Phantom Wheel

by Tracy Deebs

  Seth shrugs. “I’m a One Direction fan. But Harry Styles’s solo stuff is more glam anyway—like David Bowie meets Lana Del Rey. It’s one of my favorite albums of the past couple of years.”

  I just stare at him. “I can’t believe we’re actually having this conversation.”

  “Oh, don’t tell me you’re a music snob!” He genuinely looks like I’ve just admitted to sacrificing kittens under a full moon.

  “Good music is good music,” I answer. “Nothing snobbish about that.”

  “Exactly!”

  Because I still have a death grip on his hand, Seth rests his phone on his knee and starts scrolling through it. Seconds later, he’s holding out his earbuds for me.

  I shake my head and try not to roll my eyes. “I’m good, thanks.”

  “What? Afraid you’ll be proven wrong?”

  “More like afraid I’ll go into a sugar coma from all the sweetness.”

  “Hey, now, don’t be music-ist!” he scolds me.

  “Music-ist?”

  “Yeah, you know. Prejudiced against music.”

  Now I’m just appalled. “Seriously, Harry Styles? Aren’t you afraid they’ll revoke your man card?”

  “I’m secure enough in my masculinity that I think I can handle it.” He holds out the earbud again. “Now come on. Try it.”

  It’s pretty obvious he isn’t going to give up on this, so I sigh and make a big deal of taking one of the stupid earbuds and putting it in my right ear. He grins at me, face close, and puts the second one in his left ear. He hits Play, and I brace myself for bubblegum pop.

  What comes on instead is a slow, soulful ballad. I turn to look at Seth, eyes wide, and he just grins at me, mouthing Told ya.

  We listen to the whole thing through, twice, and when it’s done, I can’t help saying, “Okay, you win.”

  “I always do,” he answers.

  “Now who’s being jerk-ist?” I joke.

  “Jerk-ist means I’m prejudiced against jerks. I’m actually totally okay with that.”

  I roll my eyes. “You really don’t quit, do you?”

  “Never.” He grins. “It’s part of my charm.”

  “Just keep telling yourself that.”

  “I plan on it.”

  Suddenly, the captain comes on and says, “Okay, folks, we’ve been out of the turbulence for a couple of minutes, so I’m going to turn off the fasten seat belts sign so you can move about the cabin. Please remember to keep your seat belts fastened when you’re seated.”

  Seth slowly releases my hand, and that’s when it finally hits me that he’s been distracting me all along. “Thanks,” I tell him softly.

  He just smiles that ridiculous grin of his. “Anytime.” Then he pulls out a pack of Twix and offers me one.

  I take it without comment. And can’t help thinking that maybe being friends with this guy isn’t the worst move in the world.

  Case Study:

  Owen Heath aka 1nf1n173 5h4d3

  DOB: 3/21/00

  Sex: Male

  Height: 6′3″

  Weight: 230 lbs.

  Eye Color: Green

  Hair Color: Black (wears in dreads)

  Race: Mixed (African American and white)

  School: Francis J. Worth Academy (private), Boston

  Parents: Caleb and Althea Heath

  Personal Net Worth: $1 mil (trust fund)

  Family Net Worth: $25 mil

  Most Notorious Hack: Seizing control of livestream during playoff game and running fake (and hilarious) stats for players.

  OBSERVATIONS:

  Owen Heath is, as Winston Churchill once said, “a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma.” Except I’d add that he’s all that underneath a paradox too. Which is probably why I’ve spent so much time thinking about him. From the minute he walked out of that room in L.A., I’ve been trying to figure him out. Trying to get inside his head and see who he is—and what he saw that made him leave when the rest of us didn’t even think about it. Trying to see what I’m missing as I wait for an acceptance letter he seemed so sure wouldn’t come.

  I’ve hacked into as much of his life as I could get into: checked out his grades on his expensive prep school server, creeped his classmates’ social media, even hacked his coach’s emails. And all I’ve done is confuse myself even more. The kid makes absolutely no sense.

  Honor student and star quarterback.

  Black hat hacker and member of the school honor guard.

  Philanthropist and total misanthrope all rolled into one.

  So who is the real Owen Heath? A bad boy with a heart of gold or a good boy with a really bad attitude?

  Most people are easy—even the ones who like to play it close to the vest have tells. Little phrases, actions, attitudes that give them away. A double blink here, a finger tap there. Little signs that fill you in on who they are, what they’re thinking, and—most important—what they want.

  Heath has tells. He has lots of tells. The only problem is they’re so contradictory that it’s impossible to figure out which ones are real and which ones are deliberate, just to throw you off the scent.

  In a business where everything depends on figuring out what your mark wants, and tricking them into thinking you’re the only one who can provide it, ambiguity is a superpower. The only question is, is Owen Heath a sociopath or a prophet?

  SURVEILLANCE FOOTAGE:

  11/24/18

  09:37

  BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS

  Footage begins, courtesy of security camera F12, in the lobby of the main headquarters for the Boston Stars football team. The lobby is empty, save for two very large security guards, Roger Browning and David Shilling, and a receptionist, Beth Gracen.

  Thirty male students from Francis J. Worth’s varsity football team enter the building at 09:42, accompanied by school coaches Charlie O’Connell and Mick Adams. Owen Heath is one of these students.

  The group encounters Browning at 09:44, who greets Heath like an old friend. The two talk for three minutes and twenty-three seconds as Shilling begins checking in the rest of the team. Browning and Heath are sideways to the camera, but the way Browning gestures repeatedly to one of the jerseys hung under glass on the wall (HEATH 23) suggests they are talking about Heath’s father for much of the conversation.

  At 09:50, Chuck Monahan, Boston Stars offensive line coach, enters the lobby and greets the high school team. He talks for two minutes and twenty seconds, giving what looks like a rousing introductory speech, then takes a minute to speak to Heath, who looks unhappy with the conversation.

  The tour of the facilities begins at 09:55. Security camera F16 picks up the group on the practice field seven minutes and twelve seconds later, where numerous Stars players are running drills. Students are allowed on the field to run a few drills (tackling dummies, sprints) with the professional athletes. Selfies and autographs commence.

  At 10:41, the tour continues, hitting the offices and the locker room over the course of the next thirty-six minutes (footage provided via cameras F2, F2, F4, and O9).

  Monahan and the boys enter the training center at 11:17 (camera F7), where he introduces the boys to therapists Vik Adobe and Marcella White. They greet Heath warmly, but Heath’s body language is very hostile toward both.

  Camera F18 picks the group up entering the weight room at 11:32. Monahan allows the boys to try out the equipment, and as they divide up, Heath—who has been noticeably subdued through the tour—takes the opportunity to approach Monahan. Monahan and he talk animatedly for a few minutes. (This is considerably different from Heath’s interaction with him in the lobby.) Eventually, Monahan pulls Heath in for a one-armed hug. Heath allows it, using the moment to lift Monahan’s access badge. (He does it so smoothly that I had to watch the footage several times to catch it.) Heath then excuses himself to use the bathroom in the corner of the room.

  Surveillance ceases as he enters the bathroom.

  At 11:56, security camera F1 picks up
Heath outside the building as he uses Monahan’s pass to reenter via one of the player-access doors. Review of public-record blueprints suggests that he climbed out the second-story window in the bathroom and dropped to the practice field.

  It takes Heath one minute and thirty-one seconds to climb three flights of stairs and swipe his way into the fourth-floor offices. He keeps a low profile as he winds through cubicles and open space—head down, shoulders hunched. For a guy as large and good looking as he is, he does an admirable job of blending in and not getting noticed.

  At 12:02, he scans his way into Steve Blayback’s office (general manager of the Stars). Once in the office (camera C7), he heads straight for Blayback’s computer. A quick check of the drawers yields what I assume is a password list because seconds later, Heath is logging into the computer. As soon as he’s in, he pulls an R2-D2 thumb drive from his pocket (once a geek, always a geek) and inserts it into the computer. My guess is that he took all the files on the computer, seeing how long they took to download and how he didn’t look through them, just immediately started downloading.

  Seven minutes and fourteen seconds later, Heath ejects the drive and leaves the office, just as Blayback enters the fourth floor from the elevator (camera C3). At 12:10, Heath heads back down two flights of stairs, and at 12:12, he slips (completely unnoticed) back into the weight room via the main door, just as his teammates finish their impromptu workout. The kid is definitely a chameleon—his ability to blend in is incredible.

  The tour continues with no further incidences, and at 13:01, the boys exit the main lobby.

  UPDATE: 11/25/2018

  The Boston Globe’s online site is hacked by 1nf1n173 5h4d3 at 02:47, and numerous Boston Stars case files are posted under its breaking news section, providing reports of suspected CTE among several retired Stars players—as well as documentation of the team’s efforts to keep said reports from public (and current player) consumption.

  UPDATE: 11/26/2018

  Owen Heath quits the Worth football team and walks away from dozens of college scholarship offers. Lots of people want answers; he gives none.

  UPDATE: 11/26/2018

  Neighbors call police regarding a domestic disturbance at 287 Seaport Lane in the Beacon Hill neighborhood of Boston, home of Caleb and Althea Heath. No arrests are made.

  4

  Owen

  (1nf1n173 5h4d3)

  “Yo, dude, we sure could have used you tonight,” Jerome tells me as he offers up a fist bump. I meet him halfway—of course I do—but I can feel the accusation in his words even as our fists bounce off each other.

  Murmurs of agreement go up from the group as we make our way to the parking lot, and I think about defending myself, think about telling them just how screwed up things have gotten and how football doesn’t mean jack to me anymore.

  But they won’t get it. They’ve been in the locker room with me for years, have seen how bad the bruises have gotten in recent months, and still they won’t get it. How can they, when most of them get freaking stars in their eyes every time my dad’s name comes up? Stars that are even more blinding since he arranged that visit to his old headquarters two weeks ago.

  “Sorry, man,” I tell Jerome as I click open the locks on the top-of-the-line truck my dad got me for my birthday last year. “Couldn’t do it anymore.”

  No one asks exactly what it is I couldn’t do, and I don’t volunteer anything else. There’s a fine line between sharing and being a total loser, and I feel like lately I’ve been coasting precariously close to the latter.

  But what else was I supposed to do? Keep playing that stupid game even though just the sight of it makes me sick? Keep staying out of the house for all hours at brutal varsity practices, leaving my mom alone and vulnerable with my dad?

  Options are not something I have in abundance right now.

  Maybe that’ll change when Northwestern’s winter break starts next week and Damon comes home. But until then, I’m toeing the line. Doing whatever I need to do to keep things calm.

  “Hey, you know what we should do?” Scooter says as he climbs into the back seat. “We should head over to the water, mourn our playoff defeat in style. It’s been months since we’ve been up there.”

  He’s right, it has been. We used to hang at my family’s waterfront house, thirty miles north of Boston, all the time after games. Used to hole up partying and then spend the night passed out on whatever surface happened to be available.

  But that was last year, when things were relatively normal. Now just the idea of being gone overnight freaks me out. The only way I even got to go to L.A. a few weeks ago was because my aunt came to stay for the weekend and Dad’s always pretty chill when his baby sister’s around.

  “Come on, Owen—that’s a great idea!” Jerome says. “Matt and Justin already have supplies in the trunks of their cars. We can head up there right now.”

  Their excitement fills the cab, and I can feel it crushing me—just like the rest of my life. A party’s the last thing I feel like right now, but I’ve disappointed them enough this year. The idea of doing it again makes me feel like ass.

  Pulling out my phone, I fire off a text to my mom before starting the engine.

  U good?

  If she’s not, there’s no way I’ll even think about going anywhere but home.

  She answers a few seconds later.

  Yeah

  How was the game?

  We lost

  Where’s Dad?

  He fell asleep half an hour ago

  Everything’s fine, Owen. He’s in a good mood tonight

  U sure?

  YES

  We had a nice dinner out, saw a movie

  He’s good

  OK

  Can we use the beach house for the night?

  Absolutely, but you know the rules

  Yeah, I know

  I’ll be home tomorrow morning

  Have fun!

  xoxoxox

  “Text the others,” I tell Jerome as I drop my phone onto the console beneath the dash. “Tell them to meet us at the beach.”

  Jerome whoops and hollers and talks freaking nonstop the whole way. Even stopping for snacks at the local market doesn’t shut him up. By the time we get to the beach house, I’m not sure who wants to smother him more—Scooter or me.

  Moments later, I’m turning off the alarm and giving the all clear to the others. They pile in, loaded down with enough supplies to last out the apocalypse.

  According to Austin, the girls should be here soon, so Justin gets the music cranking while Scooter and Blake set up everything else. I walk around facilitating everything, helping Justin hook into my dad’s monster stereo and grabbing bowls so Tyler can set out the snacks. “Girls like it when you’re a little classy,” he tells me over the thump thump thump of Justin’s bass.

  Sure enough, the girls show up a few minutes later, and Ashley makes a beeline for me. I think about taking her up on her very blatant offer, but the truth is, I’m just not into it. Not into her, not into any of this same old BS right now. Not with everything else that’s going on.

  I dodge her two or three times—claiming the whole gotta-be-a-good-host thing—but as the night wears on, I start running out of excuses. Screw it. There’s only one thing I really want to be doing right now anyway—and it’s not messing around with a girl I don’t even like when the lights are on.

  After going out to the car and grabbing my backpack, I sneak up the back stairs to my parents’ room. All the guys know it’s off-limits, so I should be safe there, but I lock the door anyway—just in case Ashley comes looking.

  Pulling out the laptop that goes absolutely everywhere with me, I settle in the middle of the bed. And pull up the file folder I’ve been working on for a while.

  The first thing I do is connect to my computer at home and check the facial recognition program I’ve got running twenty-four seven. I created it a while ago for fun, but now that I have an actual purpose for it, I’ve be
en working out the last of the bugs.

  My program’s nowhere near as fancy as the FBI’s—theirs tends to focus on criminal databases, DMV photos, things like that—but mine still gets the job done. Besides, the chances of getting caught go up exponentially (as does the amount of time required to even attempt it) when you have to break into that many high-security databases.

  Which is why I went a totally different route, one that hits sites with security so ridiculously easy to bypass that it’s a little embarrassing to admit I’m even bothering with it. But the honeypot’s so good that I couldn’t resist hacking into every high school yearbook in the country.

  Sure, the hack has its flaws—it’s limited to the last twenty years or so, because this stuff wasn’t online before that. But right now that little flaw doesn’t matter, since the person I’m looking for isn’t any older than early to mid-thirties.

  My program hasn’t hit on anything yet, so I keep it grinding away while I pull up another folder—one that contains the ownership and financial details of the building I visited in L.A., 2367 Sepulveda. I’ve been digging around in between school and family crap, and I really don’t like what I’ve found so far: mainly that the building is owned by a mom-and-pop property management company that does short-term leases on properties all over Southern California. It tends to lease the Sepulveda building out to film companies that need an office location to shoot in.

  I’ve managed to uncover the name of the company that leased the building during the week in November we were there, but when I dig on the company, all I get is a bunch of nothing. It’s definitely a shell corporation—and a good one at that. I’ve dug down three layers so far, and I’m still no closer to finding out who actually rented the building than I was a month ago.

  I start digging again now, following the money trail between the latest corporate iteration I’ve managed to find and the parent company that’s trying so hard to stay hidden. The difficulty in itself tells me something. Nobody tries this hard to hide unless they’ve got a reason for it. Looks like I made the right decision walking out of that room.