Playing with Fire

by Sherry D. Ficklin

  “And did you?”

  I shake my head, not meeting his eyes. “Nope, dead end.”

  He sighs. “Look, kid, I appreciate your naturally inquisitive nature, but leave the investigating to the professionals, okay?”

  I frown. “That depends. Are they making any progress?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes. The email account was one of those anonymous Hotmail accounts, but the IP address led them to the computer it was sent from. They expect to have a suspect in custody soon.”

  I roll my eyes. “I seriously doubt that.”

  “Why?”

  “Because whoever sent it masked the IP through three different hosts, finally ending at a bulletproof server in China. They are chasing their tails.” I look up. “I’m not saying they are slow, but I got all that in the first hour.”

  He just shakes his head. “Do you remember when you were little and we were stationed in 29 Palms?”

  I think about it for a second. I’d been young then. Third or fourth grade, if I remember correctly. “Yes,” I say hesitantly, wondering where this line of questioning is going.

  “Do you remember when the youth center got vandalized? And you and the little boy from next door decided to catch the people doing it?”

  I do remember that. His name was Darius, the boy from next door. He was a little younger than me, but we used to go to the youth center together after school to play games and make crafts. It was fun. Then somebody broke in and stole a bunch of stuff and spray painted the walls.

  “What about it?” I ask, wondering why he’s bringing that up now.

  “You’ve always been one to try to figure things out, even then. You wanted to catch the bad guy.” He pauses. “Puzzles, mysteries. You’ve always been a solver. A fixer. A finder. Do you remember what happened?”

  Darius and I had snuck out our bedroom windows that night with flashlights, walkie-talkies, and my new camera. We spent most of the night crouched in a phone booth across the street from the youth center, waiting to see if the vandals showed up again. Which they did. I snapped a couple pictures, but they saw the flash and chased us all the way home. Only the angry barking of my Great Dane, Stormy, had convinced them not to chase us into my yard. I really miss that dog. He saved our bacon that night.

  “As I recall, I solved that case for the police.” I can’t help but smirk.

  He levels a heated gaze at me. “Yes, after being chased by three teenage boys who were more than willing to do you harm. You were extremely lucky that neither you nor that boy got hurt.”

  He has a point. Sort of.

  I shake my head. “I’m not a little girl anymore, Dad.”

  “I know. But you know what they say about curiosity,” he hints.

  “I suppose it’s a good thing I’m not of the feline persuasion then, huh?” I say, my chin in the air.

  He leans back, his face resigned. “Did you find anything?” he asks, folding his arms across his chest.

  “I’m not sure yet,” I admit. “I thought I had the hacker thing pegged, but this thing last night, it kind of shoots holes in my theory. It would help if I had some info about the accident.”

  That’s a minor exaggeration. I don’t actually think it will help that much, but then, who knows? Maybe I’ll see something no one else does.

  He thinks about it for a minute, then pulls a manila folder out of his desk drawer and slides it over to me. “Here. This way you don’t have to steal it,” he says pointedly.

  I cringe, flipping it open and reading his official report. When I finish, I have a few questions. “So there was no note this time? No email or anything?”

  He shakes his head. “That’s why we think it might be an accident. But they found chemicals that we don’t normally use. Unfortunately, it’s all basic stuff, chemicals anyone could get online or in a hardware store. It could even have come in during that nightmare week when all the orders got so screwed up.”

  “Dad, who was on duty last night? In the guard shack and in the duty room?”

  He evades my question. “If you’re going to poke around, be subtle. The last thing I need is you inserting yourself into the middle of this mess any more than you already have.”

  “How hard is it to get in the paint room? I noticed some shops have keypads at the doors.”

  He shakes his head. “Nothing like that, just a door, and it’s never locked in case one of the other shops needs to get in there for something,” he answers. “Normally, there’s always someone in there, but there was no weekend crew this week, so it was empty.”

  I stand up to leave.

  “One more thing. Whoever was on duty last night would still be there today, for,” he looks at his watch, “another two hours. It’s a twenty-four hour shift.”

  I smile, mouth thanks, and leave, setting my now-empty cup on the counter by the door as I go. His clerk gives me a kind nod.

  The duty shack is a dismal closet just off the ready room, which is where the flight crew meets before daily missions. At night, the duty guys usually watch TV or read to pass the time.

  It would be pretty easy to sneak by without being seen, if you knew what you were doing. With no night crew on Saturdays, he was probably buys keeping himself occupied with other things. No use questioning him, I figure.

  My main concern is the gate. In order to get into the building, you would need an ID card. The barcode on your ID unlocks the revolving gate and a record of everyone who comes through is logged in the security computer.

  All these things are designed to keep the most advanced military squadron in the country secure. Somehow, someone has figured out how to beat the system. My plan is simple. Figure out how they got through security and I’ll be one step closer to figuring out their identity.

  According to Dad’s file, no unauthorized personnel had entered the building that night, or at least none scanned their ID to get through the gate. I notice, as I leave, that the gate swings freely in the other direction. Someone could have snuck in some other way, but still got out here. It opens up some options.

  In a well-lit parking lot, anyone trying to go over the gate would have been seen by someone. By my estimation, the bars on the turnstile are less than eight inches apart, so going through them is also out. The entire building is surrounded by a six-foot-tall fence with concertina wire looped along the top. Nasty stuff, way worse than barbed wire, which you could climb over just by draping a jacket over it. Concertina wire had tiny razor blades all over it.

  I walk around the building, looking for any vulnerability in the fence. Hands in my pockets, T-shirt whipping in the breeze, I come to a small storage shack about five feet inside the fence. There’s a beat-up white pickup truck parked parallel to it, in a no-parking zone.

  A scenario runs through my brain. I scan the area for a streetlight. The nearest one is a few feet away, where I notice something on the black asphalt beneath it, reflecting in the sun.

  I walk over to have a closer look. Broken glass. I kick some of it with the tip of my shoe before glancing up. The light has been broken out. Yeah, that’d make this area pretty hard to see in the dark. If it were nighttime, and if that truck, or one like it, was parked there, I could probably jump from the top of the cab to the roof of the shack, then hop down on the other side.

  It would take someone fairly tall and athletic, someone with access to a truck.

  It’s Reid’s voice in my head, whispering.

  Someone like Oliver.

  As I drive, I play scenarios over and over in my head. They all end the same way.

  As if some kind of cosmic sign, Oliver’s truck is parked outside my house when I get home. The cab is empty. I walk over, looking around for him, pulling myself up onto his running board to peer inside, then reluctantly, looking higher, at the roof. The top of his truck is spotless. Perfectly clean.

  He probably washed it before the dance, I chastise myself.

  Surely, if he’d stood on top of it, there’d be some kind of eviden
ce. I jump down and walk to my front door. It’s open a crack. I push it in, instantly feeling a deep, inexplicable wrongness to the situation.

  I holler, “Hello?”

  No answer.

  But somewhere in my head, alarms are going off.

  He’s crazy, they shout. Amazing how the voices in my head have begun to sound like Reid.

  I skirt along the entryway wall until I find myself in the kitchen. I crouch down and maneuver myself over to the farthest drawer, sliding it open to find Dad’s gun box. Using my thumbs, I enter the combination and it pops open, revealing a loaded Glock 9mm pistol. I take a deep breath. Maybe I’m just overreacting. But as a rule, it’s better to be safe than sorry.

  With the weapon tucked into my palm, I move slowly through the house, clearing each room as my father taught me. His words run through my head: Two hands on the gun, arms pointing down, at the floor, safety off.

  Never point at anything you don’t intend to shoot.

  Never shoot anything you don’t intend to kill.

  Lactic acid builds in my arms, shoulders, and back, making me tight and shaky. I take a few deep breaths to calm myself down as I go to my bedroom door. I press my back against the door and step in quickly. Oliver sits on my bed with his file in his hands, his head hung.

  Shocked, I stand upright, taking one hand off the gun. “You stole my file,” he whispers, finally looking up into my eyes.

  The adrenaline pumps hard in my veins. “How did you get in here?” I demand.

  The file falls from his hands, scattering papers on the floor. “The door was left open. I thought you might be hurt or something, so I let myself in. And I found that on your bed.” He points at the folder at his feet.

  Had I left the door cracked? That isn’t like me at all. And the folder had been in my bag, I am sure of it.

  “I can explain the file,” I say. Well, no, I really can’t. Not unless I admit I was looking into him as a suspect for the hacking.

  In any case, he doesn’t give me the chance.

  “I don’t want to hear it. I trusted you. I told you everything. What kind of person steals school files, anyway?”

  He’s angry, and rightfully so. I’ve invaded his privacy in a terrible, unforgiveable way.

  He pushes past me and storms off. I want to call him back, to tell him how sorry I am, but I freeze. Torn somewhere between wanting to chase him, and being very relieved he is gone, I put the gun away.

  ***

  I spend the rest of the day in my room, stewing. When I pick Kayla up for school on Monday, it still isn’t any better. It feels like I’m juggling, always too many balls in the air, always a half second from everything falling down on top of me.

  We sit for a while in the car in front of Kayla’s house. She fiddles with the black rosary around her wrist. Her purple cheetah-print tank top is almost the same shade she’d dyed her hair on Sunday. With her tall, black boots and fishnet stockings under a suspiciously short skirt, she’s four feet, eleven inches of pure attitude.

  “I warned you about that boy,” she points out after I finish banging my head into the steering wheel as I spill my problems. “You shoulda picked Reid. He’s a good guy. But no, you had to go for the psychopath. You have a thing for the wrong kind of right, don’t you?”

  I frown, mostly because it’s true. My history with guys sucks.

  Sitting back, I close my eyes. The worst part is, my suspicions mean nothing. I know deep down that Oliver had nothing to do with any of this. I’m sure about it, and I can’t even explain why.

  I feel a fraction better, having vented, but the ache is still there. “What am I gonna do, Kayla?” A frantic horror overtakes me. “I don’t even know where I’m gonna stay during the deployment. I’d rather live in a box under the bridge than go back to my aunt’s place.”

  “You can stay with me,” she offers, “We have a spare bedroom since my big bro left for boot camp. Derek crashes in it sometimes. It’s free if you need it.”

  I’m touched by her offer. Staying with Kayla will be great, if her parents really don’t mind.

  “Oh my God, that would be amazing. Maybe I should come over sometime and meet your folks,” I suggest.

  “Sure. My mom works from home, so whenever is fine,” she says, pulling her magenta locks into a messy bun on the top of her head. “And as far as the boy drama, just take a breather. Sit back and let the dust clear for a while.”

  I nod, knowing that not only is she right, but there’s nothing else I can do.

  When we get to Derek’s, he’s less than thrilled about the idea of me spending the deployment with Kayla.

  “Where will I stay?” he whines.

  I know he is worried about losing his hideout for when things get rough at his house. It reminds me of something else I’ve been meaning to do.

  She pats him on the leg. “No worries. We still have a perfectly cozy couch.”

  Reid is quiet when I pick him up. I wasn’t even sure I should, but I’d have felt worse if I didn’t at least make an effort. Sure enough, he’s outside waiting for me when I arrive. His eyes are dark, like he hasn’t slept, and his face pale. And though I don’t expect it, he is holding two white sacks from the bakery. When he slips into the car, he hands me a donut. I smile, but he looks away. It’s a simple gesture. We’re still friends, even though we’re fighting right now. It makes a small part of my heart swell. At least I haven’t completely destroyed everything. Yet.

  When we get to school, I walk beside him into the building. “Look, Reid. I wanted to say I’m sorry about the other day.”

  “No, it’s my fault. I shouldn’t have come down on you like that,” he offers.

  “Yep, we both suck. However, if you still feel up to being my wing man, I have an idea,” I say slyly.

  He shakes his head full of dark, unruly hair and grins. “What do you need?”

  At lunch, I sit beside Cassy, who is talking in excited tones with Bianca. They are obviously rehashing something they’d watched over the weekend and are so absorbed in conversation they don’t seem to notice me sit down across from them.

  “Hey guys, have a good weekend?” I ask, taking a bite of my chicken parmesan sandwich, catching a drip of marinara with my tongue as it leaks out the side of my mouth.

  Cassy turns to me, only to catch sight of Reid entering the cafeteria behind me. Her eyes dart up and lock on like lasers. “Oh, you know. Girls’ night.”

  “Sorry I missed it.”

  “How was the dance?” Bianca asks, tucking a strand of blonde hair behind her ear.

  I smile. “Really good. It was my first real school dance so…”

  “Did you cry in the bathroom?” she asks, leaning toward Cassy. “I’ve always said, it’s not a party until someone’s crying in the bathroom.”

  “No, thankfully. And the only zombies that showed up were the chaperones.” I snap my fingers in an aw shucks gesture. “Maybe next year.”

  “There’s always prom,” Cassy says, her voice light and wistful, her eyes still locked on Reid.

  “You should ask him,” I say quietly. “I bet he’d say yes.”

  Her eyes flicker back down to me, her cheeks flushing. She shakes her head. “Call me old fashioned, but I want to be asked to prom by someone who actually wants to be there with me and not someone else,” she says pointedly.

  I frown but try to ignore the jab. “That reminds me, Reid is coming over to help me study for the chemistry midterm; you guys wanna come over too? It won’t take long, an hour tops, and I’ll spring for pizza?”

  Cassy agrees first, Bianca finally nodding too.

  “Sure, why not?”

  ***

  By the time Bianca arrives, Cassy and Reid are already in the living room, sitting on the floor, devouring the first still-hot slices of pepperoni and pineapple pizza.

  “Glad you could come,” I say, waving her in.

  She takes a seat next to Cassy and pulls her laptop from her bag. I open my tablet
, and Reid slides his laptop over to Cassy. I nod for him to begin.

  “Ok, so I thought the best way to do it would be a quick practice test. I’ve sent you each an email with ten questions. Once you finish the test, pass your computer to the right and we will score each other. Sound good?” he explains.

  “Works for me,” I say, stuffing a bite of pizza in my mouth. “The Wi-Fi password is zero, P-E-N, at symbol, T-H-E-C-L, zero, S+E.”

  He takes out his phone and sets the timer. “Let me know once you have the email open and we’ll start. Since the midterm is timed, I’m going to give us fifteen minutes to finish.”

  “Ok, I’m ready,” Cassy says.

  “Me too,” Bianca adds.

  “Shoot,” I mutter around the scalding cheese in my mouth.

  I open the test email, add the answers from the key in my note file, then open another window, following the wireless link from my Wi-Fi and into Bianca’s hard drive. Plugging the discreet jump drive into my USB port, I run the program that will sift through her recent Internet history and retrieve her username and password from the Omega Portal site.

  It takes exactly fourteen and a half minutes.

  Files found and saved, I remove the drive, close the secondary window, and pass my test and answers to Cassy, taking Bianca’s computer and grading her score.

  She missed half the questions.

  Once we’re done studying and eating, Bianca and Cassy head out, Reid staying behind to help me clean up.

  “So, did you get what you needed?” he asks, tossing a small stack of paper plates in the trash can.

  I nibble at my bottom lip before answering. “Yes and no. Here’s what’s not making sense to me. Say she’s the hacker—a total possibility—then why not just stick to that? Why suddenly change things up and go into the squadron directly? It’s risky at best. Plus, not only do I doubt she knows her way around chemicals enough to pull it off, but she has an alibi for the night it happened.”

  He frowns, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “What are you saying?”

  I shake my head. “I’m saying that either she didn’t do it at all, or maybe there are two suspects. One, a hacker looking to cause trouble, and another, willing to get their hands dirty and risk really hurting someone.”