Assured Destruction: The Complete Series

by Michael F Stewart

  “Honey,” she mumbles.

  It’s never been this bad.

  “You okay, Mom?” Worried she’ll fall over, I don’t release her shoulder.

  “Just a little tired,” she says.

  “Okay, Mom.” I wheel her to the couch and help her on to it. She’s deadweight and if it was a scene in a television show it might have been funny how I flop her on the sofa, but it’s not. It’s my mom and she’s really sick. Her breathing soon settles into the deep quiet of sleep.

  I pull on the first sweater I find in the pile of dirty clothes on my bed and then a pair of fresh pants, grappling with the cast. In the office, I flip through her contact list. Tears stream down my face as I dial the phone.

  “Peter?” I ask when someone picks up.

  “Janus, is everything okay?”

  “No, no,” I sob it. “My mom, she’s so sleepy. I can barely rouse her, and I have to go. I’m so sorry.”

  “Five minutes,” he replies and hangs up.

  When he arrives, I accept his hug. I feel like a wrestler who’s been left in the ring too long. I tag him, ready for a rest. But there never is. Not for the wicked.

  Chapter 22

  Hours of community service remaining: 1985 minus 1 hour to be claimed once I am reinstated.

  <<*Hugs*,>> Frannie tweets.

  @FrannieMouth *squish*, Heckleena replies.

  LOL, I just barfed all over you! @Heckleena! Frannie tweets.

  You are powerful @JFlyTrap, powerful, Hairy says.

  If you don’t know where you are going, then it doesn’t matter which way you go, #presidentialtweets, Tule tweets.

  I’m at the bank, having driven very, very carefully. For once I’m not dressed as a gangster or a cartoon character. In khaki pants and v-neck sweater, I’m aiming for the girl-next-door image. It’s tough when your eyes look like puff pastry from crying.

  “I’d like to speak with Mr. Orsen.” But I needn’t have asked, baboon-butt-face banker is already crossing from his office to the tellers.

  “Do I need to call security?” he asks.

  “I’m here as a client.” I don’t feel powerful. I’m a beggar.

  He looks me up and down, sighs, and points to the half door that lets me into the staff area beyond the tellers.

  Once in his office I note that his desk still has the same wireless keyboard. I’m considering warning him—maybe a gesture of goodwill is in order—but then he opens his pointy-toothed eel-maw.

  “As I said, I received your email, Janus, but unfortunately there’s nothing I can do for you.”

  The image of my mom, slumped in her chair and zombified, cycles through my brain. Why should I help this guy out? At least by telling the police I can throw him into hot water. Maybe he’ll even be fired and we’ll have a new bank manager to work with. But that won’t happen fast enough to help Assured Destruction. If you fell down yesterday, stand up today. I’ve fallen twice today. I’m on my knees and tomorrow seems a long way off.

  It reminds me of a scene with Randle McMurphy in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. He makes a bet that he can lift this huge unit in the shower and then throw it through the wall and escape. Made of marble, it weighs a ton. After he fails, he says: “But I tried anyway, didn’t I goddammit, at least I did that.”

  I have to try too.

  “Please,” I say. “This has been a difficult time for my mother. She’s ill; I’ve been hospitalized, and we needed to close in order for me to attend school.”

  He inspects the fake plant in the corner. “I’m sorry. It’s a business decision. The sale of the land and building will cover your debt, but not if we allow interest to accumulate.”

  There’s something in me that breaks a little. This man is so small souled. He’s willing to shut us down because of his grudge against me. It will finish my mother, too. I know it.

  “You sure?” I plead.

  “Janus, the sales of Assured Destruction have fallen precipitously since your father left. I see no sign of that trend reversing.”

  I’m biting my lip as my hands rollover one another. Suddenly, I stop.

  My eyes travel back to the keyboard. I’m not powerless. I am powerful.

  “One hundred percent certain?” I offer him another chance.

  “A thousand.”

  “But my mom—” I’m going through the motions now. The blood in my veins transmuting to iron. My soul darkening. My heart shrinking three sizes. He has no idea who he’s dealing with.

  “She is ill and has been for years. We are a bank.”

  He says this last as if it should explain everything, but I know better. People hide behind things. People decide, not institutions. Well, I’m a person too. I’m getting off my knees. I’m standing up. Trying.

  “Can you give us more time? A week?”

  He shakes his head, taps a few keys on his keyboard, and says: “No, we require your mortgage payment tomorrow, or the entire amount comes due and you will have thirty-five days to pay it.”

  It’s final. He’s resolved. And I know by his email that this time it’s personal: He doesn’t like me. The feeling is mutual.

  “You know,” I lick my lips, making my decision. A big one. One that has the potential of changing things for me in a not so good way. But I have nothing left to lose except my mother and I will protect her like a she-cat. “You can’t determine if a date is right for you in only thirty seconds.”

  He turns his ear to me, as if he’s not sure he heard correctly. He’s left me no option. I have no choice but to use the credit card leak against him. A vestige of guilt clings to me like a burr, but I owe the police nothing. I’d lost Assured Destruction’s chance while solving their case.

  “What do you mean?” he asks.

  “Speed dating is a crappy way of finding a girlfriend,” I say. “Your sister is right. You should find some hobbies and people who share them. Like knitting. You might do well with the blue-hair set.” My hands are shaking and I sense rather than hear the quaver in my voice.

  “I’m not sure I follow. How—?”

  “How do I know about your speed dating? The same way I know you were willing to offer us a break on our mortgage.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Are you beginning to understand where the credit card leak is coming from? How I can know all of this information?”

  He glances at his door.

  “Are you blackmailing me, Miss Rose?” he whispers.

  “I’m helping you. I don’t want to see you fired after we’ve developed such a close relationship.”

  His mouth shrinks, narrowing his face even further.

  “I’m the leak,” he says.

  “Now you’re getting it.”

  His skin’s the color of money.

  “How—”

  “How long do we need? Until the end of January, two months. I know you were willing to offer that too, by the way.”

  His hands clasp and unclasp.

  “Please explain how you read my email.”

  “Do we have a deal then? Two months, no payments?”

  I hold out my hand but he shakes his head. The scrotum-chinned banker won’t touch me. There’s no question in my mind that he deserves this.

  “You can’t tell the police,” he adds. I can practically see his mind racing to cover off any other potential pitfall. “Or anyone else. This is just between you and me.”

  “Send the email confirming it now,” I say. Williams could have had this win. A case closed. She had her chance.

  He stares at me, before turning to his computer and typing furiously.

  In a minute, I have an email from him saying how he’d be happy to grant Assured Destruction a two-month holiday on our mortgage payment. />
  “I can’t read your email,” I say. “I can record your typing. It’s your keyboard. Someone’s intercepting the wireless signal. Just swap the keyboard for a wired one and you’ll be fine.”

  He’s gripping his forehead.

  Without talking I stand up and crutch away.

  Chapter 23

  Hours of community service remaining: 1985 minus 1.

  <> Hairy tweets.

  For better or worse, blackmailing the banker lends me the confidence that I can blackmail the creep stalking Hannah, too. Somehow that helps me bury the guilt worming in my guts. It’s really just about having the proper tools of persuasion. Threaten a guy’s job, and he’ll go easy on your mortgage payments. Threaten a creep with jail time, and he’ll stop what he’s doing. Once I have a visual and audio record of the creep talking to Hannah, or to any other poor kid he’s luring, I can force him to let Hannah go.

  Sitting in my car in the mall lot, I call home. Peter picks up.

  “How’s my mom?” I ask.

  “I … Janus, I think we should take her to the Emergency to see a doctor.”

  I sag into the seat. “Can I talk to her?”

  “That’s the thing. I’m sorry, she’s just not responding.”

  My thumbs press into my temples.

  “Okay,” I say.

  “I’ll take her to the General Hospital,” he says. “Will meet you there.”

  I hesitate. This is my mom. But what I told Jonny is true. Video recordings are huge files. If I wait any longer, I won’t be able to download the evidence that will help Hannah.

  I hear his sharp intake of breath and realize he’s picked her up.

  “I need an hour or so.”

  “It’s all right, Janus, I can take care of her.”

  “Thanks, Peter,” I say.

  “See you soon.” The line goes dead.

  He didn’t even ask why I’ll be late or where I’m headed.

  I’m torn. I should help Peter with my mom, but I recall Hannah’s antics in the atrium. Her lies. She’s a powder keg with its fuse lit. I can’t do anything more for my mom than Peter can, and she may even be too sick to know if I’m there. But I might be able to help a friend and if I wait too long I won’t be able to.

  Sorry, my mom’s in the hospital, I text Jonny. Will text you later.

  The reply is immediate. Sorry about ur mom. B careful.

  I drive toward creepy dude’s apartment. In a couple more hours everything will be over and I’ll shoot over to the hospital and focus on my mother. My phone rings. Correctional Services—my heart spasms. They know about the bank. Someone honks at me and I have no idea what I did wrong. Driving with a broken leg isn’t easy.

  “Answer,” I say, using the phone’s voice recognition feature. “Janus Rose, here.”

  “Hello, Miss Rose,” a screechy female voice says. “I’m with Correctional Services. We have a new community service location for you.”

  Williams couldn’t even call herself.

  “What is it?”

  “You’ll be helping out at a local soup kitchen.”

  Peeling potatoes, scrubbing floors, cleaning up after mumbling old men for years? I won’t survive.

  “Miss Rose?” she asks.

  “Yeah, I’m here. Is there any other option?”

  “It’s not a buffet, Miss Rose.”

  “I’m driving, can we talk later?”

  “I will call tomorrow.”

  “Thanks.”

  At the next stoplight, Williams calls.

  “Answer,” I say. “Hello?”

  “Hi, Jan, I just wanted you to know that—” Williams says.

  “That I’ll be serving soup to homeless people for the next two years of my life?”

  There’s a pause as I accelerate.

  “Sorry, I’ve been too busy to phone. Wait, are you driving?”

  I swerve to miss a kid crossing against the light.

  “Uh … no, I’ve got a cast on.”

  “Good, I forgot to tell you that you’re considered an impaired driver with a cast.”

  I can’t disagree with her but it’s a little late now. I stay quiet.

  “Listen—” she seems pained. “Chow copped to his mistake with the laptop.”

  “Mistake, right.”

  “It was only supposed to be a test of your skills based on a fake case.”

  “Then why am I out?” My voice cracks and I’m surprised by the emotion.

  “I’m sorry, Janus. This has grown political. Ethan was docked two days pay. Haines and I are facing discipline. No one is coming out of this week unscathed,” she sniffs. “I know you’ll do great things, Jan. Keep in touch, okay?”

  “Sure,” I say. “Great things.”

  “Bye, Janus.”

  I hang up.

  “Great things,” I say, pulling into creep’s driveway.

  For my plan to work, I need to be as close to his apartment as possible. Near the entry, the visitor parking lot is full except for a handicapped spot. My car wedges into it beside a black SUV. The view of the apartment foyer is clear but I feel exposed in the ambient glow of security lights.

  I’m still on edge from my discussion with Williams. Maybe I should be relieved. I can’t handle everything anyway. Being on the force was a lot of pressure. With any luck, my mom will recuperate, my cast will come off, and we’ll have a gang of Chinese students at our place in the new year to cover a couple months’ costs and keep the bank off our backs.

  My interior pep talk is not working and I wipe a tear from my cheek.

  Parked in a visitor’s space, I’m as close to the building as I can be without sneaking inside. The closer the better as the next phase requires me to download all of his webcam activity. There will be hundreds of megabytes worth because it’s been recording ever since I was here yesterday.

  I boot up my laptop. Using the key with which I cracked his wireless the first time, I hack his network. In a minute I’ve found the hidden file, and frown. It’s a single file, nearly two gigabytes in size. It’ll be like downloading a couple HD feature length movies. Even if I were standing right next to his wireless router, it would take at least an hour to transfer. As I start downloading, the system calculates that I need several hours to complete the task. Well, emergency room waits are often longer than that. I wish I’d had the chance to collect Jonny.

  While I’m killing time I open the file, activating my video player. At first it’s just an image of a dark room, but scanning through it, the lights come on and creep passes in front of the lens with his big hairy gut in full view. I draw a deep shuddering breath. I’ve definitely got the right network.

  I settle in. Three hours.

  Chapter 24

  Hours of community service remaining: 1985 minus 1.

  <> Hairy tweets.

  Six on one, this isn’t even a fair fight, JanusFlyTrap replies.

  Avoid overconfidence as it will lead to disaster. Sun Tzu, Gumps tweets.

  Way to burst the bubble, Gumps.

  Like lambs to the slaughter #listentothemscream, Heckleena adds.

  I need a distraction.

  The essay! I have time to write the stupid essay on why the international students should come to my house. It’s ten to five and the secretary said I had to hand it to the Principal by five. A streetlamp flickers above the car as I type:

  I live in a concrete box. I’m pretty sure the roof leaks, but the asbestos was removed five years ago, so staying with us won’t give you cancer. I can’t cook worth a damn, and my mom’s too sick to stand, but an old guy might hang out and fry you up some of those fish with thei
r heads still on that you seem to like. Hmm … the WiFi is totally good from any spot.

  What else?

  Food, shelter, WiFi. That about covers it.

  We’ve got rooms—old offices really—for everyone. Pick your job title.

  I read it over. And I call myself the Vice President of Sales. This is crap, but I’m running short of time. Five minutes remain.

  I’m about to copy it into the email to the principal with the request but stare at the message. I admit it. I have no idea what a home should look like. But they want me to write a whole paragraph on the subject? When I think of a home, all I have are the fragmented memories that replay when I shut my eyes and am too wound up for sleep.

  Before we moved into the warehouse, we lived in a small bungalow, which backed on to train tracks. I can still hear the clickity-clack of the trains as the cars rolled across the rails. You wouldn’t think I’d be nostalgic about noise, but to me it’s the same as rain falling on a roof.

  My dad was most at home in the garage. Sometimes I’d curl on the ratty couch we kept there and huddle under a blanket to watch him work. He loved to build. To make. When I was ten he showed me how to use a saw and hammer and nails. From the pail of scrap, I’d create whimsical birdhouses with multiple storeys and different sized holes to encourage cross-ornithological experimentation. Sometimes I wonder if these homes still stand; even if I’ve lost the sense of my own home, perhaps the birds are cozy. Maybe that bungalow with the trains was a home. But if so, then I’ve been betrayed. I can’t think of that house without a sharp pang of anger that deadens all my positive memories with loss. I miss my dad. But I’m also enraged by his cowardice. For never coming back to face me.

  One thing is for sure, I’ll never find any takers with what I’ve typed so far, or with my sob story.

  So what makes a home, twittersphere? JanusFlyTrap tweets.

  The response is immediate and I copy and paste incoming tweets into the email as quickly as they appear. When I think I’ve got a hundred words or so, I stop and read it over.