Assured Destruction: The Complete Series

by Michael F Stewart

  Soon I know the name—likely fake—of our perp, his cell phone number, and an email address. I’ve also discovered the IP address of the main server through which he connected for his webcam sessions. Most of it points to Ottawa. The only thing we know for certain is that he’s local. We use a paid service to trace the cell phone number and it turns out to be a prepaid number which means likely untraceable. Hannah doesn’t have a PayPal account so the service leaves my bank balance twenty dollars lighter. A search of his name and any combination of cell number and email address also turns up nothing.

  “So …” Hannah wrings her hands as I yank at my hair, wondering again if I should really be here and not calling 9–1–1.

  “So, I don’t have his address and he didn’t use this email address to login to his webcam service, otherwise I might have been able to hack him from here. We need to figure out where he lives for plan B to work.”

  “What was plan A?”

  “Hack his webcam using some software tools and then record him luring you.”

  “Oh, it is like magic!” Hannah claps her hands together and looks like a four-year-old just told that Santa Claus is coming.

  I sigh. “To do it now, I need to be closer to his home.”

  “Use me then,” Hannah says.

  I catch sight of a Captain Hook Hello Kitty with a heart-shaped eye patch.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ll agree to meet with him, and we both hide and then follow him home.”

  I’m immediately shaking my head, but she puts a hand on my shoulder. “I won’t actually meet with him. Where’s the problem?”

  It’s true. Maybe she’s not as naïve as I thought. The only person who won’t be happy about this is the guy she stands up.

  “So far this creep has been untraceable,” I warn. “He’s taken very real precautions to protect himself. It may not be as easy as it sounds.”

  “I know but how else are we going to track him?”

  “You’re sure?” I ask.

  She nods. “And no police.”

  “Hannah, even if we can pull this off, he’ll probably find someone else. He may already be doing this to others. Police could stop this for everyone.”

  Hannah fidgets with her hands. Maybe I’m getting through to her.

  “He won’t stop. He’s sick,” I add.

  “No police.” Her voice deepens and my eyes slide to her wrists. “I wouldn’t cut myself. I’d use pills.”

  “Oh.” So she’s planned it. That’s a serious red flag. “All right. Send him a text. Tomorrow at 4 PM. Same place as last time. Say you were sorry but don’t overdo it.”

  Hannah adds the text and shows me before hitting send. As I pack up, the creep replies. He changes the time, the location, and the date. The two-day wait will feel like an eternity. Willies in my stomach suggest someone walking over my grave, but Hannah replies to him with a smiley face and it’s on.

  Chapter 10

  Hours of community service remaining: 1992

  <> JanusFlyTrap tweets with a twitpic of just-the-cutest-fuzziest—OMG—tennis-ball-chick-ever.

  I prefer mine with gravy, Heckleena replies.

  @JFlyTrap Ready for redemption? Hairy tweets.

  @HairySays #Badguys, time for #checkmate, JanusFlyTrap tells the twitterverse.

  I’m tweeting from the foyer of the police department, waiting for Detective Williams to collect me. Until they trust me enough to grant me a security card, I have to twiddle my thumbs with everyone else wanting to pay a speeding fine or parking ticket. The hassle of waiting is worth it, if only to see Haines’s face when I tell him my new phishing theory on the carding thefts. Frannie had another hit from a spammer who explained phishing techniques to her, confirming the first spammer’s response. But Williams doesn’t open the security door—it’s Ethan Chow.

  “Williams isn’t here,” he says, poking his head around the door as if I’m some kid delivering flyers to his house.

  “That’s okay, I’ll talk to Haines then.” I grab the door handle before he can jerk it closed.

  “What’s it about?”

  “That’s between him and me.” I don’t trust this guy and actually wonder if he’d steal my idea and promote it as his own if given half the chance.

  Chow squints.

  “Come on, my boyfriend is waiting for me outside,” I add, yanking on the handle.

  He lets the door go and I stumble back. I hurry into the station proper. I didn’t lie to Chow; Jonny is idling outside, listening to one of the six stations my radio can tune. If I hadn’t dragged Jonny this far I might have turned around and headed back home to return when Williams was back. But I can use the excuse to scratch another community service hour off of the ones I owe. Besides, Haines was the one who pulled me off the case; he’s the only one who can put me back on it.

  “What is it?” Haines glances up from a desk buried in paperwork. He uses coffee cups like paperweights; a dozen are scattered about.

  “I … ugh …” Why can’t I speak to this guy?

  He threads his fingers together and cracks his knuckles. “Right. Of course, thank you for stopping by Miss Rose.”

  “I mean, it’s phishing.”

  “Fishing.”

  “That’s with a P H.” I grimace. “I think they’re scoring the credit card numbers using phishing techniques.” There’s an extended pause where I can’t read the sergeant. “You know. Spammers send fake emails that bait victims into false websites where they enter real banking info.”

  “I know what phishing is.” His expression is dangerously blank. His voice drones without intonation. He could be ready to rip my head off or hug me. “How did you come by this information?”

  “Frannie,” I say, who of course isn’t real. “I mean, I emailed spammers and asked them what they would do. One phished me back, another sent me to this cool hacker site that expunged me, and another just—”

  His chair shrieks as he leans forward. I take a reflexive step backward.

  “You told this Frannie about a case?”

  “No, no, Frannie’s not real or anything. I just use her to talk to spammers. It’s for fun.”

  He taps his teeth with his fingernail as if he’s playing piano keys.

  “Fun? Do you remember what happened last weekend?” he asks, voice rising an octave. “What it meant?”

  “That I’m off the case, but—”

  “So you are smart.” He smiles. “And yet …” His fist slams into the desk and all the coffee cups rattle.

  “I’m only—”

  “Only still working the case and cavorting with criminals to do it! What are you thinking? Do you know how far Williams is sticking her neck out for you?”

  I realize that I’ve left the door open behind me. The bustle of the office cubicles has gone silent. Somewhere someone chuckles and I’m one hundred percent certain it’s Ethan Chow.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You are off the case,” he says and points a finger at me. It might as well be a gun. “Do you understand?”

  I nod.

  “Shut my door.” I do and stand before him, not sure what could be so bad he didn’t want anyone else to hear. “I mean, leave and shut my door.”

  I’m such a loser.

  I want to stop the tears, but I just can’t. I’ve been an idiot and just proven how much so again. But despite my snivelling he doesn’t look up.

  With my head down, I fast-crutch to the exit. Outside the precinct, Jonny claps while sticking his head out the driver-side window. I signal a thumb down and he stops.

  “What’s wrong?” he asks.

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  He shakes h
is head like Haines did and doesn’t say a word until we pull into Assured Destruction; his silence is okay because I have a lot to think through. In the lot, Peter’s powder blue Mercedes, my mom’s van, and a rusted-out Chevy hatchback are lined up before the doors.

  I lean over to give Jonny a kiss.

  “Are you sure?” he asks.

  “Of what?”

  “That we’re still together. At this point I’m your driver, not your boyfriend.”

  Sometimes I think boys are so much more sensitive than girls, but then I was the one in tears. I smirk at him. “Here’s your tip then, driver.” My lips part and I stare with my sultry stare, eyebrows rising suggestively. Finally he grins and our lips meet and he tastes like peppermint and I’m pretty sure the last thing I ate was a banana.

  “See you tomorrow morning,” I say. “Sharp. Or you’re fired.”

  I watch until the taillights of my car disappear around the corner, and a wave of relief rolls over me. I wonder if I’ve landed on the magical solution to tiding my relationship with Jonny over until things settle down. Make out session equals happy boyfriend? Maybe each day he just needs a little, you know, action.

  With the makings of a strategy in place, I turn back to Assured Destruction. It’s only five o’clock but Canadian winters are so dark that the only illumination is from the haloes of frosted light surrounding our security lamps. With Christmas coming, we need to do something to spruce up the warehouse. The drab brick and corrugated siding makes me feel like my day pass is up and I’m returning to visit Nurse Ratched for my meds in the psych ward. Maybe it’s just that it seems more like a computer recycling facility than a home.

  Inside the store isn’t any better. Exposed rafters, brick, concrete floors, metal retail counter and a conveyor leading into the warehouse proper. When the door jangles shut, Peter’s head peeks out from the office doorway.

  “Glad you’re here, Jan, I want you to meet Trin.”

  “What kind of name is Trin?”

  “It’s Haitian, and he applied for the job.”

  “Job?”

  “To replace … you know who.”

  To replace Fenwick. The Estonian who wanted to use Assured Destruction to run a porn site and to steal people’s identities—can’t imagine where he got the latter idea. I think about my mom. “When can he start?”

  “How about you ask him a few questions first?”

  I shrug and drop my book bag on the counter. It’s the first time I’ve actually witnessed Peter in our office and I’m not sure what I think about that as I crutch inside.

  Trin is sculpted. I mean beautiful. High cheekbones, wrists every girl would die for, burnished dark, clear skin. He’s wearing a red silk scarf over a neat white shirt and black pants. The eyebrows might be plucked but it’s tough to tell. He smiles at me.

  “Allo, nice to meet you.” He says nice with a z instead of a c. I love the accent and am about to ask when he can start when Peter sits on the side of the desk. It’s like he owns the place. Maybe I shouldn’t take the first candidate he shows me. Maybe I shouldn’t take any of his candidates. I didn’t even know my mom had placed an ad.

  “Hi, Trin.” I shake the fingers he holds out. “I like your scarf.”

  “So cold here,” he says.

  “You would be working in a warehouse, you know,” I say. “During the winter it’s not exactly roasty-toasty in there.”

  His eyes sort of roll and he shifts in his seat. “That is, okay.”

  “So, why are you interested in the fine art of computer recycling?”

  He sticks out his lips in a way that I can only describe as French. I remember that Fenwick did something like it too. My enthusiasm for Trin dims. Besides, I need to assert myself over Peter; I’m in even more trouble after he convinced me to continue the carding case.

  “I need the job. I like family businesses. I like doing many things, not just one. This job is … okay.”

  Honesty. That I can use.

  “Okay, well, we’ll be in touch then.”

  Trin shifts again and looks to Peter, who hesitates.

  “Thank you, Trin, we’ll call you in a day or two to let you know,” Peter says.

  When Trin stands, he unfolds like a jackknife. The man towers over me. All gangly like a character in a Tim Burton movie.

  “What did you think?” Peter asks after the outer door closes.

  “I …” I want to say Trin seems fine, but then I’d be letting Peter take over this piece of the business. Trin will be Peter’s man. A loyal plant. With my mom sick, we’re vulnerable to someone close to us taking advantage. “Shouldn’t we interview a few more. I mean, it’s a really important job.”

  Peter taps a sheet of paper with scribbles all over it. “Six people responded so far, three didn’t show, one I think was drunk, and the third wore his pants down around his ankles, asked if I was your mom’s sugar daddy, and whether I owned this bitch.”

  “Wow, and you didn’t go for him?”

  He laughs. “You’re welcome to continue the search; I’m just trying to help.”

  The phone is flashing, which likely means more job candidates.

  “You’re sure helping a lot,” I say.

  “What do you mean, Janus?” His blue eyes soften. “You don’t want my help?”

  “It’s not that,” I say. “It’s just … Assured Destruction has been my thing for a while.”

  “I understand,” he replies after a moment. “But is Assured Destruction worth all the stress it causes?”

  I squint—he doesn’t understand. Since forever, women have fought for a room of their own. Money isn’t everything. I know what Assured Destruction means to my mom. I know what it means to me. Independence. “It may not be much. But it’s ours.”

  “Okay.” He lifts his hands, palms up.

  “And I want to interview three more people,” I say, feeling a small measure of control returning.

  “Be my guest, Janus, the store is all yours. I could use the break.”

  And with that, my control is ripped away. If he isn’t working, then I am.

  Chapter 11

  Hours of community service remaining: 1991

  Something shatters and I jerk awake. I blink up at the Frannie Mouthwater doll secured above my bed, which looks a little like she’s on the verge of vomiting on me from her shelf.

  My mom’s swearing and I roll out of bed, throw on yesterday’s clothes and stumble into the kitchen.

  “Sorry,” my mom says, leaning down from her wheelchair to brush plate shards into a pile.

  “No worries, lack of depth perception will do that to you.” I crouch on my knees and take over.

  In truth, I’m happy. The sun hasn’t been up for long and my piratical mom’s awake and sipping a coffee she didn’t burn herself brewing. If all we lose is a plate, it’ll be a good day.

  “I’m feeling much better,” she says.

  I rest my head across her knees and she strokes my hair. Worry smoothes from my brow. “That’s so great, Mom.”

  After I’ve swept everything into the garbage, I pour a bowl of Fruit Loops and grab a cup of coffee for myself. It’s so early I haven’t even checked Facebook or Twitter. I shudder to think what havoc my absence is causing.

  Once I’m at our IKEA kitchen table, spooning sugar cereal into my mouth, my mom joins me, ever so carefully lowering her mug to the tabletop. She’s wearing the patch I made for her. Her good eye is saddled with a deep blue moon of fatigue. I doubt she slept.

  “Peter will be back this evening,” my mom says. “I’ve asked him to look at our finances.”

  I drop my spoon in the bowl.

  “You what?”

  “Every month the accounting needs to be done. I’m already a month beh
ind and the bills … you can’t imagine the bills …” The cadence of her speech changes, slows, as if she needs to draw more breath to utter each word.

  “But Peter?” I take another bite while thinking this through, not quite awake enough to understand all the angles.

  “I can’t see well enough to stare at a spreadsheet, and you don’t have the time.”

  This isn’t right. I can’t believe he’d even agree to this after our conversation yesterday. It’s way too soon for him to be looking at her finances.

  “You sure about this?”

  She sighs and clenches her good eye shut.

  “Look, Mom, I know you’re not doing so hot, but people prey on that,” I say.

  And for the first time, some pink returns to her cheeks. “Peter’s not a predator, Jan.”

  “And we know how?”

  “I just know.”

  She’s making crappy decisions because she’s sick, but I can’t tell her that.

  “I’ll do it,” I say. “I’ll do the finances.”

  “How?”

  “I’ll figure it out. You’re forgetting I once did the company taxes. Besides, if you can do it, why not me?”

  “How considerate.”

  “I didn’t mean … ” I decide it’s better to remain silent on the issue. “I’ll take a look and then maybe we can work through it together.”

  She doesn’t respond.

  I munch another fruity-tastic bite of sweetness and food dye. I haven’t told her that I’m opening the store today and interviewing three people for the warehouse job. She doesn’t even ask about the business, yet another sign that she’s overwhelmed. Her coffee mug trembles as she brings it to her lips, misses, finds her chin and then slides it up to her mouth. Her being out of bed and what she said about feeling better—it’s all for show, I realize. I pretend not to notice. It’s times like these that she’s on the knife’s edge of a breakdown. Anything will set her off and then I’ll never rouse her from bed.