Wired Rogue

by Toby Neal

  “I know you want to meet him. But—you shouldn’t count on it ever happening.”

  Sophie thought of their online chat. The Ghost had said he wanted to meet her “in real life.” She had no doubt he could do that whenever he wanted to, in spite of being off the grid.

  “I don’t expect to meet him unless he finds me. If he can find me.” She got into her truck, slammed the door, and rolled down the window to look into Connor’s changeable eyes. “You think I’m still hunting him, and it’s only fair to tell you that I am. But I don’t know if I have an interest in turning him in, anymore.”

  “I’ll tell him you said so.”

  “No need. I can tell him myself.” Sophie turned on the truck, and drove away. In the rearview mirror Connor was staring after her, a diminishing shape, the sharp angles and still points of Anubis at his side.

  That night, Sophie’s phone pinged with an incoming message to the account she used to communicate with the Ghost. Already lying in bed on her blow-up mattress, she couldn’t resist picking up her phone and opening the email.

  She gasped, and covered her mouth with her hand.

  The Ghost was naked in a series of black-and-white photos.

  In the first one he hung, arms extended, legs crossed at the ankle, from a pull-up bar. In the next photo, he was halfway to the top, the muscles of his back standing out in stark relief, the wide V of his musculature ending in a pale, chiseled butt. In the third he’d reached the top, his chin over the bar. His legs extended down, the muscles of his shoulders and back tightly contracted in a pleasing topography. In the fourth, he’d lifted himself high above the bar on straight arms, and the line from the top of his head to the bottoms of his feet was breathtaking.

  Sophie scanned the photos for clues—or so she told herself, as she brought the phone closer to her eyes, a smile lifting the corner of her mouth. He was so beautiful.

  The Ghost must have put the camera on a timer. The background was pale gray in the photo, likely a white wall. The ceiling of the photo’s setting, his private gym perhaps, was high enough to allow a wide range of motion—the steel rack of the bar had to be ten feet off the ground to allow the full extension of his body. Height was hard to judge with nothing to go by. Hair was dark and cut short, as Sheldon Hamilton’s was from previous photos she’d seen of him.

  But was it really the Ghost? Who was this man?

  No way to know. She studied every detail she could find. The phone dinged with another incoming email.

  “Just so you don’t feel alone in being seen naked.”

  Sophie typed a reply with her thumbs. “Yes, you do appear to take your fitness seriously. If that’s you in the photos.”

  It was hard not to say more—something about how incredible his body was, to begin with. But she had an agenda—and it was to lure him out of the shadows. Not that she knew what she planned to do with him once she’d caught him.

  “You damn me with faint praise, woman.”

  “So you thought I’d be impressed? Okay, I am. A little. But mostly, wondering where all this is going, why you’re doing this.” Sophie bit her lip, sucking on that old bruise.

  “I enjoy this game we play. I enjoy a worthy adversary who’s on the same team.”

  “I’m not on your team. I’m still trying to catch you. That’s where this is going for me.” Sophie tried to calm her rapid breathing. “I spent time with Remarkian today. Told him what I’d tell you…that I still want to capture you. But now I’m not sure what I want to do with you when that happens. I’m no longer an agent, and we already established that proving a case against you would be near impossible. So I don’t know where to go from here.”

  He must have been typing at the same time because her phone dinged with his reply. “You’re trying to do good in whatever role you’re in. I’m doing the same. I don’t want to be your enemy. I want to be more than a friend.”

  Sophie stroked the glowing surface of the phone with her thumb. More than a friend. Clearly she wasn’t the only one attracted. There was no reason for him to keep pursuing her otherwise. She was dangerous to him.

  He must have read her reply because another email arrived. “You don’t have to know where to go from here. You’ll meet me when the time is right.”

  Sophie looked around the barren room, the heavy curtains blacking out the light, the only sound the soothing whuff of Ginger’s breathing on the floor beside her. She didn’t like that he thought he was in control.

  “You might find that difficult. I’m no longer at my former address,” Sophie typed, and turned off the phone.

  She was off the grid, and now she was glad she was. She wanted to be the one in control of where and when she finally met the Ghost.

  Chapter Fifteen

  ‘Mary Watson’ held the floppy straw hat on with one hand so that the slight breeze at the Hilo airport would not tug it off of her head. She smiled at the other young women climbing into a large white passenger van headed for the Waipio Valley. The light rayon sundress she wore swirled around her legs as she settled beside another woman in the backseat.

  “So excited to finally see the compound at Waipio,” Sophie said. “Have you been there before?”

  “No, this is my first time, too.” The woman next to her was a pretty blonde. She tugged at her tight yoga pants and smoothed her tunic top. “Have you met Sandoval Jackson yet?”

  “I have heard him speak. Mesmerizing,” Sophie said. He did speak well on the YouTube videos she’d watched. “We’re so lucky to be able to get on the list for this retreat.”

  The van got underway and in a very short time they were traveling along the verdant countryside of the east shore of the Big Island out of Hilo. They passed gigantic albizia trees draped in vines, great stands of hapu`u ferns, and tall waving patches of long pili grass framing glimpses of a distant blue ocean.

  The driver of the van was a young mixed Hawaiian with long hair in a ponytail and the orange clothing that Sophie recognized from her recon of the compound earlier. The hour-long drive took them through the broad grassy pasturelands of Waimea and beyond. The steep walls of spectacular Waipio Valley opened before them as the van rounded a bend.

  This was the first time Sophie had entered the valley by car, and the one-lane precipitous access road carved in the cliff was intimidating from her wedged-in seat in the back of the van. Off to the right she could see the broad sweep of the bay at the mouth, the valley’s river flowing into the ocean with the reddish-brown of runoff rainwater.

  Finally reaching the valley floor they were met by small farms, lush with outsized banana and papaya trees, wandering loose horses, and sweeps of water-filled taro patches.

  It seemed to take forever for the van to navigate the potholed, narrow dirt road with the obstacles of loose chickens, dogs, and mud puddles, but further back in the valley, where no one else was around, the road was better maintained. Sophie leaned her chin on her hand, watching the field she’d run through with a child holding her hand pass by.

  Things certainly looked different in the light of day.

  The doors of the compound were open to meet them when they arrived. Far from the fortified, forbidding aspect the compound had presented during her mission, today it looked welcoming and beautiful.

  The children, dressed in orange dresses, T-shirts or shorts, ran up to greet them as the van pulled up. They greeted the retreat participants by draping fresh plumeria lei over their heads as they exited the vehicle. The oldest boy, who looked around thirteen, showed the eight women to their own spacious yurt. Inside, a series of four bunk beds formed corners in the round tent. In the center of the floor, a carpet patterned like a mandala gave the room a spacious, unified feel.

  Sophie claimed a bottom bunk and her blonde companion, the top. She introduced herself. “I’m Mary Watson. And you are?”

  “Gillie. Short for Gillian. Gillie Johnson.”

  “Have you been part of the Society of Light for long?”

  “Just c
hecking it out, actually. Looking to make some lifestyle changes.” Gillie had the nervous energy and build of a whippet, and the skulls and rock band tattoos on her arms told a story of hard partying.

  The boy returned. “What’s your name?” Sophie asked.

  “Zeus.” He had large brown eyes, freckled skin, and a friendly smile. “I’m your guide. I’ll take you to the yoga studio if you’re ready.”

  They were, so Zeus led them to a large studio that was its own yurt. Spacious and inviting, shining floors reflected light from a pale cream roof. The familiar tools of yoga were piled in neat stacks against the walls. Folded blankets, foam blocks, webbing straps, and a large basket of silky, scented eye pillows all gave Sophie a reassuring sense of familiarity in spite of her mission.

  The evening progressed in a straightforward manner with a yoga class, a group dinner in the dining room, and finally, a lecture from Sandoval Jackson in the yoga studio.

  Jackson arrived draped in a wrapped orange loincloth worn with an embroidered tunic. From a distance, during their surveillance, it had been hard to see what he was like, and Sophie’s research photos hadn’t shown much more than an orange-draped figure. Up close, Jackson was lean and muscular, a young-looking sixty even with his flowing silver beard. He exuded a powerful calm that Sophie found herself responding to in spite of her feelings about the children, the Society, and what might lay in the garden.

  Clearly the man had charisma.

  Sophie chose a purple flax-filled pillow, and sat on it in a half-circle with the other participants around Jackson’s place on a small raised dais. The residents of the compound filled in the area behind them, and the room settled into stillness as Jackson raised his hands.

  “Close your eyes. Breathe.” A long pause as everyone did so. “Notice the breath entering and exiting your body. Notice your body—how it feels in this moment, taking up space and time. You are eternal. Made of star particles, returning and recycling in different forms, but for now you have this moment. It will never come again. Be in this moment. Take it as yours. Fully inhabit it. And then let it go so the next can take its place.”

  It wasn’t so much what Jackson said that was so hypnotic, as the low, resonant pitch of his deep timbered voice that held the surprising edge of a Scottish burr. Jackson had immigrated to the United States with his parents at fourteen from Scotland, but she’d thought his accent would be gone by now.

  Perhaps that accent had its uses—because Sophie felt like she could listen to him talk all day.

  And so, apparently, did the rest. Jackson said nothing really new, but it was rich. And as Sophie sat in the lotus position, fingers resting on her knees, she had to remind herself that this man was, quite possibly, a triple murderer.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The compound’s bathroom was a central complex that featured a catchment shower, a small gas water heater, and several composting toilets. It was rustic, but the appointments were top quality. Sinks were made of hand thrown clay, and beautifully woven tapestry adorned the walls. Sophie got ready for bed with the other women and waited for the right time to do her nighttime recon.

  She waited as the lights went out, and the breathing of her new compatriots grew soft and long. Dressed in the black yoga pants and tank top she had chosen to minimize detection, Sophie tiptoed barefoot out of the yurt and along the winding path toward the large, half-acre vegetable garden. She had a story in place should she be stopped: she couldn’t sleep. She needed to meditate, outside in nature.

  Sophie walked slowly, with no illumination but the great black vault of sky, scattered with the pollen of stars brightened by the thin paring of a new moon. Coqui frogs, an invasive species from South America, chimed their shrill song from the surrounding jungle of the valley.

  Her ears were tuned for any sounds of other humans, but there were none. Sophie reached the garden, defined by rows of lettuces, broccoli, staked teepees of beans and patches of chard and other leafy greens. It smelled rich and lush with new life, as she padded along a well-mulched row.

  It was hard to imagine that there might be bodies under these lettuces.

  She made her way down a well-maintained aisle of vegetables to a center area that was not immediately visible from the rest of the compound. Even in the dim light of the moon, she could make out the undulating curves of a labyrinth.

  Ah, the labyrinth. A spiritual walking practice she hadn’t been able to experience more than once or twice.

  Her feet seemed to find the cool stones embedded in the dirt that marked the path almost by instinct, and she followed it. Every now and then she pulled a small, cigarette-sized stake out of the ankle sock of her tennis shoe, pushing it into the soil.

  The plan for this trip was for her to attend the five-day retreat and check out the compound from within. Detect its security, its weaknesses, its patterns and procedures—and if able, gather any evidence she could find.

  She was “off the grid” on this assignment, though Dunn was nearby, monitoring from the outpost they’d used before. Cell phones weren’t allowed on the retreat, but she was scheduled to contact him twice daily with the extra-small satellite phone currently hiding in her bra.

  Round and around, and back and forth the path led. Surely she should have reached the middle by now? And yet, she had not.

  So far, she’d seen nothing alarming or out of place at the compound.

  Her mind wandered back to the photos the Ghost had sent. Such unforgettable images. She wondered if he ever watched the video he had of her in her apartment.

  What was he playing at?

  Did Sheldon Hamilton really want some sort of relationship with her? Was this his idea of courtship? And why was it so intriguing? She should really know better than to be so fascinated with this shady vigilante with his cat-and-mouse game.

  Pain from the end of the relationship with Alika Wolcott, her former MMA coach, nagged her like the fading bruise on her mouth. Six months now, and no word from him, not even a text message—hers to him had gone unanswered, though she could see that he’d read them.

  Clearly, whatever they’d had was over. It remained hard to accept. She’d let herself have hopes. But the fact that he’d chosen to return to Kaua`i permanently and cut her off still hurt.

  “It wasn’t love,” Sophie muttered. But it could have been.

  The center of the labyrinth was a smooth circle filled with pea gravel. She planted a few more of the stakes randomly around. She’d pick them up tomorrow, when the ninhydrin-infused paper pulp would have had time to react to any organic compounds thrown off by human decomposition. She sat down in the lotus position placing her hands on her knees. She closed her eyes, letting her senses take in the surroundings.

  If she were Sandoval Jackson, this is where she’d bury the bodies: a central place, covered by gravel, where people with a mind to do so could pay their respects. Her nostrils flared. Could she smell them? Decomp had a powerful stench, and even once that phase had passed, unique organic compounds were emitted for months, even years, and could still be picked up by the spikes she’d planted, cadaver dogs, and the new LABRADOR body detection device Dunn had shown her from Security Solutions’ tech lab.

  “It uses scent assessment technology to find a buried body.” Dunn had been enthused, showing her the handheld contraption, a series of gimbaled attachments that, while relatively small, would have been difficult to conceal in her backpack. He’d tried to get her to bring it, but it would have been impossible to explain if she were caught with it.

  The shift and rustle of footsteps in the labyrinth warned her of someone approaching. She closed her eyes and settled into stillness.

  “Is this seat taken?”

  Sophie restrained herself from leaping to her feet at the sound of a deep male voice with a Scottish accent—but it wasn’t Jackson. “Of course not. You are welcome.” She lifted her head to see the man. He seemed large, backlit by the moon. He coiled himself and sat beside her. The moon cast a silvery ill
umination over craggy features and a bald head. “I couldn’t sleep,” she said.

  “I assumed as much.”

  “I’m Mary Watson. What’s your name? I didn’t meet you at the orientation, or at dinner.” They’d been introduced to the main staff of the retreat and community then.

  He shrugged. “My name is Dougal Sloane. I’m Sandoval’s head of security.”

  “Oh. Have I done something wrong?”

  Sloane’s teeth showed in a brief flash. “We discourage our guests from nighttime wandering. It might not be safe.”

  “How could it not be safe?” Sophie gestured to the moonlit scene, to the high, corrugated walls of the sheltering valley. “It’s so beautiful here.”

  “If you want to meditate, go to the chapel.” Sloane took hold of her arm. His spread fingers gripped her. She could feel, by the way he wrapped his thumb across her bicep, that he was taking a measure of her strength. “It’s time to go back to bed.” He gave her arm a little tug.

  She rose to her feet meekly and followed him back along the winding route of the labyrinth, surprised that he led her that way and not across it—but they walked the whole thing. “I’m not sure I’m ready for bed.”

  “I’ll escort you to the chapel, then.” A motion-activated security light bloomed into a soft amber glow outside of a small square building set apart from the rest of the commune. “This is the chapel. You’re free to spend as much time here as you like, but follow the footpath straight back to your sleeping quarters when you’re done.”

  “All right. I’m sorry for any trouble.”

  The amber light gleamed on Sloane’s head, and just momentarily, illuminated a tattoo of a pair of snakes forming a Celtic knot on his forearm as he slid a big hand up her arm as if he wanted to feel it again. He squeezed her muscle. “You’re fit.”

  This was no peaceful yogi. This was a man of violence and action. She could feel it emanating off of him like a force field.