by Ray Daniel
“He accused me of killing Carol.”
“That is ridiculous.”
“After raping her.”
Jael’s lips tightened into a line. I’d seen that look a few times, and it had never boded well for those in her gunsights. But there was no one to shoot.
“He’s dead,” I said. “A twenty-year-old kid is dead, beheaded, and I can’t even get myself to feel sorry.”
“He hurt someone you love.”
“Still, he didn’t deserve this.”
“And you never got the chance to forgive him.”
More tweets appeared with my handle in them. They all had the #TuckerGate hashtag. I clicked on the hashtag to see all tweets related to #TuckerGate. There were more than five hundred.
The #TuckerGate controversy had exploded across Twitter. I scrolled through it, noting three strains of thought. The first was that I had killed Peter. The second was that I had killed Peter and the FBI was covering up for me, like with all the other people I had killed, including Carol. The third was that I was an innocent man. At least innocent until proven guilty.
@Eliza: .@TuckerInBoston has the FBI wrapped around his finger. #TuckerGate
@Epomis: Got any evidence of that? #TuckerGate
@Eliza: I got eyes. #TuckerGate
@Epomis: Oh well then, sure it’s obvious. #TuckerGate
@CapnMerica: It’s time for somebody to take
@TuckerInBoston down. #TuckerGate
“This is just hot air,” I said. “You didn’t have to come over here.”
Jael didn’t answer. She stepped forward, traced her finger down the track pad, and brought up a tweet I would have missed.
@Eliza: #doxed @TuckerInBoston is Aloysius Tucker and he lives here:
The tweet went on to provide a Google Map link to my house.
“Oh,” I said.
“Indeed,” Jael said.
“Still, it’s unlikely there’ll be a physical attack. These guys don’t do the real world.”
“Then there is this.”
@Tron: Hey, @TuckerInBoston, let us know when you plan to suicide … got to chill the champagne. #TuckerGate
I stared at the tweet. “These guys are nuts.”
“All the more reason for me to be here.”
“I don’t want to put you out over guys like this. They’re not going to do anything.”
“You just said they were crazy.”
“They are.”
“You cannot predict what crazy people will do.”
My phone rang. I put it on speaker.
“Tucker, you need to come over here for dinner,” said Adriana.
“Need?”
“Yes. Are you on speaker? Do you mind if we talk privately?”
“I’m here with Jael. Say what you want.”
“Just come over for dinner.”
“With Jael?”
A pause, a covered mouthpiece, a faint, “He wants to bring a friend.” Some murmuring, and Adriana was back.
“Yes. Fine. You’ll want the support.” She ended the call.
Twenty-Four
Jael put on her coat, grabbed her handbag of doom. I’d seen all sorts of things come out of that handbag: a pistol, zip ties, a lock-picking kit. Never a mint, never a tissue.
“You’re armed for bear,” I said as we descended my stairs.
“Yes,” said Jael. “Unstable people know where you live.”
I had to give her that. We emerged onto Follen Street, looked up and down through bare trees to see that there were no obvious threats. We headed toward Huntington Ave, where it would be easier to Uber to Government Center.
We turned the corner onto St. Botolph. A skinny kid in jeans and a Patriots pom-pom hat leaned against one of the bare trees planted along the brick sidewalk. He saw me, perked up, stepped forward.
“Aloysius Tucker,” he said, brandishing a pair of handcuffs. “I’m placing you under citizen’s arrest.”
Jael stepped between us. Said nothing.
“You can’t arrest me,” I said.
The kid said, “I am making a legal citizen’s arrest.”
“You can’t arrest me.”
“Google it, asshole. Commonwealth v. Lussier.” He took another step forward.
Jael stiff-armed him back into the tree, if you can call applying pressure with one’s fingertips a stiff-arm.
“That’s assault!” the kid said.
“Actually, that’s battery,” I said. “Google it.”
“I have a right to make a citizen’s arrest if you can be shown to have committed a felony.”
“I haven’t committed a felony.”
“There’s a preponderance of evidence.”
“Wow,” I said. “I never thought I’d meet someone who, in fact, knew just enough to be dangerous.”
“Other than yourself,” Jael said.
“Thanks,” I said.
He had rebounded from against the tree and seemed to be trying to figure out a way around Jael. He continued to brandish the handcuffs. “Also, there’s a bounty.”
“What bounty?”
“On bitcoinbountyhunter.com.”
“For fuck’s sake!” I was ready to strangle Al Gore and anyone else who had claimed to help invent the Internet.
“It’s a full bitcoin bounty.”
Jael asked, “How much is that in US dollars?”
“Who knows?” I said. “Still, it was enough to motivate Boba Fett here.”
The kid made another lunge at me with the handcuffs.
It was clear that Jael had had enough of this. She took a step, tripping the kid with one foot while grabbing the wrist holding the handcuffs with the other. He squeaked a rat-like squeak and fell face down on the bricks.
Jael knelt over him, stuck a knee in his back, and snapped one handcuff over his wrist. Then she locked the other end to a wrought-iron fence against one of the houses.
“You can’t do this!” he shouted. “You’re violating my rights.”
I said, “You have the right to remain silent. Have you ever considered exercising that right?”
“You’re a crook, Tucker! Someone’s going to bring you to justice!”
“Do you always talk like 1960s Batman?”
“You won’t get away with this!”
“You do look a little like Adam West.”
Jael had fished through the kid’s pockets and pulled out his key ring.
“Hey, what are you doing with my keys?” The kid tried to free his wrist, locked to the bottom of the fence. “This is so illegal!”
Jael flipped through the ring, found the handcuff key, and removed it.
“You’re not going to get away with this!” he said again.
“You need new writers.”
Jael dropped the kid’s keys onto his stomach. “We must keep moving,” she said to me.
I followed her.
Behind us the kid yelled, “Hey! What are you going to do with the handcuff key?”
Jael dropped the handcuff key into the sewer. We walked away.
“You bitch!” the kid yelled after us. “Cunt!”
I turned away from Jael, back toward the kid.
Jael said, “No. Ignore him.”
I ignored her instead, and squatted next to the kid handcuffed to the ground. “What did you call her?”
The kid flushed red.
I said, “You think this is Twitter? You think you get to say that stuff to a woman’s face?”
“We must leave,” Jael said.
I slapped the kid, open-fingered, across the cheek.
He screeched. “Stop it. Help!”
I pointed at him. “You don’t get to say those things to women in real life. You do it again, I’ll kick your
ass. You’ll be pissing blood.”
The kid started to blubber, rattling at the handcuff that held him pinned to the ground.
Jael grabbed my arm and pulled. She got me going. We left the kid lying in the street sobbing. My vision narrowed to a little piece of sidewalk in front of me.
“That was foolish,” Jael said.
I said, “It was necessary.”
“It was not necessary.”
“I’m sick of it.”
“I know.”
Breath hissed through my teeth. “Sons of bitches.”
“I know.”
“Fucking hiding behind their computers.”
“I know. You must ignore them. There may be real dangers.”
We reached Huntington. I pulled out my cell phone, tried to open the Uber app. My fingers banged at the screen, unable to hold still long enough to reach a button. Jael slipped the phone from my hand and worked the app. A station wagon with a glowing blue Uber logo pulled up. Jael guided me into the car. Told the driver to take us to Cleveland Place.
I stared out the window, watched the Colonnade slip by.
Let us know when you plan to suicide …
The phrase rattled around. Let us know. Let who know? The kid with a pom-pom and a dirty mouth? The denizens of Twitter? The self-selected group of assholes who decided to dispense justice because they were bored?
Who would I let know that I was going to suicide? I’d love to know, because I’d just as soon let them know that I was going to kill them.
Twenty-Five
The lasagna Adriana plunked in front of us contained organic cottage cheese, gluten-free noodles, and cruelty-free spinach. But it was still lasagna, and I was starving.
“Aren’t you and Catherine going to eat?”
“We ate,” said Adriana.
“Is there meat in this sauce?” asked Jael.
“No,” said Catherine, “it’s vegetarian.”
Jael picked up a fork and started in on the lasagna.
I hacked off a piece, shoveled it down. “Do you have extra gravy?”
Adriana took my plate out from under me, walked over to the stove, splashed some marinara sauce on the lasagna, deposited it back in front of me. “There you go, Captain Hacker.” She sat next to Catherine across the table from us. Stared.
“What did I do?” I asked.
Catherine said, “We could have used a little bit of a heads-up.”
“Yeah,” said Adriana.
“I was a little busy.”
“That’s bullshit. Your phone doesn’t have texting?”
“What was I supposed to text? Hey. Peter’s head’s been cut off. Maybe there’s an emoji for that. I wanted to tell you myself, but I was busy being interro—”
Adriana’s phone rang. She answered. “Hi, Katie. Yes, I called him. He’s right here in front of me. We’re having dinner. What?” Eye roll. “Of course I feel safe in my home. If you didn’t think I could speak freely, why did you ask? … Yes … Yes … It’s fine. Thanks. Bye.
“That was my friend Katie,” she said.
“I heard.”
“She called earlier to warn us.”
“About what?”
“That people on Twitter say you killed Peter.”
“Did you tell her that’s crazy?”
Catherine said, “So we looked on Twitter. Does the hashtag TuckerGate ring a bell?”
“Of course it rings a bell.”
“So you weren’t going to tell us about it?”
“That I was right about Peter having hacked Maria? Of course I was going to tell you.”
“It really doesn’t matter that Peter hacked Maria anymore.”
“Now that it looks like you killed him.”
“I didn’t kill him. That’s ridiculous.”
Jael ate her lasagna, her eyes traveling around the triangle formed by Adriana, Catherine, and me.
“Aren’t you going to say something?” I asked her.
“This is delicious,” said Jael. “I would like the recipe.”
“I’ll e-mail it to you,” said Adriana.
Catherine looked up from her laptop. Looked at Jael. “Are you Tucker’s bodyguard?”
“I am his friend.”
“But you also protect him.”
“He has needed protection in the past.”
“Does he need protection now?”
“No. I don’t,” I said.
“I didn’t ask you. I asked Jael.”
Jael said, “Why do you ask?”
“You might want to look at this,” said Catherine, turning the laptop so we could see it.
@PitBull54: We’re gonna get you @TuckerInBoston you fucking murderer. #TuckerGate
“Oh, that,” I said. “That’s nothing.”
“That’s a death threat,” said Catherine.
“It’s not a real death threat. It’s an Internet death threat.”
Catherine said, “You mean like this one?”
@BOS142409: .@TuckerInBoston, we’re going to gut shoot you and fuck the hole. The FBI can’t save you. #TuckerGate
“Oh my God. They published your address.”
“I know.”
“And look at this!”
@GR8AP3: If I ever see you I will literally kill you with my bare hands, @TuckerInBoston. #TuckerGate
“Doesn’t that scare you?”
“No,” I said. “Do you seriously think that fat load is going to crawl out of his parent’s basement and kill me with his pudgy, Cheeto-stained fingers?”
Catherine turned to Jael, “I thought you weren’t his bodyguard.”
“I am not.”
“Then what is this?”
@Metalhead: Watch Tucker beat up @CapnMerica.
The tweet featured a link to a YouTube video. A shaky camera showed the bounty hunter in his Patriots pom-pom hat trying to effect a citizen’s arrest.
“You handcuffed him to the fence?” Catherine said.
“It was for his own safety,” said Jael.
“What’s this?”
The video showed me turning, walking back to the kid, slapping him in the head.
“You hit him!”
“He called Jael a name.”
“Yeah? What name?”
I told them.
“That’s no excuse for hitting him.”
“It was just a little tap.”
“Why is he crying then?”
“I might have threatened him.” My lasagna had congealed into a gluten-free pile of mush. I didn’t want it anymore. “Do you have any wine?” I asked Adriana.
“Wine?” said Catherine.
“You know, to go with dinner.”
“No,” Catherine said. “You can’t stay here.”
“What?” I said.
“What do you mean?” asked Adriana. “Why can’t he stay here?”
“Don’t you see?” said Catherine.
“See what?”
“We’re in danger. Maria is in danger. I’ve been reading this thread. People are saying that Tucker killed Peter because of Maria.”
“Has she been threatened?”
“Yes!”
@GR8AP3: I’ve heard that Maria is a twat. Instead of slapping @CapnMerica, @TuckerInBoston should slap her. I’ll do it if I see her. #TuckerGate
“Jesus!” said Adriana.
“You can’t be here,” said Catherine. “You need to leave.”
“C’mon,” I said. “This is all talk.”
Catherine pointed at the door. “Get out!”
Adriana looked at the tweet, then back to me. “Just for a while, Tucker. Just until things settle down.”
Jael stood and headed for the front door. I followed. I grabbed
my coat off the rack, started to knock on Maria’s bedroom door to say good-bye, but Adriana caught my eye. Gave a little head shake. No.
I stood with my hand poised, ready to tell my cousin I wouldn’t be seeing her for a while. I ran through the scenarios in my head. She’d ask me why, and I’d say … I’d say what? I’d say that the guy she didn’t want me to go after was dead, that his head had been cut off? Would I tell her that people were threatening her?
Adriana was right.
I dropped my head. Let my hand fall to my side. Followed Jael out the apartment door, down the stairs, and out onto Cleveland Place. I looked back up at the apartment, my throat suddenly tightening. Jael patted my back.
Adriana, Catherine, and I had been engaged in a grand experiment of group parenting, helping each other find the way to take a shattered little girl and turn her into a strong woman. With no parents, no girlfriend, and a single guy’s lifestyle, I realized that I’d come to think of these two women and that little girl as my real family, and of that apartment as my real home.
Now I was homeless.
Twenty-Six
Jael was in full-on bodyguard mode as she walked me up to my apartment. It had been a quiet Uber home. Normally Jael plays the politely attentive listener to my blathering, but after being thrown out of Maria’s life, I lacked the will to blather.
Parting with Jael is usually a mildly awkward affair. A handshake is ridiculous, a peck on the cheek is too mushy, a salute works sometimes along with “see ya.” Today Jael broke with all of these approaches and pulled me close for a stiff hug.
“It will be better tomorrow,” she said into my ear. “Stay in tonight.”
“I will,” I said, hugging her back. Then she left, moving down my spiral hallway staircase with her typical silence, and I was left sitting in my apartment with Click and Clack. The boys didn’t seem in a talkative mood, so I left them alone, poured some of Clyde May’s Alabama whiskey, and let its apples settle in my nose before taking a swig.
My phone chirped. I had a text message from Twitter: 328938 is your Twitter login code.
I’d set up my Twitter account so that it would text me one of these codes every time I logged in from a new computer or phone. But I hadn’t logged in from a new computer or phone. That meant only one thing: somebody had guessed my Twitter password.
