by A. R. Torre
I reach for the phone and call the only person who could be responsible. His phone goes straight to voice mail. I hang up without leaving a message, then call my bank.
Ten minutes later, my worst fears are confirmed. I am, in the eyes of my financial institution, broke. Every one of my accounts has been cleaned out, the funds wired from my accounts, using my passcodes. No, they cannot get the funds back. No, they don’t know or won’t disclose where the funds went. They did provide me with a day, yesterday, when I lost my savings. They did have a copy of the wire transfer, which they promised to e-mail over. They also mentioned, several times, that I have negative balances in two of my accounts, and asked how I would be taking care of those.
They are rude and unhelpful, the sugary-sweet tones of prior calls gone, replaced by a bitchiness of the you-owe-us-money variety. I hang up the phone and punch a hole through the thin Sheetrock of the nearest wall.
Money. It was so precious to me when I first moved here. When the deposit on this apartment was a struggle, and I had no clear idea of what to do for income. But I had stopped thinking about money over three years ago. I have forgotten what the panic feels like. It feels like shit.
I sit on the edge of the bed, my chest tight, forcing myself to breathe, to think. Foregoing the possibility that some random identity-theft individual out there hacked into my world and stole every dollar I had, Mike is the only one who could have done this. He has full, unfettered access to my life. My computer, my money, my identity. Part given by me, part taken or provided by him. There have been times when I have questioned the wisdom of such access. But I need him, need his connections and access, have needed the digital walls he can build to keep my identity safe. And I have always paid him well. For him to steal everything from me… it is unthinkable. I pause, halfway through the process of picking Sheetrock bits from my knuckles. It. Is. Unthinkable. Mike, damn my naïveté, wouldn’t have left me completely penniless. We are, in some twisted sense of the word, friends. He had to have left me something. I move quickly, at the keyboard in an instance, bringing up the website for my offshore bank, my fingers hesitating, unsure of the login credentials, and open my e-mail and look for the one Mike sent a few years ago with login instructions.
I can’t find it. I can’t, two hours later, after painstakingly reading every e-mail he has ever sent me, find any information on logging in. I know he sent it, I know I read it, have—once or twice—logged into the site. I know the accounts are there. I filled out and scanned in registration and account forms, wire authorizations. I’ve spoken to the bank four or five times in the last year. There should be a million and a half, maybe two, in that bank. I glance at my watch, the hour too late to get anyone on the phone. I breathe deeply, send false reassurances to the part of my brain dumb enough to believe me. The offshore money will be there. A million and a half is more than enough. I will be fine. The money will be there. I’ll call them in the morning and, within minutes, they will confirm that fact. I will change my PINs and protect the money. The money will be there.
My computer dings, the alert of an incoming e-mail. I open it quickly, my bank the sender, the one-page attachment containing lines of numbers that tell me nothing, only one thing capturing my eyes. The memo line. Repeated four times, one for each of my money market accounts, one for my checking account. The same word, all caps in each instance. RUN.
I stare at the words, my brain dull, no clear explanation coming to mind, my forehead scrunching when I frown. Read the words again. They now stand out from the page, are in look-at-only-me font, nothing else legible but those words.
RUN.
RUN.
RUN.
RUN.
What the fuck is going on?
Where the fuck would I run to?
And who the fuck am I running from?
I close the attachment and move a shaky hand to my cell, wanting to take care of my most urgent need before my brain runs itself straight to crazy town. I enter the number for Cams.com and press “Send.”
Cams.com never closes. Their 24-7 line is answered promptly and they are, apparently, used to demands for money. I currently have $24,194 in my payout account, a pay period not yet complete, and am not scheduled for an ACH deposit until next Thursday. But, according to the cheery-voiced customer service rep, they can deposit it in my bank account early tomorrow morning, for a minimal service fee of 50 percent. Fifty fucking percent. In very colorful language I tell him to process the payment. I hang up and hope to God Mike is done emptying these accounts. Done sending me cryptic messages without explanation.
RUN.
He’s not a dramatic guy. Not someone I’ve pissed off recently or who is in the habit of playing elaborate jokes. I have to assume that he has either skipped town with my money or that something is very wrong. And if something is very wrong, what do my funds have to do with him? With his memo alert? Are the funds a tool of communication or a piece of the puzzle?
I have too many questions and no answers. Let me revise that. At the moment, I have too many questions, no answers, and am broke, an uneasy predicament to be in.
CHAPTER 72
MARCUS RETURNS TO the interstate, a fresh tank of gas giving him renewed vigor. Pumping gas. Such a simple act, yet one that—prior to this trip—he has no recollection of. Not since he was a teenager, before the money and the respect and the hired help. In some ways he misses the simple pleasures of handling his own affairs. In other ways, he hates the stench of gasoline on his hands.
Soon. Soon he’ll have her. It had been frustrating to discover that he had the wrong address. Had driven a thousand miles out of the way for nothing. But he’d gotten a million dollars out of it. Not a bad travel stipend. And… even more valuable, he’d discovered the boyfriend. A key that could turn the lock of Jess Reilly’s submission. A threat against her boyfriend—that would bring the pleas, the subservience. The willing participation in whatever he chooses to act out. The respect. Nothing gained respect quicker than the threat of loss. And to achieve maximum impact, you had to threaten what was dearest.
The man in the wheelchair was easy. It didn’t take hours of thought to figure out that attack angle. His hands. They were his lifeline. Without them, his mobility, job, and independence were limited. It took just the threat of removing digits for him to speak, fast lines of speech tumbling out, anything that might be useful thrust eagerly forward, as long as the wire cutters didn’t make the final squeeze that would claim a capable digit.
He shifts, settles deeper into the seat, his thought returning to the girl. As a female, her trigger points will most likely lie in relationships. The hacker had said her family was all dead, a statement he believed. So she is alone. The boyfriend most likely the most important person in her life. Jeremy Pacer. The ticket to her submission. Marcus will go to him first, then her. A little work to ensure that his reward is perfect. Her willing submission. Respect. Anything and everything he wants from the little brunette with the deflated attitude. He reaches down, pressing on the base of his cock, the hard-on coming fast. Tries to distract his mind from arousal and focus on an intelligent plan.
Jeremy Pacer. Age thirty-one. 23 Prestwick Place, Tulsa, Oklahoma.
That is all he has, all the cripple could provide. He needs more. He hates dealing with fucking men. This one had been easy. He’d known from the moment the door opened that he could handle him. This next boy, a muscular man. Probably stronger. His eyes flick to a passing billboard. Prepares for the next exit. He’ll call Thorat. Get some help. The ex-head of his security would assist. Owes him that. Marcus had stayed strong during the trial, kept his silence, had protected the man’s involvement with Katie McLaughlin. Now was as good a time as any to call up his old employee and ask a favor.
Fifteen minutes later. Pay phones, scarce before, have disappeared completely. The Waffle House sign above him casts a yellow glow on the interior of his Mercedes, turning the cellphone screen before him sickly. He stares at Thorat’s number, c
ontemplates taking a risk and calling from it. Closes the cell before he makes a mistake. Puts the car in park and gets out.
“It’s Marcus.” He fights the battle between holding the phone to his ear to muffle the conversation and not wanting the germ-covered appliance that close to his skin.
Thorat’s voice warms instantly. “It’s been a long time.”
“Yes.” Marcus’s time in jail had lost the employee, the man moving on to more exciting opportunities than guarding an empty compound. Thorat had parted happily, with a hefty severance package, one that acted as insurance against the secrets he kept. Marcus clears his throat, moves away from the counter, shooting a look at the man behind the counter. You’d think a hundred-dollar bill would buy some fucking privacy. “Look, you got me something a few years ago. The injections. Remember?”
“Yeah. You need more?”
“Two. FedEx them to the Ritz in Cleveland. Just mark the package ‘employment contracts.’ Put the company name on it. Can you get it there tomorrow?”
The chew of silence for a minute. It was one of the things he always appreciated about the man. When he gave you an answer, it meant something. Not like half of the flappers in his employ, men who spit out “yes, sir” with no idea what it means. “Yeah. It’ll be there by noon. Just two?”
“Make it three. Also. You know how you took care of the Sandbar?” The Sandbar. Also known as Billy Littleton, a county commissioner who had made it his mission to stop every wave of forward progress on an airport they had constructed in Kansas City. Thorat had worked some magic with zip ties, a handful of contracts, and some piece of baking TNT. A half hour with Thorat, and the Sandbar had become an inward tide of forward progress.
“Yeah.”
“Include some instructions, telling me how to do that. Make ’em clear. I don’t wanna blow myself up in the process.”
“It’s impossible. You’ll be fine. Will be simple for someone as smart as you.”
“Watch that flattery, Thor. You’ve been around those yuppies too long. I’ve got to go. Get it there tomorrow.”
“Will do. I’ve missed you, man. Welcome back.”
Handing back the receiver, he watches the attendant hang it up, then looks for the bathroom. His hands are in desperate need of a washing.
He returns to the interstate, his foot heavy on the gas. 23 Prestwick Place. He’s never killed a man. Is a little concerned with the size of Jeremy Pacer. But Thorat’s injections should take care of that. Marcus had seen them take down a grown elephant, the demonstration very convincing in its proof. Plus, he has the element of surprise. But not a lot in the way of time. Eventually, someone will discover the crippled hacker. And, depending on the shape the man is in, if he is alive or dead, coherent or insane, there is a chance he’ll talk. Might call her. And she’ll run. So time management is important.
He drives into the dark night, the roads empty, him and tow trucks sharing the lonely lanes. He drives and thinks. Empty time. His reward so close. He smiles in anticipation.
CHAPTER 73
I WAKE WITH thoughts of Mike. I have so few friends, Mike being at the top of the list. It’s sad that someone I have never even seen, know so little about, holds the top spot on my list. But he is my enabler, my protector, my partner in crime, the one who helped in the events that led to Ralph’s death. I feel, or felt, in some way, like that kill solidified our relationship. Took us to a level beyond cybersex and Internet crime. It is sobering to realize that I may have thought wrong. May have been just a mark, a pretty girl to steal a million bucks from. I roll out of bed and reach for my phone, placing an international call to my Cayman Islands bank.
It takes me five minutes to verify that my funds are secured, untouched. For some reason or another, Mike hasn’t touched a penny in their vaults. I ask to change the security passwords, and get passed to three or four different representatives before I get the right department. Twenty minutes later, I breathe a sigh of relief and hang up the phone. My money is safe. He left that alone.
Something is not right, the idea of Mike taking my money off in so many ways. I work through other possibilities. Who else would have had access? No one. Who’d know about all of my US accounts? Him. Who hasn’t, for the first time in three years, answered his phone? Him. Who’d put a cryptic message in the memo line, one that was either a helpful message or ominous threat? Him? But again, there is no other option. It had to be him. Thinking otherwise is naïve.
I dial his number, lifting the phone to my ear and sorting out my words. Again, I get his voice mail, and again, I hang up without leaving a message. I think last night was the first time I’ve ever even heard his voice mail. He always answers. Doesn’t have any reason not to be available. His nondescript voice mail speaks louder than words ever could. He is, for a reason unbeknownst to me, gone. With my money. And any friendship we may or may not have shared.
I lean back and scream in frustration, a long howl of crazy that somehow, in its aggression, makes me feel a little better. My anger at the situation mounts, mixing with the clusterfuck cocktail of unknowns. I cannot remember the last time something important has been out of my control. Cannot remember the last time I had so many questions with no clear way to get answers.
Half of me hates him, wants to tear out his heart and stuff it down his mouth. Wants to torture him for making me value and care and then disappearing without explanation. That half of me envisions him spending my money with a bleach-blond bimbo, laughing at me and my naïveté as he fucks his way to happiness and guzzles champagne.
The other half of me knows that that cannot be true, trusts the man that I’ve known for three years. That half of me stares at the word RUN and understands that this has a purpose. Half of me worries that Mike is in danger and I cannot save him because I know absolutely-fucking-nothing about the man. Half of me wants to crawl into a ball and cry over what could have happened to my friend.
Neither of those halves are interested in running. For one, I don’t have anywhere to run to. For two, I’m a fight over flight girl. I see RUN and I think WAR.
Maybe I should be preparing.
But how do you prepare for the unknown?
CHAPTER 74
IF YOU WERE to walk into Dunbar Diagnostics, crawl up a hot flight of stairs into their attic, and troll around long enough, you’d eventually stumble on a file. It states that Mike’s trip to the fair netted thirteen broken bones. Only one mattered. A vertebra in his lower spine, one whose crack caused a rupture of the spinal cord. A very important vertebra, one that secures the framework of guardrails and caution tape that protect the life-giving bundle of nerves we all take for granted. Vertebrae are weak, not strong enough to stop the steel of a ride from snapping your lower body movement into oblivion. Hello paraplegia.
It could be worse. Paraplegia is different from paralysis. Different in the fact that he has feeling in most of his legs. But they are weak, too weak to function. His brain tells them things; they just don’t listen. At least his dick works. It works too well at times, pushing and protesting about the unhelpful limbs attached to it. Paralysis would be worse. Lack of sexual function, lack of urinary and bowel movements—that would really suck. So he is lucky. That’s what he tells himself in the dead of night. Lucky. When he stares up at the ceiling and thinks about ending it all. Poof. Done. Just like that.
There are some upsides to continuing life. His existence is comfortable, thanks to the profitable side of hacking. Women are plentiful, if you don’t mind paying per orgasm. He doesn’t need the outside world. Between hookers and Jamie, his needs are met.
Jamie grew up with a brother worse off than Mike—a car accident completely paralyzing his lower half. His body is at the stage where normal bowel and urinary functions are problematic, and daily functions take four times longer than a healthy human’s. He lives on his own, has a regular job, manages through his condition. Jamie grew up with that, accepts it as normal. Doesn’t blink twice if Mike falls from his chair or if he
gets pissed at his useless legs. He never worries about pity with her—if anything she keeps him in line. Keeps him from feeling sorry for himself. He is so much luckier than her brother. Lucky that his dick works and that he can feel when she reaches over and grips his thigh. Lucky that he can piss in a toilet and not through a catheter.
Jamie. She comes on Sundays and Thursdays, and is his only hope at rescue. He closes his eyes and wonders what time it is. Wonders how fucking long “Jingle Bells” will play before the cheap plastic innards say “screw this” and give up. Why the hell did he never put a clock on the wall in this room? It wouldn’t have taken any time. Five minutes to stick a nail in the wall and hang twenty bucks’ worth of sanity up. His mind is already playing games with his psyche. Right now, he’s fairly certain it is late in the afternoon on Wednesday. Pretty sure. It can’t be before noon. There’s no fucking way that only five hours have passed since the sun came up. He tries to see his shoulder, gauge the amount of pain. The codeine has worn off. He moves the shoulder as little as possible, hoping that the knife is stemming the flow of blood, hoping the arm is salvageable. He wiggles his fingers, rolls his wrists, moves his other arm as much as he can, and wishes the fucker had used longer handcuffs.
Not that he can really complain. He has his fingers. He has his life. And all it took was putting her head on a platter.
He is horrible. He is weak.
He hates fucking “Jingle Bells.”
CHAPTER 75
MARCUS HAD LEARNED a lot in prison. A lot about human nature, how caged humans, despite our upbringing, drug habits, or skin color, are all the same. We want to fuck, to eat, to live. We want freedom, we enjoy control, we want to kill. It is an animal instinct, one society tries to squash, to raise out of us, but it is the natural urge that lies in all of us. Some of us have learned how to feed that need. Enjoy it in the underworld of human life. Pick our victims carefully. Learn how to properly control them.
