“You did. Kinda.”
“Can I ask a question now?” he says.
“Shoot.”
“You don’t live around here anymore, do you?”
She doesn’t answer.
“And you’re back, but Marty says you don’t have much time. And you changed your name . . . so . . . what’s going on?”
“It’s been a busy couple of days.”
Luke nods, but he’s clearly disappointed in her answer.
“My turn,” she says.
“Yeah, OK. I guess we can pretend that was quid pro quo.”
“You said if there was anything you can do to help, to let you know. How serious were you?”
“Serious, but—”
“When was the last time you heard from your brother?” she asks.
Luke takes a careful sip of beer, staring at her while he does so.
“Why?” he asks once he swallows.
“Because I need his help.”
The struggle inside him is almost painful to see: the war between his desire to make good on his word to her and his desire to guard his family’s secret.
“I need to find someone. And if your brother can hack a satellite, he can find anyone, right?”
Luke’s mouth opens to protest.
Just then the alarm panel next to the front door releases a shrill series of beeps. It doesn’t sound like any alarm or warning she’s ever heard; it’s almost musical. A two-tone pattern that repeats again and again, more mischievous than threatening.
Luke dives into the kitchen and returns with his gun drawn. That’s when she sees the computer monitor in the front room flashing black and white in a rhythm that matches the alarm’s maddening song.
Luke advances on the panel, gun drawn, then lowers it when he reads whatever’s on the display. A second version of the chirping tune starts up somewhere close by, accompanied by the familiar sound of a cell phone vibrating against a wooden table. In any other circumstance, it would be intolerably rude of her to pick up Luke’s phone and read the display, but this is a special circumstance for sure.
The words she sees flashing across the screen are the same that are now flashing across the monitor. And when she joins Luke in the foyer, she sees the same words scrolling across the alarm panel’s display.
YES I CAN YES I CAN YES I CAN YES I CAN
YES I CAN YES I CAN.
22
Luke’s musical tastes don’t get any harder than classic rock, so he’s not surprised the alarm’s shrill song makes him want to cover his ears with both hands. But damn if he’s actually going to do that in front of Charley. He couldn’t if he wanted to because he’s still got his gun in hand.
“What the fu—hell?” he cries.
“I’m a grown-up,” Charley says. “You can curse.”
She turns from the alarm panel and advances on his computer; he follows.
“Last time you saw your brother, did you go to the bathroom at all?” Charley cries over the racket.
“My brother and I don’t go to the bathroom together!”
“That’s not what I’m asking,” she shouts.
“I can’t think with this damn noise!”
“Stop it, Bailey!” she shouts.
And just like that, the music stops.
The message on the computer screen freezes, the words blaring YES I CAN.
A glance over his shoulder confirms the burglar alarm’s display panel holds the same freeze-frame.
Luke places the gun on its side next to the keyboard, muzzle pointed at the wall. He’s not sure what’s startled him more—the fact that the crazy music just stopped, or that Charley was so confident his brother was the composer.
“Your phone,” Charley says, but she’s scanning their surroundings now.
“What about it?”
“Did you leave it alone with your brother the last time you saw him?”
“I don’t . . . maybe. I don’t know.”
“He probably put some kind of malware on it so he could spy on you. Then he used it to hack your Wi-Fi here at the house.”
In response, three quick beeps come from the alarm system. The message on the computer screen is quickly replaced with one that says, BINGO!
“You know about this stuff?” he asks.
“I’m not an expert like your brother, but we used to get hacked a bunch when I lived with my dad. There were a lot of ass wipes on the Internet who thought I was lying about not killing anyone on the farm. I had to learn how to protect myself.”
He keeps his mouth shut. She probably doesn’t mean it as a dig, but he’s embarrassed nonetheless. How many times back in high school did he vaguely imply she might have been changed by her time with the Bannings? More than once, that’s for sure. And this is who that bullshit put him in league with. Hackers.
Focus, he tells himself. As if his brain wasn’t already overloaded from Trina’s—Charley, Charley, Charley, he corrects himself—visit, the knowledge that Bailey’s been watching his every move makes his pulse roar and his head spin, which seems to him like a good combination for a heart attack.
“Spy on me,” Luke whispers. “He was spying . . .” He turns to the computer and the tiny camera embedded in the top of the monitor. “You were spying on me?”
The message on-screen is replaced by a series of Zs emerging from the bottom of the screen, increasing in size as they drift upward—the universal sign for snoring.
“Obviously you all don’t have the same taste in TV shows,” Charley says.
“You couldn’t tell me you were alive, but you were spying on me the whole time? That’s awesome, dude. That’s just fucking awesome.”
“Luke . . .”
“What? You told me I could curse.”
“It’s the volume. Marty’s outside.”
Just then a crude outline of a clock appears on the screen. A red line slashes through it. All of this happens on a black background that seems to have wiped all personal touches from the computer monitor. Luke somehow finds that more unnerving than having his privacy invaded.
There should be relief in here somewhere. Relief that Bailey’s alive and safe. But where’s the apology? He’s not seeing the emoji for one slide across the screen, so he figures he’s got the right to be pissed. For now.
“No time,” Charlotte says. “He’s saying no time. No time for what?”
The clock with the red line through it is replaced by a cartoon of a woman with thick-framed cat-eye glasses and a bun on her head. She grows in size until she’s revealed to be pushing a rack full of books.
“Librarian?” Luke asks.
“He doesn’t want us to keep talking to him on your computer,” Charlotte says. “He wants us on a public server. Best place would be a library. Hence, the librarian.”
Three beeps from the alarm system again.
“Where’s the nearest library?” she asks.
“Paso Robles. I’m going to ask you again how you know so much about this stuff.”
“Change your identity and you learn a few things. Wait,” Charley says, with enough volume to suggest she’s talking to Bailey directly.
The screen goes black.
“My question,” she says, “the one about you being able to find anyone. Was that what you were answering?”
YES, comes the flashing response.
“OK,” Charley answers, “so you’re offering to help me?”
The word on-screen stays solid but a red stream moves through each individual letter, almost like neon coming to life.
“Why?” she asks. “We barely know each other.”
There’s a second or two of silence. Amid his anger, Luke feels a twinge of sadness over the thought that his sudden connection with Bailey might have just been severed.
As he’s about to call out to his brother, new words appear on the screen, letter by letter; the font is even typewriter-style.
Anyone who can make my brother apologize for something is fine by me.
Charley’s laughter dies when she sees Luke’s glare.
The message vanishes. It’s replaced by WWW.CHATEEUR.RO.
“Pen,” Charlotte says.
Luke reaches into the drawer and hands her one, along with a Post-it note, but no way is he writing down the URL himself. So what if his refusal to do so makes him feel like a stubborn eight-year-old. He’s got a right to be pissed, doesn’t he? And it’s got nothing to do with Agent Rohm or the FBI or anything Bailey might have done in the past. It’s the silence since. It’s the fact that Bailey never let him know he was OK.
The URL vanishes.
It’s replaced by the words:
Go in hot.
Then the computer screen returns to normal, a spray of icons over a shot of AT&T Park mid–Giants game. The alarm system even lets out a weak, strained chirp, like whatever Bailey’s done is the equivalent of a stopper being pulled from a drain.
Charley tears the Post-it note from the pad, folds it neatly in half. She appears gripped by excitement, but when their eyes meet, she blushes in a way he’d find undeniably cute in any other circumstance.
“Go in hot?” Luke asks. “What does that mean?”
“Pick a screen name that’s got something to do with fire. Or Burning Girl, I guess. I assume you’re gonna come with me.”
“Uh, yeah. I am.”
“OK, well, let me just tell—”
When she turns from him, he grabs her by the shoulder. Not thinking. Too hard. She spins. Her eyes lock on the hand he’s gripping her shoulder with. He removes it quickly, even manages to spread his fingers in a silent gesture of apology. But he’s not sorry he stopped her hasty escape from the house. And she seems more fascinated by his sudden grab than angered by it. Which is odd.
But all of this is odd.
“Look, you may not think I’m in a position to ask a lot from you right now, but he’s my brother. Marty cannot know about this. Like at all.”
He can see a flash of some kind of struggle in her expression, but she hides it quickly under a tense mask, looks to the hardwood floor between them, her fist closing around the folded-over Post-it note.
“Charley, it’s obvious you’re in some kind of trouble, and I can tell he’s watching out for you. And that’s great. But he doesn’t like me, and we’ve already been at each other’s throats once this week and . . . I just . . . He can’t. He can’t know about this. Please.”
“What if he follows us to the library but doesn’t go inside? And I don’t tell him what we’re doing there?”
“You really think he’ll think we went there to check out some books? He’ll know we’re there for the computers, and he’ll probably connect it up with that thing my brother did with the manure store in high school.”
“You’re being paranoid, Luke.”
“My brother’s wanted by the FBI, and he’s been secretly watching me move around my house for months.”
“But Marty doesn’t have anything to do with that.”
“I know, and I want to keep it that way.”
She stares at him. Not aggressive or fearful—calculating. Whether she’s assessing him or the situation, he’s not sure.
“What kind of trouble are you in, Charley?”
“The big kind.”
“And you honestly think Bailey can help?”
“Maybe, yeah.”
“Can I?”
“I don’t know. Can you?”
He’s not sure exactly what she means, but he’s surprised by how quickly he made the offer. Big trouble usually means trouble with the law. Only once she turned his question around on him did he wonder if that might be the nature of her dilemma. If she’s on the run for something she’s done, as opposed to from someone who wants to hurt her. He has a badge now. Not the government-issued one he’d always dreamed of having, but it’s still a badge. But in this moment it feels no more meaningful to him than a child’s toy. Did Agent Rohm leave him that angry and jaded, with that little respect for the law, for the system?
The answer comes out of him before he can stop it. “I can try. If you let me.”
“So you’re saying I should milk this apology thing for all it’s worth.”
“Something like that, yeah,” he answers.
“OK. Fine. No Marty.”
With that, she turns and heads for the door. When she realizes he hasn’t followed, she looks back, sees him in the kitchen strapping on the holster for his gun. The expression she gives the weapon in his hand is almost wistful, like she thinks he’s cute for bringing it along.
“A date?” Marty asks. “Really? Right now?”
“It’s not a date,” Charlotte hisses. “And if you say that one more time, I will reach through this—”
“You’re going off alone with him. You won’t say where. What the hell else could it be except for a date?”
She grips the edge of the truck’s open window, glances back to where Luke is sliding behind the wheel of his black Jeep Wrangler. Avoiding, on purpose, she assumes, her pointed glares. How could he put her in this position?
Simple, she thinks. Because it’s his brother; that’s how.
“If I follow, what’s he gonna do?” Marty asks. “Have me arrested?”
“Probably not.”
“Then I’m following.”
“He’ll probably take me in for questioning.”
“For what? How much did you tell him?”
“Marty, just . . . please. I need you to trust me on this one.”
He lets out a long hissing breath between clenched teeth, shakes his head.
“When we get back, maybe we can all sit down and have a meal together, and you two can bury the hatchet or something. Or, you know, do what men do when they’ve been bumping chests so much their backs are starting to get sore. Like yoga.”
“My back’s fine,” Marty says, voice low and growl adjacent, “and this isn’t about me.”
“It is, though. Whatever words you guys had the other day, they’ve got you confused.”
Got you confusing your ego with your brains, she wants to say.
“So you trust him? You don’t think he’s part of this?”
I think he’s about to become part of this if his brother turns out to be helpful. But you can’t know that. Yet. Instead she says, “Maybe. We’ll see. I’m still figuring it out.”
Marty shakes his head and stares out the windshield.
“Besides,” Charlotte says, “it’s not like I won’t be able to protect myself if I’m wrong.”
“Pill’s been sitting in your system for how long now? For all we know it might wear off if you don’t, you know, activate it in time. There’s too damn much we don’t know about this stuff.”
“I agree,” she says.
“Yeah, sure you do.”
“Marty.”
He checks the dashboard clock. It’s almost 1:00 p.m. She feels an ultimatum coming.
“If you all aren’t back by six this evening, I’m gonna consider you a missing person and make sure Mona believes it, too. And I’ll be damn sure to let her know you were last seen with her shiny new deputy.”
“Fine.”
“And I’m gonna take that video we made last night to the FBI and tell them everything you told me.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re not because you can’t. I’ve got the thumb drive we put it on this morning.”
“You didn’t . . . but the . . . Crap, you deleted the original off my phone when I wasn’t looking. Slick, girlie. Real slick.”
“Girlie? Really?”
He glares straight ahead, hands tensing and untensing at ten and two on the steering wheel.
“I’m starting to feel unappreciated,” he says quietly.
“Feel something else.”
“What?”
“Spared.”
He looks her in the eye, expression doleful. “Maybe I don’t want to be spared all this.”
S
he leans in, kisses him on the cheek. He’s clearing his throat, preparing to say something else maudlin but kind, she’s sure. But just then she reaches across him and pulls Jason Briffel’s disposable cell from the armrest. His eyes widen and his jaw gapes when he realizes she’s just swiped his last possible bargaining chip.
“Six o’clock,” he calls after her. “First part of what I said still stands. If you’re not back by six, I—”
“Six o’clock,” she calls back.
When Luke starts the Jeep’s engine, Marty fires up his truck a second later. For a minute or two, it seems as if the men’s vehicles are conducting a little battle of the bands over her; then Marty peels off down the street, making the biggest show of not following her that he can.
“How’d it go?” Luke asks when she climbs inside his Jeep.
“Not well,” she answers.
He nods and backs out of the driveway.
“Well, I appreciate it,” he says a few minutes later as if no time has passed between her comment and his response, a sure sign he’s measuring his words carefully. Would he be measuring them this carefully if his brother hadn’t decided to make a surprise appearance during their reunion?
“What’s that?” he asks, eyes on the phone resting in her lap.
“It’s a phone.”
“I know that.”
“I’m expecting a call on it. At some point . . . I think.”
“OK.”
Up ahead, Marty takes a sharp left into the middle of town. She can’t help but watch his truck as they fly past. Maybe she’s afraid he’s going to double back and land on their tail, or maybe she feels a stab of guilt at having left his protection against his wishes, especially after he dropped everything for her.
“He’s a good guy, isn’t he?” Luke asks.
She’s startled he’s read her thoughts, until she realizes it’s not that hard for him to tell what she’s looking at. No doubt her expression’s far from serene.
“He is,” she says. “But it sounds like you didn’t think so yesterday.”
“We had a . . . thing.”
“What kind of thing?”
“What’s it matter? It’s the reason you and I got to talk today, and that means it’s ultimately a good thing, right?”
“Is it?”
He blushes. It looks good on him. Again. But she’s always been attracted to any small sign of vulnerability in a man who works hard to look strong. Her kryptonite would be a calendar of nothing but shirtless firemen cooing over kittens. But she’s got more experience with calendars of men than actual men, which is why the thought of playfully drawing attention to the bands of pink on his right cheek and jaw makes her both dizzy and nauseated at the same time.
Bone Music Page 19
