Helen Hanson - Dark Pool

by Helen Hanson

Jack matched Anton’s gravity and one-upped him with sincerity. “No, sir. They did not have their servers here. Nobody’s ever hacked into the servers we manage.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The disappointing contents of the safe deposit box sent Maggie and Travis to their respective corners of the house. He rocked on the back porch and read the entire California driver’s ed workbook in a single sitting while she cooked a seafood stew in the kitchen. It smelled dreadful.

  Travis spotted Javier about a hundred yards away in the surf. He finger-whistled as loud as he could to get his friend’s attention.

  Within a few minutes, Javier ambled up the beach to their house. He wore boarder shorts and an AMGEN t-shirt from his volunteer work at the bike race the year before. He kicked the driver’s ed book. “I was looking for you earlier, dude. Getting up to speed. ‘Bout time.”

  “Tell me.”

  “My mom’s got all the private school paperwork printed for Maggie. Swing by later.”

  “You and your mom totally rock.” Travis punched the air with his fist.

  “Maggie still cool with being your teacher?”

  “So far. Thanks to Ginger. And you.”

  “What’ve I got to with it?” He swept black hair out of his eyes.

  “The shining example.”

  “Got that right.” Javier dropped into the other rocking chair. “But I could get arrested if I wanted. You public school rats don’t have a monopoly on delinquency.”

  Travis picked up a seashell from a pile his father collected. He scraped the arm of the chair. “The safe box was a bust.”

  “No gold doubloons? What a rip.”

  “I didn’t expect treasure. But after the trouble Dad went to making a stash for that key, I thought we’d find something worthwhile.” He threw the shell as far as he could onto the gray sand. “Instead it was worthless and weird.”

  “What’d you find?” Javier opened the sliding door for Belli. She sniffed the sand stuck to his bare feet.

  “Old bills from a web hosting site.”

  “Why would he keep those?”

  Now Bailey scratched at the door. Javier let him out, too. The dog repeated Belli’s foot sniffing ritual.

  “You’ve seen my dad. Why does he do anything the way he does?”

  Javier rocked his head sideways as if assessing the possibilities. “Were they from work?”

  “They had his name on the receipt not the Server Farm’s.” Travis got up. “Hang on. I’ll show you.” He skirted Bailey and Belli. They wagged their tails like windshield wipers in a downpour. Javier scratched their necks with equal vigor.

  Travis slipped inside and found Dad on the couch with the Stratocaster laying across his lap. He wasn’t playing it. Not in a way that Travis could discern. Who knew what Dad’s mind might be conjuring?

  Maggie stewed in the kitchen along with her stinky brew. She didn’t look up from whatever she was flipping on the stove. Dishes lined the sinks and pots accumulated on the counter. Maggie produced her meals in bulk. They used the microwave a lot during the week. Travis needed to get his butt inside to clean this mess as soon as Javier left. He’d promised.

  Maggie had closed out the safe deposit box while they were at the bank. No need to continue paying for a big, fat nothing. She stuffed everything from the box into a folder and took out her aggressions in the kitchen.

  Travis found the folder and headed for the back door. He called to her, “Magpie. Javie’s out on the porch with me. I’ll take care of the kitchen as soon as he leaves.”

  Travis heard her grunt.

  Outside, he opened the folder to show Javier the receipts. The free bank pen fell to the concrete. “Here. The receipts are about a domain name, AMirageVistasRight.com. It doesn’t mean anything.”

  “Yeah. I’ve been reading up on Alzheimer’s since your dad got it. It makes people do odd things.” Javier looked at the receipt. “I didn’t know you had a post office box.”

  “We don’t.”

  Javier slapped the receipt down on the chair arm. “Your dad did.” He poked at the address with his finger. “Martin Fender. P. O. Box 2600, Half Moon Bay.”

  Travis snatched another receipt from the folder. “Same here.” He studied the hosting receipts more carefully this time.

  “Did you see if the domain was live?”

  “Sort of. The home page only had ‘hello world’ on it. The registration information for the domain is listed as private.” He checked another receipt. “Why would he want this weird domain name?” Travis let the receipt flutter to the table. He lifted his gaze to the horizon and tried to think like his father.

  Alzheimer’s had crept over his father’s mind like black mold. When Dad was programming or taking care of Mom, he seemed totally glued together. But Travis couldn’t ignore the fear in his mother’s eyes. Dad dismissed the first salvos of this disease as “senior moments.” Travis heard that joke bantered about in school when kids were close to graduation. It used to be funny.

  But after Mom died, Dad’s behavior turned downright bizarre. He’d forget things that a guy just wouldn’t forget if he had a sound mind. Not things like shaving. Or zipping up. But he’d call Maggie by his grandmother’s name or ask who owned the pair of beagles.

  Dad knew what was happening to him. Like it or not, he knew. Mom knew. Even as she languished at the gates of death, Mom tried to prepare Maggie and him for Dad’s eventual decline. Maybe Dad made plans of his own before it was too late.

  Javier rustled the receipts to get Travis’ attention. “Check it out.” He splayed them on the wood-slat table. “I put these in order. He originally bought the domain name over five years ago and set up the monthly hosting service which included email, but this last receipt—” He handed it to Travis. “—dates back over two years year ago. Your dad prepaid the domain name registration for another ten years and the hosting for another five. He wanted it to stay alive for some reason.”

  “AMirageVistasRight.com,” Travis said it again to hear it anew. “Why would he pick that name?” A Mirage Vistas Right. He had to think like Dad. A Mirage Vistas Right.

  A Mirage Vistas, Right?

  An idea sliced through his fog. “Where’s that pen?” He shoved the table away to search the patio floor.

  “I got it.” Javier leaned to the tipping point to grasp the pen. “Here.”

  Travis took it from him and laid the file open on the table. At the top, he wrote, A Mirage Vistas Right.

  “What are some similar words to these?”

  “Dream. Views. Correct.”

  Travis wrote furiously. “What else?”

  “Illusion. Uh. Scenic. True.”

  “Fantasy. Bad Software. Free speech.”

  He scribbled over the synonyms. “No. Dad respected order. It’s too imprecise.” He doodled a seagull flying over the sun.

  A Mirage Vistas Right.

  He rearranged the letters.

  Marriage This Vista. A Tiara Gives Mirths. No. That can’t be right.

  Irrigate A Vast Shim. That made as much sense as the original. A Haste Sitar Rig Vim. Earth Via Gist Rims.

  “Earth via gist rims?” Javie laughed. “Dude. That’s out there even for your dad.”

  “I know, but I think Dad knew he was slipping away. Maybe he wanted to send us a message.” Travis rubbed a sweaty palm on his knees, shifting the pen to wipe the other. “Maybe I just want it to mean something.”

  “Well if anyone was going to send a post-lucidity message, your Pop was the man. He always had a flare for the cryptic.”

  Travis furiously reordered the same eighteen letters.

  Grave Ash Iris A Mitt. Garage Visits A Mirth. A Shaggier Artist Vim.

  Trivia Staggers Him A. A Sigma River Tights A.

  Always an extra A. Travis scrambled to reorganize the letters without his internal censor.

  Tis A Ravage Grim Shit.

  Then again, maybe he needed one. He listened to the sound of the surf, trying to clea
r the excess noise in his head. Javier was right. Dad loved puzzles, riddles, word problems of any kind. Weren’t mental games supposed to stave off this disease?

  Travis rewrote it again.

  Thirst Givers A Magi A.

  He cocked his head trying to see beyond the letters. Beyond the words used in the domain name. Beyond the current limits of his father.

  A Magi.

  Maggie.

  Blood rushed his head. He tried the next name. Travis. All the letters were there.

  S. R. A. H. T. I. Remained.

  Trisha.

  Maggie. Travis. Trisha.

  He felt the thumping all the way to his feet. Dad set this up while he was still coherent. It had to be important.

  “Jav—”

  “I see it, man.” Javier pulled a newspaper clipping from the stack of receipts. “What are you going to do?”

  Travis turned toward Javier. “He buys the domain for ten years. Hosting for five. He wanted this domain to survive him—his capabilities.”

  “You need to get control of the domain name.”

  “I have to find out what he was doing with it. Maybe some files are still there.”

  “Maybe. Knowing your Dad, the ride should be wild.” Javier read the newspaper clipping. “Hey. Who’s Daryl Betts?”

  The name wasn’t familiar to Travis. “Don’t know. What is that?”

  Javier passed the clipping to Travis. “It’s the dude’s obituary notice.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Maggie stretched her mouth open while she brushed her lashes with the prickly wand. Black-brown sludge transferred onto the blonde hairs that fanned out from her blue eyes. She glided a tube of coral lipstick across her lip, smudging them together to ensure a creamy, even coat and pronounced her makeup complete. Fyodor said he’d come by at seven-thirty. Ten minutes left to sparkle.

  He deserved better than her little black, standby dress, but it was clean, comfortable, and she could wear it anywhere he might take her for dinner. She tossed the hanger aside and slipped it over her head. Her arms threaded through the sleeves and tugged the skirt down to her knees. The mirror said the dress looked tired. Maggie agreed.

  She wrestled it up, over, and off her body for the last time. The frock had served her well, but the odometer rolled past the visible digits. Now, what to wear?

  In the back of her closet were some of Trisha’s old clothes. Dresses too beautiful to toss, and they were close in size, but she’d never been able to bring herself to wear them. Maggie bit her lip. Trisha would want Maggie to look her best. She plowed headfirst into the rack and pushed all her hangers to the side. She studied her options.

  The red dress flashed a bit too much leg for a simple dinner. Maybe for dancing. Another time. A satin gown in flowing purple reminded her of Trisha during a happier time, but the style of the dress screamed last-decade. Or the next. She slid more hangers toward her. A sapphire blue dress won her attention. Silk and sleeveless with a scoop neck and classic lines, it dazzled. She wriggled into it and let the mirror judge. Sold.

  The clock spurred her to get-a-move-on. She hated to keep people waiting because she hated when they did it to her. A bit of jewelry, her black wrap, an evening bag, and a decent pair of dressy black shoes finished her ensemble. She hustled down the stairs in a gust.

  The doorbell rang as she landed. Bailey and Belli skittered in from the kitchen on red-alert. She unlocked the deadbolt. Her insides fluttered when she saw him standing on her porch. He wore a soft, white shirt with the sleeves turned back at the wrist, beige linen pants with a faint, blue plaid, deck shoes sans socks, and a budding smile that made her insides melt.

  “Maggie. You look lovely. These are for you.”

  She hadn’t noticed the fistful of flowers but took them from him. “Thank you, Fyodor. Please, come in.” She turned around and bumped into Travis. The smirk on his face wasn’t lost on her. “My brother, Travis. Travis, Fyodor Umanov.”

  Fyodor did that snap-to-attention thing without clicking his heels. “It’s very nice to meet you, Travis.” His dense jaw muscles popped when he spoke. They shook hands. Fyodor was still a couple of inches taller than Travis, maybe forty pounds heavier, and built like the Kremlin. Maggie felt her breathing come a little faster.

  Fyodor bent down to pet The Firm who sniffed his shoes with a show of great concern. Apparently, the legal beagles deemed his scent worthy of entry as they let him ruffle the fur on their heads.

  Maggie picked her way into the kitchen while trying to catch another glimpse of Fyodor without being too obvious. She slammed a hip into the doorjamb.

  “Trav, will you get a vase for me? These need some water.”

  “Sure.” He snagged a vase from a lower cabinet. “So, Fyodor, what do you do?”

  “I own a security company.”

  Maggie took Fyodor by the arm to spare him a younger-brother interrogation. “I want you to meet our father.” She grimaced at Travis. “I have to warn you, he has Alzheimer’s. Some days are better than others.”

  “And how is he today?” Fyodor’s concern appeared genuine.

  Travis said, “Depends on who you ask.” Maggie scowled at him as he filled the vase and placed it on the counter.

  She stuffed the fistful of flower stems into the vase. A beautiful mix from asters to zinnias, including lilies of the Nile, delphiniums, Shasta daises, Queen Anne’s lace, and roses. Red ones.

  “These are from your garden, aren’t they?”

  “Having moved in this week, I can hardly claim it as my garden, but yes, these grow in my yard.”

  Modest. Maggie liked that in a man. Especially when his chest was made of granite.

  She touched his elbow. “My father’s in here.”

  He stayed by her side on the way into the family room. Her father sat on the couch where he’d been earlier.

  “Daddy, I’d like you to meet Fyodor Umanov. He’s our new neighbor.”

  “Mr. Fender, it’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.” Fyodor held out his hand, and her father’s soapstone rock landed in his palm.

  “You have a very smooth rock, sir.”

  Maggie retrieved the soapstone and put it back in her father’s hand. “We’re going to dinner.”

  “Don’t ride on the motorcycle.” Her father lifted his face to Fyodor. “It’s too dangerous.”

  “Daddy, he doesn’t own a motorcycle.” She kissed his cheek. “I’ll see you later.”

  As they left the room, she leaned in to Fyodor. “Some days are better than others. You ready?”

  “Yes, we have reservations at—”

  Maggie’s stomach clenched. She hadn’t considered the restaurant. What if it’s Osakane? She couldn’t face that punk Peter. What if they went to that happy pearl place where they think she’s a whacko and wouldn’t hire her if she were the last waitress in—

  “—Le Horizons. Does French food suit you?”

  As the husky maître d’ led them through the restaurant, Maggie scanned the wait staff for familiar faces. He left them with menus at an outdoor table overlooking the Pacific. Fortunately, she hadn’t see anyone she knew and started to relax.

  Fyodor studied the menu. “Would you care for some wine?”

  She settled against the back of the chair and took in the view. “That sounds lovely.”

  They chatted about the entrees and settled on salmon, duck, and a Napa Pinot Noir. The waiter filled their first glasses and left them to enjoy the light onshore breeze. The sun glistened at the edge of the world.

  “You know, Maggie, I didn’t think you would agree to have dinner with me.”

  Maggie coughed down a mouthful of wine. “You didn’t.” She dabbed at her mouth with the napkin. “Why is that?”

  “I am new to the neighborhood. And, your week has not been light. Sometimes our burdens weigh us to a point of inaction.” He raised his glass to her. “I’m pleased that was not the case.”

  She was the lucky one. “I’m surprised you asked
me after all the drama.”

  “Your family was attacked,” Fyodor said. “In both cases.”

  “Tell that to Carl Pinkerton.”

  “The bicyclist. Yes. He likes to gossip. Emotion wells in him for all the wrong reasons.”

  Warm, keen, and soulful—his brown eyes captivated her attention. Like a Russian bear at rest. “I’ve never properly thanked you for helping when the woman attacked Travis.”

  “I would have removed the lady from your yard, but your brother’s approach was kinder.” A smile played across his face. “Of course his methods only worked after you pinned her to the lawn.”

  Maggie’s face heated. “It’s not a habit of mine.” A laugh escaped from her lips.

  Fyodor joined her. “I’m sorry. I don’t make fun of your trouble.”

  “No, you’re fine.” She sipped her wine. “I must have been quite a sight.”

  “I like a girl who sticks up for herself.” He leaned in and tested her bicep. “But please be gentle with me.”

  As she reached for his wrist, she giggled. But he grasped her hand instead, squeezing it long and tenderly before releasing her. Deep in her belly, a swarm of butterflies took wing. She swirled the wine around the inside of her glass. Lines trailed back to the red pool. “So what kind of security work does your company do?”

  As if on a picnic, the man looked completely at ease. “Personal. For executives, celebrities, dignitaries. Anyone with a concern for safety.”

  “You’re a body guard?”

  An eyebrow arched. “That’s a bit of a simplification, but, yes. I can perform those services as well.”

  Wow. He could protect her body anytime. She bet he had his own tuxedo.

  “Your father. How long has he had Alzheimer’s?”

  “Probably longer than we’ve realized.” Maggie leaned her head toward him. “Maybe five or six years.”

  “He is quite young for such a disease.”

  “Everyone is quite young for such a disease.”

  Fyodor nodded.

  The waiter returned with their meals. While the food smelled fabulous, Maggie wanted to gestate the wonderful sensation in her belly. Like living on a cloud, immune to the weight of gravity.