course they can,” Chandra argued. “It’s not who has the best story that counts, it’s who delivers it first.”

  “The doctors need to run more tests.”

  “Screw the tests,” said Chandra. “I don’t care what type of gas he used. It knocked me out, now I’m awake, end of.”

  Chandra sat up and swept her covers to one side. Her hospital gown had risen to her thighs, giving everyone a clear view of her shapely legs.

  Hackett noticed that neither detective averted their eyes.

  “Do you mind?” Hackett blurted. He motioned to the detectives to turn their backs. “She wants to get dressed.”

  “We don’t advise that,” said Brown suit.

  Chandra strode to the closet. Without hesitation, she grabbed her underwear and began to slip it on underneath her gown.

  “Ma’am,” said Gray suit. “We would prefer it if you stayed here.”

  Chandra turned her back to the detectives and dropped her gown. Standing there in cotton underpants, Chandra picked up her bra, gave it a cursory sniff and slipped it on. Next, she lifted her form-fitting gray jogging pants and cotton blouse off the hanger and turned to glare at Hackett.

  “You could have at least brought me fresh clothes.” Her nose wrinkled with disgust.

  Hackett looked at her in disbelief before breaking into a wide grin. He began to laugh, and the look of horror on Chandra’s face made him laugh even harder.

  “What’s so funny?” asked Chandra. “I’m serious.”

  “I know,” laughed Hackett. “You are perfectly, 100 percent serious.”

  “I’ve been sleeping in these clothes,” Chandra explained, trying to sound indignant. “In a filthy garage.”

  Hackett laughed even harder, tears flooding his eyes.

  The detectives stared at the two of them, puzzled frowns creasing their foreheads.

  “I love you, you know that?” Hackett said finally, his voice still filled with laughter.

  “You’re crazy.” Chandra mouth curved in a smile.

  “That makes two of us.”

  Hackett wrapped Chandra in his arms and kissed her.

  Chandra kissed him back, hesitantly at first, but then passionately as the comforting shape of his body melded with her own.

  When they came up for air, Chandra leaned her head on his shoulder and whispered, “You’re going to take me home to change, right?”

  Hackett nodded, but continued to hold her tight.

  GRAY SUIT CLEARED his throat.

  “It would be better if Chandra stayed here,” he said. “We can protect her, and the doctors haven’t cleared her.”

  Hackett released Chandra to allow her to continue to get dressed.

  “She won’t stay,” he said. “And there’s no reason. Frankie wanted to prevent her from talking, but it’s too late. He won’t be back.”

  “What makes you so sure?” asked Gray.

  “He’s too clever. His cover is blown. He’s on the run.”

  Carol gasped at this. “Where will he go? We need to find him. We need to help him. We don’t know that these things she’s saying are true.”

  Carol buried her face in her hands just as Chandra looked over her shoulder to glare at her. “My son is in trouble,” she continued. “We need ...”

  Gray suit patted Carol’s hand. “We’ll find him, Carol. We’ll clear this up.”

  “Where’s Frank?” sobbed Carol. “We need to get my husband. He’ll know what to do. He’ll find our son.”

  “I’ve sent a patrol car to fetch him,” Gray reassured. “He’ll be here soon.”

  Chandra pulled a hooded fleece vest overtop her blouse and laced up her sneakers.

  “Let’s get out of here,” she said to Hackett. “I want to get this story wrapped and on the air.”

  “We would prefer it,” said Brown suit. “If you didn’t go public until we have a better handle on the situation.”

  “Of course you would,” said Chandra. “But that’s not going to happen. I’ve had a lousy fucking night, but now it’s going to pay off.”

  The detectives shared a look, and Brown suit stood to block the exit.

  “I must inform you that our suspect is a minor,” he said. “As such his name cannot be published in any form, regardless of whatever crime he may eventually be charged with.”

  Chandra walked to within inches of the detective. She had to tilt her head back to look into his eyes.

  “I’m perfectly aware of the law,” she said, “and I don’t intend to break it.” She paused, before adding, “At least not on purpose.”

  The detective glared at her, but reluctantly stepped aside
when she reached for the door handle.

  Chandra opened the door, then stopped and reacquired the detective’s gaze.

  “However,” she continued. “If I’m the first to know when you have this little bastard cornered, that would go a long way to assuring my co-operation with your investigation.”

  “That sounds like a threat,” said Brown.

  Chandra smiled, her teeth shining ominously bright.

  “It does, doesn’t it.”

  Chandra walked out the door with Hackett close behind.

  Chapter 81

  Cypher sat on a park bench to contemplate his next move. He wasn’t sure where to go. In all his planning, he had never gone beyond the glory of K.A.R.M.A.’s success.

  He had always known the police would catch him, eventually. But in his dreams, he saw it happening in the future when he could control it, when his arrest would be a benefit to the movement rather than a hindrance.

  He saw the cops, years from now when K.A.R.M.A’s death toll had reached beyond triple digits, breaking down his door in the middle of the night with the media barking at their heels.

  A thousand cameras would flash and all the pretty reporters would scream his name as the authorities dragged him into the street.

  Chandra would be there, of course, having risen through the ranks on the coattails of his story. He could imagine the shock and awe in her voice when the curtain was pulled aside to reveal the mastermind; her benefactor.

  He would show his face with pride.

  Hackett would have been eliminated long before then. K.A.R.M.A. would no longer need the publicity of his photos. Every predator out there would already know its name, and they would whisper it in fear because there would be no safe haven.

  K.A.R.M.A. would have shut down every online newsgroup, penetrated government offices, and fuelled every prison with a bloodthirsty need for revenge. Even those vacation spots in Thailand that promised predators their fill of young flesh would have been drowned in blood.

  And when he went to court, Chandra glued to his side, how could they convict him?

  The people he killed were scum. Monsters.

  Copycats would rise. Vigilante groups would scream his name. He would be more famous than a movie star. He would be a god.

  But this ...

  He stared up at the sliver of moon. This was not what he envisioned.

  Hackett had betrayed him; Chandra had turned against him; and K.A.R.M.A. had collapsed before it even got started. Three executions when it should have been three hundred ... three thousand ... three million.

  The thought came to him: Could he start again? Could he rebuild K.A.R.M.A. from the beginning?

  Why not?

  All he needed was access to a computer and a place to lie low, somewhere where no one would bother him, where he could hide and plot and spread his vision one disciple at a time.

  And the more he thought about it, the more he realized he knew of a place uniquely designed to hide its occupant from the prying eyes of outsiders.

  Best of all, this place would also afford him the opportunity to eliminate the last thorn in his side — Hackett.

  Chapter 82

  Hackett lay on Chandra’s elegant four-poster bed, his eyes fluttering between sleep and wake.

  Chandra was buzzing around the room, organizing her clothes, darting into the shower, grinding fresh coffee beans in the kitchen, and talking in a constant stream.

  Hackett tossed aside several ornamental cushions to uncover two large, overstuffed pillows beneath. He buried his face into one of the soft pillows and inhaled the lingering scent of Chandra’s hair.

  “Aren’t you tired?” he asked through a yawn.

  “I’ve been asleep for most of a day,” she called from the kitchen. “I’d rather eat. Plus, I’m gasping for a decent cup of coffee. Aren’t you?”

  Hackett heard the whoosh of steam from the Cappuccino machine. The pop of a toaster and the unmistakable aroma of browned bagel followed.

  “When do you go on air?” Hackett mumbled. His head was light and airy, and his eyelids were too heavy to keep open.

  “I’m planning to wake the city with a special report at seven. That gives the cops four hours to fill in the gaps and hopefully take Frankie into custody.”

  “Hmmm,” Hackett murmured.

  He rolled himself into the feather duvet, tugging hard to break the blanket free of Chandra’s perfectly neat corners.

  “Will TV call you, or just steal the story?” he asked.

  “I’ve thought about that.” Chandra re-entered the bedroom with two cups of steaming coffee. “And I’ve decided to hold some information back. After I go on the air, I’ll pitch an exclusive and see what station jumps.”

  Chandra stopped in mid-stride, her glare fixed on the mess Hackett had made of her bed.

  Hackett grinned and patted the empty spot beside him.

  “You like it messy,” he said.

  Chandra frowned. “You know I don’t.”

  Hackett stuck out his lower lip in a pout and waited for her to melt. It didn’t take long.

  She lay on the covers beside him, the cups of coffee forgotten on the night table, and gently kissed his cheek. Hackett responded by nuzzling into her chest.

  “Won’t your boss be angry if you go rogue on him?” Hackett’s words were barely audible as his eyes began to close.

  “He’ll be pissed alright,” said Chandra. “But this station’s usefulness as a stepping stone is over. It’s time for me to jump ashore.”

  “That’s my girl.” His sentiment was punctuated by the nasal rumbling of a snore.

  Chapter 83

  The bed vibrated and Fats blinked awake, his eyes instantly alert to the pulsing strobe effect of his bedside lamp.

  Without hesitation, he reached under his pillow to withdraw a Beretta and its 15-round clip. With practiced ease, he slammed the magazine home and chambered the first round.

  He slid out of bed and moved silently to the bedroom door to check the auxiliary security panel. The panel showed a perimeter breach originating from the front door and Fats was pleased to notice armed response had automatically been notified.

  With the gun aimed in front of him, Fats moved to the stairs. There was no sign of movement below and Fats wondered if the alarm itself had scared off the intruders.

  One part of him hoped his precautions had worked, but another, a deeper and more animal part, wanted to fire a bullet into the collective chest of the little bastards who had exposed him to the empty vastness of a midnight sky.

  When he reached the front door, Fats switched on the powerful outdoor lights and peered through the peephole. There was no sign of an intruder and the door showed no indication of having been breeched.

  He was about to cancel the alarm when the stench hit him. It was the smell of burnt flesh and singed hair.

  Fats moved to the picture window in the adjoining room and craned his neck to get a better look at his front door. There was a smoldering pile of hairy meat curled in a ball against the footplate of his door.

  Instinctively, Fats stepped away from the window and out of sight of anyone looking in from the frightening darkness beyond.

  He waited patiently for seven minutes, his body immobile, until the hall light blinked rapidly to inform him that someone was ringing the front doorbell.

  Fats moved to the door and pressed a button on the intercom.

  “Show your ID to the panel on your right,” announced a robotic voice.

  Fats had programmed the panel with over two-dozen phrases, the most popular being: “Leave the pizza in the garage and close the door. Your tip has been phoned in.”

  Outside, the security guard held his ID against a glowing LCD screen as requested.

  Inside, Fats was able to view the card on a matching screen and verify the identity with the security company before unlocking the door.

  The guard stood well over six feet with linebacker shoulders that filled the doorframe. He
also had a handsome, milk chocolate face that would look great in commercials: a poster boy for security; his powerful physique a hit in reassuring all the female customers.

  Fats didn’t like him.

  He would have preferred a snake-eyed Clint Eastwood type who was ready to kill any intruder, regardless of their age or intent. Fats didn’t want to just feel safe. He wanted the villains to know that if they touch him, they die. Plain and simple.

  The guard glanced at the gun in Fats’ hand and grinned. It was the type of grin that said: “I’ve been to a thousand of these, and every time there’s some doughy schmuck holding a gun that he’s too scared to even put bullets in. Now quit waving that toy in my face before I take it away from you.”

  The guard raised his hands in mock surrender.

  “I’m one of the good guys,” he said.

  Fats lowered the gun against his side, the muzzle pointing at the floor. Instead of feeling like John Wayne, he felt a fool.

  The guard moved to the security panel and punched in the reset code. He turned around again.

  “I don’t know sign,” he said, his mouth exaggerating every syllable. “But I was told you read lips.”

  Fats nodded.

  “It looks like a prank,” he continued. “There’s a dead cat outside your door. It was probably doused in gasoline and then set alight. From the overripe stench, I would guess it was dead awhile before being dragged here.”

  The guard waited for a response. When none came, he continued.

  “I’ll get that cleaned up for you immediately though, sir. And if you like I’ll do a quick perimeter check while I’m here.”

  Fats felt even sillier. The guard was practically offering to tuck him in and sing a lullaby.

  The gun in his hand felt suddenly heavy, and he began to wonder what would have happened if he had caught the kid with the cat before he ran away.

  The answer was obvious. He would have blown the stupid brat’s head off.

  Then what?