“But …” I say, and they pause. “I want you to know. I’m going to catch who did this. And when I do I’ll make sure they can never do this again. Not to anyone.” I want these people to know that they’re rebuilding not just my life but also a monument. I will stop Bitchain and I have an idea how I can. It includes Peter.
Everyone eyes me as if expecting more, maybe even weirded out by my announcement. I feel my cheeks warm.
“Um … Heckleena wonders why you’re not working. It’s not going to finish itself.” I laugh and everyone joins in before dispersing.
The entire front of Assured Destruction’s retail store has been removed, and the frame of a new store with a bigger footprint is underway. This is no clean up. This is demolition and rebuilding. Trash and furniture form a heap in a dumpster. A generator hums, giving tools power and workers light. A truck rumbles into the lot, delivering sheets of drywall.
Jonny dusts his hands on his coat as he jogs to me. There’s charcoal slashed across his cheeks and smudging his forehead, but his eyes are luminous.
“Amazing, isn’t it? We had a ton of people who offered to turn the zombie razing into a barn raising.”
“So fast,” I say, stunned.
“It’ll be done by tomorrow. Minus some furniture.”
“Hey, Jan.” Ellie’s gripping a hammer and looks like, well, she looks like she’s been hammering all morning, covered in a film of dirt and in jeans and heavy sweatshirt. Is that sweat on her forehead?
“Wow, Ellie, thanks for helping me,” I say. A finger of guilt flicks my brain for all the evil thoughts I’ve had about her.
“That link to kill the Zombie Worm, that was awesome,” she replies. “Totally worked, and for my parents too.”
So I identified correctly the reason why Sw1ftM3rcy’s link went viral, but I have no one to blame but myself.
Ellie hesitates and then says: “I had something I wanted to ask you.”
“Sure.”
“You know how we had to redistribute the international students? Can you still take one? After the ribbon on this is cut?”
School restarts Monday; I’d forgotten how the Chinese students would all be here by now. “Yeah, sure, one shouldn’t be a problem.” Of course, now I understand that my request for ten was related to my mania, but I can’t see why one would be a problem.
“Oh, good. It’ll work great, you’ll see. His name’s Xing.”
“Xing’s in a wheelchair,” Jonny says.
I shrug. “So? You have problem with that?”
Jonny scratches his forehead. “I didn’t mean it like that. He’s just different.”
I point at my chest.
“Good point,” he says. “You’ll get along fine.”
Ellie sidles off and I still can’t believe how everyone is helping me.
“How will I ever repay everyone?” I ask.
“You’re not supposed to, Jan,” Jonny says.
“I know, I just … it’s hard accepting so much help.”
Jonny turns and inspects the progress.
At the corner of the site stands a man I recognize by his hooked nose: Orsen. The butt-faced banker. Wow. I mean. If someone blackmailed me, I probably wouldn’t be hammering nails for them. But today is about gratitude and surprises, and so I walk over, hand out.
“Hi, thanks for coming to help,” I say.
Beady eyes stare down his schnoz at my hand, which I drop.
“Janus, I am here to ensure that building codes are met. It’s all well and good that these people have gathered to help you, but if the reconstruction doesn’t meet code, then it’ll have to come down before I can sell it.”
“Sell it.”
He’s wearing a suit and tie and his hands are in his pockets as if the mere sight of so much filth drove them there. I can’t believe I actually thought this guy might be helping.
“Sell it,” he says. “After you fail to make your January payment, and of course December’s payment as well, plus interest—and late fees.”
“I haven’t forgotten our deal.”
Our deal. I don’t tell the world how he caused his bank’s credit card leak. And he gives me a break on payments until the end of January.
“Good.” And his smile has me shivering as he leans down to whisper in my ear. “So nice of everyone to add value to the property for the good of the bank.”
He shuffles across some ice in slippery-soled dress shoes before driving away in a double-parked Volvo.
He’s right. If I can’t find a way to keep Assured Destruction afloat, all the hard work of these people will be for nothing, worse—for the bank. I swallow the guilt. It hasn’t happened yet, but it’s sucked the joy out of my homecoming. I borrow a hammer and hammer nails until my hands blister. That takes fifteen minutes. I haven’t done anything for too long. Even the pain feels good, and I picture Orsen’s nose as the nail and mash it to pulp. When my hands are raw and bubbling with blisters, I stop and haul debris to the dumpster until my thighs begin to spasm.
Aching and frustrated I find a headlamp and wander into the basement. A line of film on Shadownet’s server shows the high water mark from the fire hoses. The water long since receded but has left the basement like a massive musty freezer. Without power I can’t boot anything, but I’m not certain I should try. Frozen puddles dot the floor and the drain’s clogged with debris. Computer towers set on the ground are wet or, worse, filled with ice. A cat hops on top of a monitor and meows accusingly.
“Sorry,” I say.
Something Jonny said to me about me being like a cat comes back to me. I have this weird thought that I somehow suck the extra lives I need out of my strays. As if I’m using them like Peter used my father.
I shudder and dump food on the ground for her and her friends congregating around the meal. I stroke each cat, head to tail, before heading back into the warehouse. Here, aside from the smell and a smoke-stained ceiling, the damage is minimal. Cardboard boxes on the lowest racks sag from wet, but everything else can be salvaged. As carpenters, drywallers, painters, and electricians swarm up and down the stairs, I consider the boxes of keyboards and my early ideas for Christmas presents. I missed Christmas this year, but that doesn’t mean I can’t make a difference now. Time to upcycle.
First I pull two desktop shells from a bin and lay a sheet of drywall across them. Voilà, my makespace. Then I browse the various bins, inspecting the gadgetry I have to work with. Old model phones, game consoles, computers, screens, printers, TVs.
I start prying out circuit boards, wires, stretchy printer parts, resistors—oh, they’re pretty—transistors. Soon I have a stack of keyboards and separate mounds of electrical components sorted on the table, a multi-colored ball of wire beside me. Some guy walks through, looks at what I’m doing, leaves, and returns with some pliers, a soldering gun, and a drill with various sized bits; he departs without a word.
I’ll admit, everything takes some trial and error, but once I figure out how to make the emoticon earrings from the keyboard keys, I really start to create a pile of those. The printer parts make an interesting necklace, and carved circuit boards form pendants and more earrings. Resistors double for beads and all I need is some fabric and I bet the few headsets I have would make funky earmuffs. I’m a bit overzealous with the glue gun and sticky streams of it hang from my early work, hardening quickly.
I am so involved I hardly notice the time pass, and soon workers trail through, waving goodbye.
“Hey,” I wave them back, “you want any of these?”
One of them, a woman with her hair squeezed in a tight bun and pince-nez glasses that say librarian rather than construction worker, flicks through them, then really pauses and starts holding them up to the light of my headlamp.
“My daughter will love the
se,” she says, taking a set of the carved circuit board earrings. I have cut one into the shape of the moon, the other a star.
“Cool,” I say.
Let’s face it, it’s mostly men roaming Assured Destruction, but each of them accepts a token, until soon all I have left are some braided wire bracelets that don’t even have clasps. But I feel as though I’ve done something to repay them, however small, even if the gifts are likely to fall apart or leach mercury into their skin.
After Jonny leaves, taking nothing but a kiss, it’s time to meet Peter.
Chapter 26
<
Yeah, we have bacon, #darkside, Heckleena replies.
On Saturday nights, Ottawa’s Byward Market fills with trolling university students, government employee hipsters, and tourists desperate for something to do in the city that fun forgot. Nestled within the bars, clubs, specialty shops, and the few surviving thrift stores that are actually cool is Peter’s loft apartment. The location is unexpected for an old dude, but I’m learning to never assume.
Since Peter’s ability to cook holds great power over me and I want to even the playing field, I’ve slammed back two Beaver Tails. Beaver Tails are required eating for all tourists and U.S. Presidents, consisting of a flat, deep-fried donut slathered in anything from Nutella to maple butter. I made a sandwich of those two flavors. So much sugar runs through my veins that Dr. Hansom would likely find another reason to keep me in hospital.
I ring the buzzer to Peter’s loft and he answers.
“Hello? Who is it?”
I roll my eyes.
“Yes, I’m looking for a former secret agent who takes advantage of vulnerable women?”
A pause and then the door clicks. “Not funny.”
Funny is a matter of perspective. I push in and shake my head at the full suit of armor gracing the bottom of the stairwell. Peter appears at the top of the stairs, which is equipped with a chairlift.
“Your mother made the first move,” he says.
I bite back a retort.
The smell of frying bacon and garlic reach me. I’m both glad I filled my belly with dough and disturbed that I’m already growing hungry again. I don’t recommend the technique, but Acute Stress Disorder did take off a few pounds.
Peter waves away his challenge. “You have every right to be suspicious; come on up and we’ll talk about it.”
The day’s work has me sore and my legs ache as I mount the steps. For once though, I’m not burned, broken, or bruised.
“Wine?” he asks, and I raise an eyebrow. “Sorry, no, of course not.”
He’s flustered. My hands stay in my pockets as if I have been told not to touch anything.
The loft occupies the entire floor. A massive, white shag rug covers hardwood. A huge TV screen occupies one wall and a stone fireplace another. Sculptures from all manner of cultures litter pedestals, tables, and corners. Rich tapestries drape the floor-to-ceiling windows, which offer a street view from a circular dining room table.
“Your own Camelot,” I say, sliding into a deep leather couch before a fire. Above the mantel is the head of a moose. “Very male.”
“Secret agents aren’t very marriageable,” he says, just standing, fidgeting between the living area and a big kitchen.
“Is that why they retire?” I ask. “Are retired agents marriageable?”
“Do you want me to lie to you?”
“Tonight’s about the truth, isn’t it?”
“Then, yes. They are. I am.”
He wants to be my father.
“My mom doesn’t know you’re still working the case,” I say.
Peter steps behind the kitchen’s black granite countertop and pushes the bacon burning in the pan around. Over his head, pots and pans hang like swords.
“No, she doesn’t,” he replies.
This is the card I have to work with. If my mom knew he had involved me in his old case, she’d kick him to the door. I know it and he does too.
“Is that why you’re with her? Because of the case?”
I’ve never seen him move so fast. Ever, not even battling Fenwick. He’s around the kitchen island and on his knees before me, my hands clamped between his.
“No, no. Please, no. Why would you say such a thing?” he asks, his voice tight.
“You have no idea how deep this goes,” I respond, repeating what he’d said to me when I was working for the police.
“Well, now you do, I suppose,” he replies. “But not that. I’d do anything for your mother, but you have to understand, I was so close.” He clenches his eyes shut for a moment at the word so like it gives him physical pain.
To be fair, I’d watched him sit day after day at her bedside; it made sense. Aside from the initial contact, their relationship had nothing to do with the case. In fact, the case would have been a barrier.
“If I tell her you involved me, she’ll leave you,” I say.
He presses both his palms into his eyeballs and then runs them across his temples and through his hair. “The investigation. It’s like an addiction. It’s under my skin.”
“You used me like you used my father.”
“Not without protection.”
So the armor’s real. At least he believes it to be.
Beneath the desperation in his eyes is the belief that he is right. He doesn’t want to lose my mom, but he would not have changed what he did.
“I also see so much potential in you, Janus. I wanted to be your mentor. I still can be.”
“You were the spammer, the one who guided me to Darkslinger.”
His head had been hanging down as if expecting another blow, but with that it snaps up.
“No, actually, you found Darkslinger all by yourself,” he says.
How is that possible? I mean, what are the chances that some arbitrary spammer responded with the very site Peter meant to take down?
I shrug. It doesn’t matter. I have more than enough ammunition to beat-Pete. I move in for the kill.
“And you sent my father to his death.”
He shifts so that he’s sitting beside me; the bacon smokes on the burner.
“It shouldn’t have happened,” he says. “I didn’t know what happened.”
“You mean you do now?”
“Only a suspicion.” He’s hesitant again.
“Of what?”
“It’s premature.”
“My father’s death was premature; I’ve stood over his grave.”
Only the spitting bacon fills the silence. A shout from the street.
Peter’s face has drained of color. The next time he opens his mouth, nothing comes out.
“You what?” Peter manages.
“A man didn’t like me snooping around the old Assured Destruction customers. He sort of kidnapped me, dragged me to some farm, and into the forest.”
“Jan.” He presses his palms to his forehead. “That was really unsafe.”
“Tell me something I don’t know. I was terrified.”
“So, he is dead.” And Peter slumps into the couch as if he’d held out hope.
“I can’t let them keep getting away with it,” I say. “The firebombing. My dad.”
He jerks forward. “It’s too dangerous. You have to let it go.”
“It’s too dangerous not to.”
He frowns, tapping at his big teeth. “What did you do after you were kidnapped?”
“I went to the police.”
He’s shaking his head as if I should grasp something. “The police?”
The smoke detector starts bleeping. I scream and look around, heart racing, palms spontaneously sweating.
“Sorry, sorry,” he s
ays as he jumps up and throws the bacon pan into the sink. Water sizzles as greasy steam billows against the ceiling like smoke. I’m still shaking, annoyed that I can’t control my response to a smoke alarm. From the sink, Peter continues: “The police were in on the wiretapping as well.”
And I see where he’s headed. That someone in the police precinct is a mole for Bitchain. After I left, Williams could have talked to anyone within the department. I remember Peter objecting to leaving the credit card investigation to the police. He’s suspected them for some time.
I lie back into the couch, trying to think. My mouth is dry with fear. If I can’t trust the police, who can I trust?
Back from the kitchen, Peter’s big teeth gleam.
“I want to stop them,” I say, and it’s time to draw Peter into my scheme.
Peter grimaces as if wrestling with something.
“I feel like this is Star Wars,” I add. “My dad is Darth Vader, and I’m Luke going up against the Death Star.”
“Does that make me your Obi-Wan Kenobi?”
“Don’t flatter yourself. You’re Jabba the Hut or something. Maybe that bounty hunter. Or that creature in the trash compactor.”
He snorts, but I’m not kidding.
“Here’s the deal,” I say. My leg’s jiggling again and I wonder if this is what mania looks like. “I won’t tell my mom if you’ll help me stop the bastards who bombed Assured Destruction and killed my father.”
He shakes his head.
“They left a chain outside the door,” I say. “I know it was them.”
“No, Jan.” His voice rises and I freeze. “I want you to stop everything to do with Darkslinger. You are not to visit these old customers and you’re sure as hell not going to pursue any investigation into Bitchain.”
I’m not expecting this. And I’m none too pleased by his tone of voice.
“And why not?” I ask.
“You’re not behind a computer anymore. They’ve seen you now. You’re on their radar and you don’t want to end up like your father.”
Assured Destruction: The Complete Series Page 43
