I am not paying attention. Randy is talking to me.
‘What?’ I ask.
He gives me a funny look, then volunteers that Madeline is buying one of my watercolors. ‘She wants you to come to tea.’
‘Tea? Do people really do that?’ I ask.
He chuckles. ‘In Charleston they do.’ He hands me a business card. ‘This is her address. Tomorrow. Three o’clock. She wants you to help her decide where to hang it.’ The watercolor, I assume. I reluctantly take the card. I don’t need any more friends, and I don’t especially like tea, although the need for more cash flow is a good motivator.
I glance over at the laptop, forcing myself look away again. It only took one second and the craving is back. I didn’t even do anything but a simple search. It takes so little.
‘If you go and be nice, she’ll buy more.’ Randy winks, misunderstanding my hesitation.
‘OK, sure.’ Even though I really am not sure at all.
‘And dress nice,’ he says as he starts out the door. He knows my predilection for shorts and T-shirts.
I make a face at him, and he chuckles. I follow him, but I can’t help but look back one more time at the laptop.
I don’t come into town too often, usually only to bring Randy my work or to go to one of these gallery soirees. The sun is setting as I walk along King Street, glancing in shop windows, until I come to Queen. If I go further, I’ll end up on Meeting Street, which would lead me to the City Market and the throngs of tourists. I’m not in the mood for that tonight. I turn in at a local restaurant for a drink. The walls are brick, like many of the homes around here, and I sidle up to the bar and order a bourbon. I don’t make eye contact with anyone except the bartender, who recognizes me from the few times I’ve been here and gives me a nod as he puts the glass on the bar in front of me.
As I sip my drink, I keep an eye on the door. It’s habit from being on the run for so long, from being a target. But I must be out of practice because I’m so deep in thought, that picture of Zeke circling around in my head, that I don’t even notice someone has slid into the seat next to me until my elbow is jostled.
‘Excuse me.’ Even though he’s polite, he isn’t looking at me when he says this; he’s trying to get the bartender’s attention. He is tall, with thick black hair that’s cut too short on the sides. His suit jacket strains against broad shoulders and muscled arms. I study his profile, which is dominated by a hooked nose. Another woman might find his swarthiness attractive – sexy, even.
I turn back to my drink, shifting a bit in my seat so there won’t be any more physical contact.
He notices and stares at me. ‘I won’t bite.’ He is not smiling and definitely not flirting, despite the words. His gaze unsettles me, and I swallow the last of my bourbon, suddenly anxious to get out of here.
I can’t explain how I feel, and I’m certain that I shouldn’t show the fear that’s now creeping up my spine, grabbing hold of me so hard that I’m not sure I can breathe. I have no idea who this man is. I have never seen him before. I tell myself that I’m spooked because of seeing Zeke’s picture online, and as I perch on the edge of my barstool, ready to flee, the man turns to me.
‘You’re that artist. At the gallery tonight.’
His words surprise me, and I try to remember whether I saw him there. But there had been about an hour or so where there were a lot of people going in and out, so I can’t be sure.
I reluctantly nod.
‘I like your work,’ he says.
I shift uncomfortably as I throw some bills down on the bar. I can’t really explain what’s bothering me about him, but my instincts tell me it’s time to go.
‘It was nice meeting you,’ I say, even though I haven’t actually ‘met’ him, and slide off the stool and rush out. I glance behind me to make sure he’s not following, and he’s not. He’s chatting up the bartender with no indication that he’s even noticed I’m gone. I need to chase away the panic attack that’s sitting at the edge of my chest.
I take a few deep breaths and my heart slows considerably. The air sticks to my skin and I think about Miami. The humidity and palm trees, though, are the only things that remind me of my hometown. This city has a soft gentility about it, a Southern charm that urges me to relax and not take life too seriously. None of which I can do.
I pull my cellphone out of the backpack and punch in a familiar number. I give the cab company an address about three blocks from here, and the walk calms me further. I don’t have to wait too long before the car pulls up next to me; the driver leans toward the passenger seat, a question in his eyes. I nod and climb in, settling in for the ride home.
I shed my dress and heels and put on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt before heading outside with my phone. It’s dark now; the clouds hang low in the sky over the water, and the crash of the surf soothes me. It’s been all I can do not to scream with frustration, but this has been a daily exercise in self-restraint. Today, however, it’s worse. Ever since I saw that picture online.
I hit the speed dial.
‘What’s wrong?’ It didn’t even ring. It’s as though Spencer Cross was waiting for my call.
I met Spencer six months ago in Miami. He and Zeke go way back to their teenage days of hacking and brief prison terms. Zeke turned to law enforcement, but Spencer started a lucrative cybersecurity company that landed him on the pages of Wired, Rolling Stone and GQ, among others. It was only when he blew the whistle on the government by revealing that two refugees who turned terrorist weren’t properly vetted that he ended up underground with Incognito, an offshoot of Anonymous.
I don’t bother identifying myself, since he clearly knows who it is. ‘He’s in Paris. At least he was a few months ago. Don’t tell me you didn’t know that.’
‘I didn’t know that. He’s been under the radar. I haven’t seen him anywhere online. And I’m not in Paris.’
I almost ask him where he is, but he won’t tell me any more than I’d tell him where I am, although I’d be surprised if he didn’t know. He gave me the phone; I’m sure there’s a GPS installed somewhere in it. Maybe it’s because I want him to know where I am that I haven’t bothered to try to find it and get rid of it. I am so tired of hiding.
‘What’s going on, Tina?’ Worry laces his words.
I tell him what I saw – the news story, the picture of the man who put a skimmer on an ATM.
‘Are you sure it’s him?’ I hear the familiar tapping on a keyboard; he’s looking for it. Before I can answer, I hear him say softly, ‘Oh, shit.’
A surge of jealousy rushes through me as I picture him at his keyboard. I gave it up, but he didn’t. I give myself a mental shake. I’m being unreasonable. I’m offline because I choose to be. It’s a self-imposed exile.
‘What’s he up to?’ I ask, pushing aside my thoughts.
‘Honestly, Tina, I have no idea.’
‘He’s FBI. Aren’t they supposed to be keeping people from installing skimmers?’
He doesn’t bother to answer because it’s a stupid question. Zeke’s been undercover before, and he’s probably undercover now.
‘Is there an updated story? Did they ever find him?’
‘Who, the kid?’
‘No. Zeke.’
A short pause, then, ‘No one’s come forward with any information.’
At least no one else has identified him. If he is undercover, he’ll stay that way.
‘How exactly did you find this story?’ The question startles me, even though it isn’t a surprise. It’s a four-month-old story. I’m not going to be reading it in today’s newspaper.
‘I was doing a search on someone who has the same last name as the kid who’s gone missing. I thought maybe she knew my father. She keeps saying I look familiar.’ I wonder if Madeline isn’t related somehow to Ryan Whittier. The surname is unusual, and there is a Charleston connection.
Spencer interrupts my thoughts. ‘You’ve been online? You’ve got a computer?’ His tone is n
ot accusatory, merely curious.
‘No. I used someone else’s. It was just for a few minutes. I haven’t been online in months. And right after I saw the article, I stopped.’ I don’t tell him that was because Randy was there; if he hadn’t been, who knows what else I would have done.
He knows, though, without me saying anything.
‘Do you think she knows who you are?’ He’s asking about Madeline.
‘I don’t think so. Even if she had been one of my father’s clients, it was a long time ago and I never met any of them.’ Maybe it’s my paranoia from being on the run so long that makes me suspicious of everyone. And maybe it was just a good excuse to get online for the first time in six months.
He’s quiet for a second, then asks, ‘Do you think you’ve been there too long?’
I see where he’s going with this. I can’t take the chance that anyone knows who I am. If it’s not Madeline, it could be someone else – someone on the beach, someone who sees me on my bike. It could the next person who shows up at Randy’s.
Tony DeMarco has not lifted the hit on me. I stole two million dollars from him more than fifteen years ago. He believes that I orchestrated a hit on him six months ago. To him, I am an extension of my father, who also stole from him – and had an affair with his wife. It doesn’t matter that Tony’s testimony is what put my father in prison, where he died a couple of years ago. It doesn’t matter that I paid him back. It’s personal for him, and he wants me dead.
Even if I’m not online, even if I stay under the radar, his people have resources. Tony DeMarco doesn’t forget, no matter how old or sick he may be. And he is sick. Even if he dies, though, his daughter – my half-sister, Adriana – hates me, and there is no knowing how involved she is in his business.
Tony knows I’m an artist, that I would gravitate toward a gallery. Word could get back to him that the artist ‘Tina Jones’ has a similar style to Helen White on Cape Cod or Nicole Jones on Block Island, and he might send someone after me. Sometimes I wish that the hit on him had been successful, because then I wouldn’t have to keep looking over my shoulder. Like with that man at the bar tonight.
I hear Spencer tapping on the keyboard in the background. It’s almost as though it’s an extension of me; I close my eyes and I can see it.
Suddenly, he says, ‘Forget you ever saw anything.’ His tone is sharp, curt.
‘What do you mean?’
‘You never saw the story. You didn’t see the picture.’
‘But it’s him.’
‘You have to stay out of it. And, Tina? Maybe it really is time to move on.’
And then he hangs up.
THREE
I try calling him back, but he doesn’t pick up. I don’t even get voicemail. He found out something about Zeke, maybe what he’s up to with that skimmer and the ATM, and despite his warning I am itching to find out what it is. But I don’t have a computer; I don’t even know where I could borrow one. Besides Randy, I have kept to myself, not wanting to get close to anyone. I think about the hotel on the beach, the big one, and consider that they might have a business center, somewhere a guest might be able to download a boarding pass or check on a flight. But I can’t do what I need on a public computer. I wouldn’t have the tools, and I can’t download any software that would raise red flags.
I am ignoring Spencer’s warning, because I can’t forget – no, I don’t want to forget – what I saw, although his advice to move on resonates. Perhaps I have been here too long. Ironic, really, that I’m thinking this way, since I spent fifteen years on Block Island without incident, and the only reason anyone found me was my own stupidity. Since then, though, the longest I’ve been anywhere has been a year. I was only a few months on Cape Cod, less time than I’ve been here.
I have no idea where Spencer is. He could still be in Miami, where he left me at the airport with the cellphone, his number queued in. He called me once, when I went back to Block Island, to tell me Zeke had disappeared. It had been a risk to go back. It wouldn’t take long for Tony DeMarco’s people to track me down. I stayed one night and left in the morning, promising I’d be back someday. I’ve believed that Zeke’s disappearance had everything to do with DeMarco, since he’s been chasing the man for years. Maybe, however, it didn’t. Maybe it just had to do with Zeke.
And the reason why he’s putting skimmers on ATMs in Paris.
Why was Spencer so abrupt? Why couldn’t he tell me anything? What could he possibly have discovered?
I am barefoot, and the sand is soft underneath my feet. My eyes have adjusted to the dark, but the lights on the pier flash bright, interrupting. I make my way back along the water’s edge, the cool water splashing over my feet.
By the time I get back to the condo, my mind is made up. I can’t stay away. I don’t want to. I need a laptop.
I toss and turn all night, forcing myself to stay in bed and allowing myself to get up when I see the clock turn to six-thirty. I go out on my small balcony with a cup of coffee and watch the surfers waiting for waves down below. I’ve toyed with the idea of learning how to surf while I’ve been here, but I’ve never gotten around to it. I eye the bicycle that I keep in the entryway. I am a bundle of nervous energy and need to get rid of it.
I change into my bike shorts, a T-shirt and sneakers. I tug my helmet on and wheel the bicycle outside to the elevator.
Folly Beach is a small island with one main thoroughfare lined with surf shops with boards and T-shirts in their windows. Several rustic restaurants serve local she-crab soup and grits, and the rooftop bars have views of spectacular sunsets. I haven’t been here long, but it hasn’t been difficult to fall into this life.
I turn onto East Ashley Avenue and pump the pedals hard, feeling it in my calves. I pass pastel-colored houses on stilts and pickup trucks and palm trees. The road is flanked by overgrowth between the houses, and suddenly it opens up to my right beyond the small wooden fence that runs alongside me. The ocean spreads out past the sandy beach. Beachfront houses obstruct my view, but these are tidier, more expensive. I concentrate on my route as I feel the sweat drip down my chest and back.
I reach the end of the road at the lighthouse preserve. I put on the brakes and stand, staring out over the water while straddling the bike. Another day I might leave the bike and take a long walk on the beach, but something holds me back today.
It’s the same thought that has been playing over and over in my head since I got on the bike, the same thought that filled my head each time I pressed down on the pedals.
I take it more slowly going back, the streaks of light in the sky pushing against the soft clouds.
My hands shake as I drag the old backpack out of the closet. I have a lightweight dress that I can roll up and it won’t get wrinkled, so I stuff it inside, along with a pair of strappy sandals. Randy said I’d need to dress for tea. I don’t anticipate having time to come back before I have to meet with Madeline.
While I am comfortable being anti-social, I’ll admit to a curiosity about how she lives, and I do appreciate that she likes my watercolors. If going to tea with her helps Randy in any way, then why not? I owe a lot to him, and this is one way I can pay him back. That, and I might as well experience ‘tea’ before I move on again. I also could ask her if she’s got a relative named Ryan.
The backpack seems almost empty with just the dress and shoes. I consider packing it more completely. Maybe I shouldn’t come back here. The more I think about it, though, there is no indication that there’s an imminent threat against me. Spencer’s suggestion that I move on was just that: a suggestion. But he’s right that I may have been here too long. I feel bad about leaving; I’ll miss it here. I’ll miss Randy. But I’ve always known it was inevitable that I’d move on at some point.
I stick my hand inside the backpack and find the false bottom that I’ve created since I got here. I don’t know why I hadn’t done that long ago, to hide the cash that I need, but it’s useful now. I slip bills underneath it, c
ounting it in my head, hoping it will be enough and adding a little more to be on the safe side.
I take a shower and change into another pair of shorts – not bike shorts – and a tank top. My heart is pounding, and another cup of coffee doesn’t ease the anxiety. But I don’t know what to do with myself until the clock’s hands tell me that it’s time to go.
While I could take the bike into town, it’s easier to call a cab, and one shows up about fifteen minutes after I call. I climb in and gaze out the window as we travel to the city. The salt marshes are bright green as far as the eye can see, until they disappear into the concrete.
I’m silly for having the cab drop me at the entrance to the Fort Sumter museum, as though I have to hide my real destination. The cabbie doesn’t care, but I do, and maybe as I walk up Calhoun I can talk myself out of it.
But despite my own best efforts, I end up on at the store on King Street. The moment I push open the door, it is almost as though I have life breathed into me as I see the rows of laptops, desktops, tablets and smartphones. I wave off one of the sales guys; I don’t need his help right now. I merely want to drink it all in. I’ve been away too long.
Spencer’s voice is in my head, telling me to turn around, walk out before it’s too late, before I go online and expose myself again. But I push him aside; I want this. I tell myself that there really is very little risk if I go online. I can use a VPN to divert my IP address; I will use passwords, screen names that I’ve never used before so they can’t be traced to me. I know how to hide behind the code as much as I know how to hide out in the open, off the grid. I’ve had years of experience at it.
I find a laptop that seems to suit my needs. It’s small and sleek and powerful. It weighs half of my old one, and I think about how the backpack will be lighter than in the past.
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