Vanished

by Karen E. Olson

  I peer more closely, unable to believe it. The image is grainy, but there’s no mistaking what’s happening.

  Zeke’s not wearing the hoodie anymore. In fact, he doesn’t look at all like the image in the story about Ryan Whittier. He looks more like himself, in a button-down shirt and jeans. He’s clean-shaven; his hair is shorter than the last time I saw him. He looks good, I can tell that much even from the poor quality of the video, and a rush of emotion hits me.

  But it’s replaced by curiosity as I see what unfolds on the screen. A long black car – is it a limo? – pulls up and the door opens. Zeke leans down, his hand on the door, but before he gets in, he stands and looks straight up into the camera. Almost as though he knows we’re watching.

  And then he gets into the car, the door closes and the car pulls away.

  ‘What’s happening?’ I mutter to myself.

  Spencer replays the video in slow motion and suddenly stops it as he jabs at the screen with his finger. ‘See?’

  The license plate. I still don’t get it, though.

  ‘I ran a search.’ Spencer hesitates a second, and then he surprises me. ‘The car. It’s owned by Tony DeMarco.’

  TEN

  There has to be some mistake. Zeke was undercover with Tony’s operation a couple of years ago. He hasn’t been with him in a while. And anyway, in Miami six months ago, Zeke revealed himself as FBI. There’s no way he could be working for Tony now.

  Could he?

  ‘I don’t understand,’ I say.

  Spencer sighs. ‘The FBI’s involved in a carding forum. It might be why Zeke’s putting skimmers on ATMs.’

  Carding forums are sites online where people can buy and sell credit card information. One of the ways to get that information is through skimmers.

  ‘How do you know this?’

  One of Spencer’s eyebrows rises. ‘Come on, Tina.’

  Right. He’s with Incognito. He’s got eyes everywhere. Even, it seems, at the FBI.

  ‘But this video makes it look more like he’s working for Tony DeMarco and not the FBI,’ I say, shrugging him off.

  ‘Or maybe he’s working for both of them.’

  ‘A double agent?’

  ‘Undercover, Tina.’ He rolls his eyes at me, like I should know better. I suppose I should. ‘DeMarco’s had his hand in this sort of thing for a few years now. This is what Zeke was doing with him two years ago, but he couldn’t make it stick.’

  Just like the kiddie porn site. Zeke never told me what his undercover assignment had been with Tony DeMarco, but this makes sense. He’s a hacker, so the FBI should know how to use him and his skills. ‘But all that stuff in Miami six months ago …’ I can’t wrap my head around this, ‘… Tony knows that Zeke’s FBI, so how can he be undercover with him?’

  Before he can answer, the chat room pops up on yet another screen. I recognize it, but it’s not current.

  ‘These are the archives of the chats. Tracker reached out. He invited a few people to the forum,’ Spencer explains.

  That’s how it works. You can’t just join a carding forum. You have to be invited. Someone has to vouch for you. And then it hits me. ‘Tracker reached out?’

  Spencer nods. So he’s right. Zeke is on the inside. Really inside. Tony DeMarco has been involved in a lot of illegal activity for a very long time but he’s dying of cancer. While it might seem logical for him to hang it all up at this juncture, maybe it’s not in his nature to do that. Maybe he just can’t.

  But then there’s Zeke. I don’t understand how he could again get involved in any aspect of what Tony DeMarco is into. I say as much to Spencer, adding, ‘Tony didn’t just want to kill me, he wanted Tracker – Zeke – dead, too.’ Suddenly, the reality of what I’ve just said hits me, and I’m filled with fear for Zeke.

  Spencer rolls his eyes at me. ‘Tina, we’ve been over this before. He’s FBI. It’s his job.’

  I know that, but it doesn’t mean I can’t be afraid for him.

  ‘What does this have to do with Ryan Whittier, though? Who is Ryan Whittier? He’s not really a college student.’ I regret not having time to ask Madeline about him. I tell Spencer about my phone conversation with the media relations guy at Charleston College. ‘They said there’s never been a student there by that name. He has no Internet footprint. If it weren’t for the hotel reservation, I’d think he doesn’t exist.’

  ‘What hotel reservation?’

  I explain about the Hotel Adele.

  ‘Maybe it doesn’t have anything to do with him,’ Spencer says. ‘Maybe it’s just a coincidence.’

  I shake my head. ‘No. It’s definitely more than that. Ryan Whittier used a credit card with your name on it. He used it to pay for the hotel room. If it were just a coincidence, how do you explain that?’

  ‘What are you talking about? My name?’

  I tell him what I found online and how I got inside the reservation system and the credit card site. ‘So you didn’t know about this?’

  ‘How could I? It’s not my credit card. I don’t have one in my name anymore.’

  ‘But you did have one, right?’

  ‘Of course. But it’s been a long time, and the last one I did have was through my company. So it can’t be the same account number. Can it?’ He pauses. ‘We both know something’s going on with credit cards, so it’s got to be connected to that.’

  ‘But since it’s your name, then is it possible that someone’s connected you to Zeke, or Tracker? I mean, it’s too coincidental that the name on the card is Spencer Cross. And what if it is your old account number? Someone could have hacked it and it’s out there now.’

  He doesn’t say anything as he mulls this over, realizing that I’m right. Finally, he says, ‘If this Ryan Whittier is using a card with my name on it, we probably should figure out just who the hell he is.’ He pauses, then adds, ‘Maybe I should reach out.’

  I don’t have to ask to whom. He’s going to see if anyone in Incognito knows anything. If anyone does, it would be them.

  The sound of a doorbell jars us out of our thoughts.

  ‘Are you expecting anyone?’ I ask softly.

  Spencer shakes his head. ‘No one.’ He jumps up and goes over to the window, pulling aside the curtain. ‘Shit.’

  I’m on his heels, and I lean over his shoulder to peer outside. A police car sits in front of the house, a couple of patrol officers pacing on the front porch.

  ‘What do they want?’ I mutter.

  ‘Beats the hell out of me.’

  ‘Have you ever had any contact with local law enforcement?’

  ‘Not even when I was legit.’ Spencer’s eyes are wide, and it has nothing to do with the weed he’s smoked.

  ‘You should answer the door,’ I say when one of the officers rings the bell again and the sound of it echoes throughout the house.

  ‘And I thought I was the only one who was high.’ He lets the curtain fall. ‘They’ll go away.’

  ‘What if they don’t?’ I begin to imagine scenarios. ‘What if Madeline has told them about me – the police, I mean? What if she told them I stole millions from her? That I ran away from her when she confronted me?’ I am vaguely aware that my voice has risen, and Spencer slaps a hand over my mouth.

  ‘Ssh,’ he hisses in my ear. ‘We can’t let them know we’re here. They’ll go away, and then we’ll leave.’

  ‘Where will we go?’ I whisper through his hand.

  He pulls it away and stares me straight in the eye. ‘Maybe we should go to Paris. Find out what’s going on with Tracker. And if we leave, disappear, maybe they’ – he cocks his head in the direction of the window – ‘will give up on finding us for the time being.’

  I don’t have much hope that they’ll stop looking, since people have been looking for me for seventeen years, and the idea of going back to Paris frightens and exhilarates me at the same time. But he’s right. If we leave, if we escape, put thousands of miles between us, our survival is more guaranteed than
if we stay here.

  ‘I’ve already got documents for us,’ Spencer says. ‘Tracker told me to do that when he left, just in case.’

  Just in case. Zeke anticipated that we might have to make a quick getaway. I shake the thought away. There is no way he could have known that I’d come across Madeline Whittier, since he didn’t know where I was going to end up when we said goodbye. But he did know that Tony DeMarco and his people weren’t going to stop looking for me.

  The doorbell again pierces the silence. We look at each other and I can’t help myself. I pull aside the curtain slightly. I feel Spencer’s breath on the back of my neck as we watch the scene unfold outside.

  It’s no longer just the two officers. I count four police cars, their lights flashing. Officers are lining up in front of the house, guns drawn.

  My body begins to shake. ‘What’s going on?’

  Spencer is no longer behind me. He’s shutting down his computers, pulling wires out of the machines.

  ‘Hard drives?’ I ask, ready to help.

  He’s already two steps ahead of me. He hands me a screwdriver. Within minutes, we’ve managed to take all five hard drives out of the computers, and that’s when I see it: the degausser. It’s small enough to be hidden behind the door on a tabletop. Spencer slips one of the hard drives into the front slot. When it pops out of the back, it’s been demagnetized and erased. A degausser isn’t something that just anyone would have hanging around, but it makes sense for Spencer to have one. It’s really the only way to completely erase a hard drive quickly and completely.

  It only takes a few seconds for each drive, and we leave the degausser and the empty drives in the middle of the floor. Spencer grabs two laptops and shoves them into a messenger bag. He picks up my backpack and thrusts it at me. ‘Come on.’

  ‘You’ve got backup, right?’

  He grins. ‘Don’t underestimate me.’

  I really don’t. ‘How are we going to get out of here?’ I ask.

  ‘There’s a way,’ he says, ‘but you have to trust me.’

  I have no choice.

  ELEVEN

  We hear shouting and banging on the front door, but neither of us pays attention. We’re not going out that way – or even through the back door, as it turns out. Spencer hits a button on the wall and a door slides open. A hidden elevator. It’s small, but we can both fit if we stand sideways. I hold my backpack over my head. The elevator door shuts, and we are plunged into complete darkness. It jerks slowly downward, until it stops suddenly and the door opens. I almost expect to be in a basement, then realize that a basement in a city that floods on a regular basis is probably not a good idea. Instead, we’re in a pantry, from the looks of it. Shelves full of dry goods and cereal, large, clear jars that contain rice, sugar and flour line the walls. The scents of several different spices mix in the air.

  I don’t have time to figure out exactly what those spices are, because Spencer is on the move. A backpack is shoved under the bottom shelf, and he picks it up and shrugs it onto his shoulders. It looks as though he may have anticipated a quick getaway, whether with me or not.

  He doesn’t check to see if I’m following – I am – and we move quickly around the door and to another one that looks like it hasn’t been opened since the Civil War. Spencer gives it a rough shove with his shoulder, and it squeals open. We both look up and behind us, but we don’t hear anything at all. This concerns me, and from Spencer’s expression, it concerns him, too.

  The car is on the other side of the house in the garage, but Spencer clearly does have an escape plan. We wend our way through a small garden, and soon we’re on the other side of a hedge that’s not unlike the one at Madeline’s house. But here, instead of a wrought-iron fence is a small tool shed. The door is secured with a combination lock, but Spencer quickly opens it and we step inside into more darkness.

  He’s handing me something round and smooth. ‘Put it on,’ he instructs.

  It’s a helmet. But not a bike helmet. A motorcycle helmet. As my eyes adjust to the darkness, I see Spencer putting the laptops into a saddlebag on one side of the bike and his backpack in another on the other side. ‘You can keep your pack on your back,’ he says.

  I don’t have much of a choice.

  The closest I’ve been to riding a motorcycle in the recent past has been a moped on Block Island, and that was two years ago. I can’t wear the dress, though, it just wouldn’t work, and I’ve got shorts in my backpack. I pull them out, along with a tank top. ‘Turn around,’ I say. Spencer might be stoned but he’s not that stoned, so he does as I say. I shimmy out of my dress, quickly changing and shoving the dress into the pack. I want to change out of the sandals and into the sneakers, but I feel like it would take too much time.

  ‘All set,’ I say as I slip the helmet over my head and secure the strap under my chin. I feel top-heavy. It’s going to take a little getting used to.

  Spencer swings the door open further and climbs onto the bike. I get on behind him, tightening my pack against my back. The motorcycle feels clumsy between my legs, and it’s humming underneath us. Within only a few seconds, we shoot out onto the lawn – the tool shed was clearly only for the landscaper – and I lean forward and wrap my arms more securely around Spencer’s waist.

  I have no idea where the police might be or whether they’ve figured out what we’re up to, but we don’t bother to wait around to see. Soon we’re speeding up the street behind Spencer’s house, heading who knows where. I doubt we’re going to the beach to get the rest of my things. I think longingly of a change of clothes other than the dress, but I’m glad that Randy paid me before I left the gallery. The money is secure under the false bottom in the backpack, and hopefully I can make it go pretty far. I’m sure Spencer’s managed to bring his own cache along. I’m not sure how long it will keep us afloat, especially if we do end up heading to Paris like Spencer suggested.

  While I’m ruminating on what I’ve got on hand, we’re winding our way around traffic. We’ve gotten on the highway, and I am acutely aware of my bare legs and practically bare feet. Yet the longer I’m on the bike, the more comfortable I feel and my body sways with its movements. Spencer is driving safely under the circumstances, despite the weed. But he doesn’t seem impaired. Not that I have much of a choice if he is.

  We’re getting off the highway, and I tighten my grip on Spencer’s waist. I almost let go, though, with surprise, when I see where we’re heading.

  The outlet mall.

  We’ve done this before. Shopped together. But this time, it is definitely more practical than it was before.

  Spencer parks the motorcycle between a large pickup truck and an SUV. We climb off, and I tug off the helmet. He’s one step ahead of me and has taken his backpack and laptops out of the saddlebags. ‘We need luggage. Real luggage.’ He cocks his head at my backpack. ‘That thing looks like it’s about a hundred years old.’

  I don’t tell him that I bought it in Montreal, that it’s traveled so many miles with me that it feels like an old friend.

  ‘And some clothes. We have to look normal.’ Spencer is walking away, and I jog a little to catch up. I haven’t been normal in a long time, so I wonder what it will feel like.

  I am a bit curious about how we’re going to load our new carry-on luggage onto the motorcycle once we’ve finished shopping, but I don’t get a chance to ask before the Uber car drives up and Spencer holds the door open for me. I anticipate a short ride to the airport, but instead we head to a neighborhood I haven’t visited before.

  ‘Train,’ Spencer says simply, seemingly unconcerned that we are abandoning the motorcycle.

  We haven’t spoken much since we arrived at the mall. I’ve tried to ask Spencer what the plan is, but he merely shrugged me off and told me to go find some clothes suitable for the city. So I bought some jeans and tops, a new pair of canvas sneakers that look a lot better than my running shoes, and some necessary underwear.

  ‘Train?’

&n
bsp; Spencer nods. ‘They’ll be looking for us at the airport.’

  ‘They won’t look for us at the train station?’

  ‘We can get on without being scrutinized as much as if we flew.’

  He’s got a point.

  ‘So where are we heading?’

  ‘New York. We can catch a flight out of there. Lots of people. Lots of flights.’

  Makes sense. ‘How long’s the train ride?’

  He shrugs. ‘I don’t know. Twelve hours?’

  I think about my morning on the bike at the beach, the wide, empty spaces. I don’t relish the idea of being stuck inside a moving train for so long. My claustrophobia is usually not quite so physical.

  The train station in North Charleston has a red brick and green panel facade. We carry our bags inside, and Spencer leaves me in the corner while he goes to buy the tickets. I’m not used to someone else taking charge; I’ve been on my own and having to figure out how I’m going to survive for so long that it feels odd. Spencer and Zeke have been pulling all the strings ever since we left Miami. As I stand here, I realize that I haven’t actually been alone for the past six months, even when I thought I was. Spencer wasn’t just a cellphone call away; he was actually closer than I thought. And Zeke made sure that we would have the means to get away if we needed to. Was it a coincidence that I ended up in Charleston, where Spencer owns a house? As I think back, he may have mentioned the city to me as a possible destination. Maybe the power of suggestion had been strong enough that I found my way here subconsciously.

  ‘Come on.’ Spencer walks over to me, hands me a ticket and grabs the handle of one of the wheeled carry-on bags. He’s got a new leather backpack over one shoulder, but I still carry my old, tattered one. He thought I should get a fancy tote bag, one that a woman of my age might use to take to work on a public commute, or a new leather backpack to match his, but I nixed both ideas. I can’t give up my backpack. It’s traveled too far with me and I’m not about to give it up that easily. I pointed out how I can still conceal the cash I’ve got, which did impress him. I didn’t mention that I want – I need – to have control over something.