Stealth Retribution

by Vikki Kestell

  “So, you made the decision to keep information from me?”

  Yes, Gemma Keyes. For your good and Dr. Bickel’s good.

  “I see.” I did see, but I didn’t like it—because it was wrong. I tried to be tactful as I chose my next words.

  “Nano, I understand that you wish only good for Dr. Bickel and for me. You care about our . . . emotional wellbeing.”

  Yes, Gemma Keyes. That is true.

  “Well, I need to tell you something . . . something that is vital to every person’s emotional wellbeing.”

  We are listening, Gemma Keyes.

  “It is about choice, Nano. People need to be free. Free to choose. It’s . . . it’s the way God made them. Choice is something God gives us.”

  Past Sunday school lessons and the voices of Aunt Lucy and Zander converged and clarified this principle as I’d never before understood it. In a single moment, a host of my life’s conundrums resolved themselves.

  “Nano, even when you care about a person, it isn’t right to take away their freedom to choose.”

  We have observed that people often make decisions that run counter to their welfare.

  “I know. I’ve seen that, too. However, God allows us to live by our choices—for good or ill—so that we are free inside.”

  This supposition seems counterintuitive, Gemma Keyes. Perhaps God is wrong.

  “According to Zander, God is never wrong, Nano. People must be free to choose—but they must also be responsible for the consequences of their choices. Zander says people won’t be responsible for their actions unless they are also free to choose them.”

  Perhaps Zander is wrong about people. Perhaps he is wrong about God.

  “Well, so far, he’s been right—but we’re getting off topic. You withheld information from me.”

  Yes, Gemma Keyes. Temporarily. For your emotional wellbeing.

  “Well, even though you did it for my wellbeing, I don’t like it.”

  You don’t like your wellbeing?

  “No—and you know that’s not what I meant. What I meant is that I don’t like how you diminished me.”

  There. I’d finally hit the nail on the head.

  “Nano, we are six, are we not?”

  Yes, Gemma Keyes.

  “Then don’t treat my tribe as if it were less than the other tribes. Don’t withhold my full participation in the nanocloud because you decide if or when it is good for me. Don’t treat me like a child. I am emotionally stronger than you give me credit for.”

  The nanomites went quiet on me at that point.

  I hadn’t gotten angry; I hadn’t acted all bent out of shape with them. I truly was trying hard to be rational and calm. Still, the nanomites were silent for a long time, and I grew impatient with them: After all, they said they had found Soto’s ransom demands—and I needed to see them.

  When the nanomites remained aloof, I pressed them. “Nano, show me what you’ve found. Now, please.”

  I intuited their reluctance but stood my ground. A moment later, a newspaper article appeared in my mind. As I took it in, my heart clenched: The six-inch by four-inch block was posted in the Albuquerque Journal’s Obituaries section. It featured a striking photo of Emilio and this headline: A Life Over Too Soon.

  I gasped, and Emilio’s face swam in front of my eyes. “No!”

  Gemma Keyes, we do not believe Emilio to be dead; we deem this to be Soto’s means of contacting you. Please read the short article accompanying the photograph.

  I scrubbed at the blinding tears and tried to focus on the print. I couldn’t, not right away. I couldn’t get past the image of Emilio’s sweet face. He was wearing what looked to be a new polo shirt, and the photo’s composition was nicely done, the quality as good as a school portrait. His body was turned to the side, away from the camera, while he looked over his shoulder, his face in partial profile, and smiled into the camera.

  Smiled? Maybe with his mouth he smiled, but certainly not with his eyes. No, I knew Emilio too well to be fooled. His dark eyes raged against the camera and against the man forcing him to pose for the picture. Soto had to have taken the photo himself.

  Regardless, I’d never seen anything so wonderful. I wanted in the worst way to reach out and touch my boy, to hold him close with my arms wrapped around him, to keep him safe from this ugly world. From Dead Eyes.

  When I was able to, I scanned the print next to the photo.

  A Life Over Too Soon

  Sweet little Emilio

  was only 10 years old

  when he was snatched away.

  Friends who love him

  will send flowers here

  The subtle word difference struck me. “Friends who love him,” not “loved him.” Present tense, not past.

  “It’s a threat.”

  Yes, Gemma Keyes.

  I ran through the text again. The word “here” was a link.

  “Take me to the link, Nano.”

  A web page appeared, a plain, unadorned screen with a blinking cursor preceded by these words: To enter the memorial site, type the first name of Emilio’s beloved uncle.

  “Mateo,” I whispered.

  Agreed, Gemma Keyes. Do you wish to proceed?

  “Yes.”

  The nanomites didn’t need to step through the security rigmarole, but Soto didn’t know that, did he? I watched as the nanomites keyed in the letters M A T E O and pressed “enter.” Watched as the page advanced and a video screen appeared. The nanomites pressed “play.”

  Emilio materialized. He was sitting in a chair, wearing the same polo shirt as in the obituary’s photograph, but he was no longer concealing his anger behind a smile.

  In fact, if looks could have killed, Emilio would have been the only one in the room still alive. Everyone else would have been reduced to a glowing heap of slag on the floor.

  A harsh, disembodied voice spoke from behind the camera. “Read it.”

  Emilio lifted a sheet of paper and read aloud from it. It was obvious from how he spoke that he’d been coached, that he’d read the message many times in preparation. It was also obvious why his “memorial” picture had shown his face in partial profile: A large bruise covered his left cheek.

  As I took in the discoloration, a familiar rage smoldered in my gut.

  Lord, please help me!

  I took a deep breath as Emilio sneered in the direction of the camera and then began reading. “Invisible lady—” Right there he gave a short, derisive snort. “Invisible lady, if you don’t want Emilio’s obituary to be real, if you don’t want to be responsible for the kid’s death, you must come and get him. No police. No FBI. Just you. This is your one and only opportunity to save him. If you screw up, he dies. If you don’t show up, he dies. If you diver—” Emilio stumbled over the adult word. “If you diverge from the plan, he dies.”

  Emilio swallowed, knit those dark brows of his together, sucked in air, and continued reading. “Remember: only you. I will be watching, and my men will have a gun to the kid’s head. One wrong move, one act of disobedience, and his brains get splattered on the wall—and it will be your fault.”

  Emilio’s bravado buckled, and his voice shook as he finished. “One more thing: no ‘invisible’ tricks. Show up as yourself; if you turn up but we can’t see you, the brat’s dead. Here’s a date and time; return to this site on that date and at that time. You will receive updated instructions then.”

  Emilio dropped the sheet. As it fluttered to the floor, he lifted another piece of paper and held it up. The camera zoomed in on a date and a time.

  I gaped at the paper; the date was five days from now. Five days? It seemed an eternity.

  “Soto must have decided that I might not find the obituary right away.”

  Very likely, Gemma Keyes; however, he will know now that you have found it. The video’s counter has registered a visitor. Do you wish us to roll back the counter?

  I thought for a minute. “Yes, for the time being. Let Soto sweat over it whil
e we figure this out.”

  We have removed our visit from the site’s log, Gemma Keyes.

  There was a pause before the nanomites added, The obituary began running yesterday and is paid to run through next Tuesday, the date Soto has selected for the meeting. The video was recorded Tuesday, the same day the obituary was submitted, one day after Soto took Emilio.

  “Do you have a source for the website?”

  Yes, Gemma Keyes. We have gathered all available data for this website. The source is a local hosting site. We have gained access to the hosting site and are running the customer’s credit card data now.

  “Can’t you trace the IP address of whomever uploaded the video?”

  We have the IP address of the computer from which the files were uploaded, Gemma Keyes, but Dead Eyes has taken the computer offline. However, we are monitoring the hosting site. On Tuesday, while Dead Eye’s people are uploading the instructions, we will trace their location.

  “Good. Between now and then, we’ll decide how to handle Emilio’s rescue.”

  I went on, speaking more to myself than to the mites. “Soto has no idea what he’s dealing with.” I was talking aloud to myself. “He doesn’t know why and how I can be invisible. He doesn’t know about the nanomites. He sure doesn’t know what we can do.”

  Indeed, Gemma Keyes. He will be no match for us. We are six, and we are quite optimal.

  Beneath the persistent presence of the nanomites, I heard another voice whisper, You are strong and capable, Gemma, but do not be overconfident in yourself. Rather, place your trust in me. For it is not by might nor by power, but by my Spirit.

  “I hear you, Jesus, but please help me to deal with the anger I feel! I don’t want to make another mistake; I don’t want to cause more grief.”

  Lean on me; I will guide you through.

  “Yes, Lord, I will.”

  Gemma Keyes, who are you talking to?

  “I’m talking to Jesus, Nano.”

  Why can’t we hear him? We sense him, but cannot hear him. What is he saying?

  “He is telling me to trust him, Nano. Not to be overconfident in myself.”

  The nanomites went all “quiet” again. I wondered what they thought about Jesus’ warning against “overconfidence,” given their assertion, We are six, and we are quite optimal.

  Shunting those concerns aside, I reached for the Bible Zander had given me. “Lord,” I whispered, “Zander says your words are food for my soul, that you will transform me into the image of Jesus if I read your words daily and apply them to my life. Please show me where to start?”

  ***

  Genie’s first full day in New Mexico had exhausted her. Although she was waiting to hear from the law firm she’d called while still in D.C., she had no assurances that they would extend her an offer—and she couldn’t afford to wait.

  I need a job. I must have money coming in or this whole house of cards will come down around my head.

  She went online and changed her address at the post office and spent the remainder of the day poring over Indeed.com, LawCrossing.com, and the State Bar of New Mexico’s classifieds. She applied for every halfway-decent position she found. She also researched and downloaded the forms to transfer her license to practice law to New Mexico.

  Tomorrow would be just as challenging. The locksmith would arrive in the morning, and she could only guesstimate what he would charge to cut a new key for Gemma’s car. It had to be done, though. Genie had no other transportation options if she hoped to schedule interviews and begin working. Then there was all the nonsense attached to establishing residence in a new state: obtaining a New Mexico driver’s license, a local checking account, etc. She contemplated one incidental expenditure after another, measuring her dwindling bank account against the expenses ahead.

  And while watching for and guarding against that *blank blank* cat.

  When Genie had reentered the house after her encounter with Zander Cruz, the mangy animal was sitting on the arm of the sofa, watching her. Genie’s eyes narrowed in disgust, and she could have sworn that the creature’s green eyes narrowed, too. In fact, although he sat so still that he could have been dozing, Genie got the creepiest sensation that the cat was mocking her. Mirroring her facial movements. Taunting her.

  She had swallowed, afraid to move for fear he would leap from the couch and pounce on her. Near abject terror jittered around in her stomach, keeping company with astonishment.

  I’m afraid? Me? I have a cat phobia?

  No; it’s just this cat. This horrible, ugly demon cat!

  As though toying with Genie bored him, the animal had tipped his scarred head and opened his mouth in a yawn, a wide—a huge—fang-and-tooth disclosing gape. Genie was mesmerized—the way a mouse is mesmerized by the sway of a snake and cannot flee.

  The spell had broken only when the animal arched his back and jumped from the couch to the floor. He wandered around the side table and lamp—and disappeared.

  Worse than holding a losing stare-off with that devil cat was not knowing where he was. And, oh! how Jake knew how to hide from Genie! She couldn’t find him anywhere.

  It’s only a two-bedroom house! Where can he be?

  He must have sensed that Genie would toss him outside if given the opportunity, but the truth was that she was afraid to touch the ugly, dirty thing. Her preference—her fervent longing—was to call an animal removal service.

  Like I can afford that.

  They played Jake’s twisted version of “cat and mouse” (actually, “cat and human”) through the afternoon and into the evening: Jake skulking away and reappearing when and where Genie least expected him—scaring the living daylights out of her. Jake staring daggers at her; Jake stalking from the kitchen into the living room, howling a feral accusation—as though demanding some action or response from her! Jake leaping onto the kitchen counter while she tried to heat a can of soup on the stove.

  After he’d chased Genie from the kitchen, Jake rioted. He flipped over his metal dishes and slid them across the floor. The discordant clank as the bowls smacked against each other and the cabinets jangled Genie’s nerves—nerves that were already shot. When he pitched one of the bowls into the front of the stove—a particularly loud clang—Genie crept to the dining room and peeked around the corner.

  Jake stared at her, and Genie blinked.

  Could he . . . Was he . . .

  She eased into the kitchen doorway. “You-you’re hungry?”

  From Jake’s throat arose a growl that was both harsh and savage. He kept growling and shooting her wide, wild glares until Genie would have sworn he was chewing her out. Telling her “what for” in unmistakable terms.

  “Okay! Okay! I don’t know where Gemma kept the food—”

  Jake bounded forward and pawed at the low cupboard next to the refrigerator. He batted and clawed at it.

  “All right! Get away and I’ll look. Go on! Shoo! Scat!”

  Jake sat back on his haunches—a scant foot and a half from the cupboard. His tail twitched, jerking back and forth, and his tongue shot out and licked his nose and all around his toothy maw. Genie inched into the kitchen and, with one eye on the cat, grabbed the cupboard handle and yanked it open.

  There. Right there on the bottom shelf was a three-pound sack of Little Friskies, perhaps a third full.

  She grabbed the sack from the cupboard and picked up one of the two metal bowls. She filled it to overflowing. Set it down and, with the toe of her shoe, nudged it toward Jake.

  Without another sound or glance, Jake buried his face in the bowl. Genie could hear the crunching, cracking, and snapping of his teeth on the dry kibble, the way he scooped up the food and threw it around in his mouth to get it between his jaws.

  All the saliva in her mouth dried up.

  “Uh, maybe you need water, too?”

  With slow caution, she retrieved the other bowl and filled it from the tap. Placed it on the floor. Dared to scoot it closer to the other bowl. Jake stopped ch
ewing, lifted his head, and skewered her with green-orbed disdain. Genie jerked her hand away. She backed out of the kitchen. A moment later she heard the lap-lap-lapping of Jake’s tongue flipping water into his mouth.

  Genie couldn’t take anymore. After two days of travel and stress, she was physically and mentally exhausted. She climbed into bed with her clothes on, pulled the covers over her head, and fell asleep instantly.

  She awoke in the night to a Dark Presence in the room.

  On her bed.

  Near her feet.

  Holding her down.

  Jake’s glowing, green eyes studied Genie. She shivered, but held as still as she could, not knowing what else to do. If the cat attacked her, she would be forced to retreat under the covers, hoping their thickness would protect her from the worst.

  Genie felt like the standoff lasted for hours. In reality, Jake watched her no more than three minutes. Then he shook himself, scrabbled at the blankets with his claws, turned around and around, and curled into a ball against her hip.

  And purred.

  To Genie’s ears, Jake’s rumbling resounded like the blows of a jackhammer. After a bit, the sound eased, and she realized he’d fallen asleep. His weight pressed against her hip, warming her.

  Unable to resist her body’s need for rest any longer, Genie herself slept. When she woke in the morning, she found that she hadn’t moved all night, but Jake was gone. In the mounded blankets against her hip where he’d laid all night, she saw the imprint of the cat’s curled body. She reached a tentative finger toward the impression.

  It was still warm.

  ***

  Late that night, after Dr. Bickel and I had shopped, I drove to the dojo and worked out. While I was glad of Dr. Bickel’s quiet presence in the safe house, I found myself in a familiar spot—too much time on my hands and not enough to do with it. My anxiety over Emilio and the obituary the nanomites had discovered added to my hyperactive, jittery state. I needed to move, use my body, work it hard, and expend the nervous energy bursting from me.

  After an hour of running through the patterns and routines that were now as familiar as my own skin, I spent two hours sparring against Gus-Gus. Since I had lost my own fighting sticks, I had to borrow the dojo’s.