‘It’s OK. You can stay the night here,’ she says.
My glasses are a little fogged and tear-stained. I take them off and clean them with the edge of my shirt as I ponder the situation. It might be best to stay, although the stalker could be watching the house, so leaving tomorrow in the light of day may be risky. But if we left now, the darkness could be to his advantage and not to mine. It’s a tough call.
The door swings open, and Spencer and Joan’s husband come into the kitchen. Spencer gives me a curious look as he spots the teacups and crumb-filled plate in front of me.
Joan pushes her chair away from the table, tugs on her husband’s arm and says, ‘We’ll go make up the spare room.’ Her husband looks from Spencer to me, then back to Spencer. He nods, as though they have an understanding, and then follows Joan out of the room.
Spencer slides into the chair that Joan’s just vacated. ‘Ron says we should stay the night.’
‘She thinks we’re homeless.’
‘We are.’ He says it so matter-of-factly. ‘I think it’s a good idea. We can slip out early, before they get up.’
‘What if they’re the type to get up at four a.m.?’
‘We’ll figure it out,’ he says impatiently. ‘Did you find anything online?’
I quickly tell him about Tracker and the photographs and d4rkn!te.
‘It’s like I said before. When you answered the French phrase, he thought you were Tracker using another screen name. He didn’t know it was you.’
‘But he knows where I am. He followed us off the train.’
‘We don’t know that it’s the same person. It could have been someone on the train who saw us jump off and came after us because we weren’t supposed to do that.’
I consider that for a second. He’s right. We have no idea who he was. ‘What if you actually shot him?’
‘You mean hit him? With a bullet?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I doubt it. I was too stoned. I didn’t really see him; there was no aiming involved.’
‘But what if you inadvertently hit him?’
He looks as though this had never really crossed his mind. One of his eyebrows rises into his forehead. ‘Does it matter what happened? Either way, we’re OK for now.’ He pauses. ‘Except I could really use some weed.’
I don’t have time to admonish him, because Joan and Ron have come back in. Spencer and I get up, and he slings his arm around me. I stiffen slightly, then remember that we have to keep up appearances and allow myself to relax a little.
‘We really appreciate this,’ I tell Joan as she leads us toward the spare room.
We have to walk through the living room, and I take note of the cozy plush furniture. A line of photographs adorn the mantle of the brick fireplace, and it’s all I can do not to stop and stare.
There’s a picture of Ron. Dressed in his policeman’s uniform.
I can’t tell if Spencer’s noticed it, and I certainly can’t say anything, so I keep following Joan.
The spare room is painted bright pink, with white frilly curtains hanging over the windows.
‘It was our daughter’s room, before she left home,’ she explains. She gives my arm a quick squeeze and another smile before stepping out and closing the door behind her.
The bed is a double, with a multicolored quilt that looks homemade. As I’m surveying the room, Spencer plugs his laptop and router into an outlet. He sits on the floor with the laptop on his lap, and opens it. ‘Show me what you found,’ he instructs.
If he’d seen the photograph of Ron, he might not be so relaxed. I’m not quite sure how to break it to him. I slide down next to him.
‘Ron’s a cop,’ I say.
He barely reacts. ‘Yeah. I know. Tell me what you did.’
‘Thanks for letting me know.’
He frowns at me. ‘I thought you knew.’
‘How was I supposed to know?’
‘Maybe she said something to you?’
‘Well, she didn’t,’ I say. ‘How did you find out?’
‘Let’s just say that I’m a little more than familiar with the boys in blue,’ Spencer says. ‘And there was a whole sea of them in that bar. Not exactly the most comfortable situation.’
‘And you thought that this was a good idea? Staying here?’
‘Probably the safest place for us right now. Sort of like flying right after a massive plane crash.’
It’s not the most comforting thought, but he does have a point. As long as we’re here, we’ve got unofficial protection.
Spencer’s moved on from our conversation and is back staring at the laptop screen. ‘I found the conversation after getting into the private chat archive,’ I explain, and watch as he follows my footsteps.
When the photographs pop up on the screen, it’s almost as though I’m seeing them for the first time. This is different than when the shadow was inside my laptop. This is someone who’s watching me on the outside, someone who’s physically close enough to take my picture and not have me notice him.
Suddenly the screen goes black, and I know what’s happened, what I’ve forgotten. Spencer had inserted a rat into d4rkn!te’s computer. He’s inside now, searching for d4rkn!te’s IP address. I hold my breath when he finds it.
He’s here.
NINETEEN
Instinctively, I look up at the window. I can’t see anything outside; it’s pitch black. The light’s on, though, and whoever’s out there might be able to see in. I jump up and flick the switch so we’re swathed in darkness except for the light from the laptop screen. Spencer scoots closer to the bed and closes the cover slightly to keep it from illuminating too much of the room. I lean in so I can see better.
‘He can’t really be here, can he?’ I whisper. According to the GPS map that Spencer’s pulled up, we are in a small town in North Carolina.
He’s shaking his head, frowning. He doesn’t understand it, either. ‘Maybe he’s rerouted the RAT so it looks like it’s here.’
‘Which means he’s found out about the RAT. And if he rerouted it, then he might have been able to pinpoint our location and he knows where we are.’ I think about the man in the woods. I clutch at Spencer’s arm. ‘We have to get out of here.’
‘We can’t be that hasty,’ he says, distracted by something on his screen. I lean closer so I can see what he’s doing.
He’s no longer hooked into the Internet through his wireless router. He’s inside Joan and Ron’s Wifi network. I see exactly what he’s up to.
He’s managed to hack into Ron’s phone.
But he doesn’t recognize the app until I point it out. ‘That one,’ I instruct. It’s the one that remotely controls the house’s security system, including those motion detector lights that surprised us earlier. Spencer opens the app and, with just a touch on the screen, the security system is disabled.
It’s really not a good idea to have a Wifi home security system for just this reason, although, even with a wired system, it’s possible to use a radio frequency to hack in. It’s a little more difficult, but not by much.
Still, even with the system disabled, we can’t exactly go out through the front door. ‘What are we going to do?’ I look around the room and see the window as a possible escape.
‘You worry too much,’ he says.
He doesn’t know that worrying is my favorite hobby. I think again about d4rkn!te. ‘What does he want?’ I ask, more to myself than to Spencer.
‘D4rkn!te’s got something to do with the carding forum,’ he says. ‘He’s got ties to Tracker through the forum. You’re a link to Tracker.’
I still don’t really get it. I’ve been in South Carolina for the last six months. Zeke seems to have been in Paris.
‘Whoever it is, he’s using these pictures as some sort of leverage against Tracker,’ Spencer adds. ‘It’s the only explanation.’
‘Then we need to find out why.’
‘Later.’ He rolls up the power cords and stuffs them in his bac
kpack. ‘Let’s get out of here first.’ He scrambles to his feet and goes over to the window. He unlocks it and pulls it up. Cool air rushes in, and I wonder why I didn’t think to bring a sweater or a fleece, then push the irrational thought aside.
He unhooks the screen and holds it sideways so he can slide it inside the room, until there’s nothing between us and the night. I shiver again, thinking about whoever was out there, whoever might still be out there.
‘Maybe we should just stay here,’ I suggest.
Spencer shakes his head. ‘We don’t know who d4rkn!te is. What his connections are. He might be a fed, too, and the feds are the cops. Ron’s a cop. We’re not. I don’t think we can trust anyone.’
He’s right. We push both backpacks out of the window and hear them land with a thud. I put my leg over the windowsill and climb out. The ground isn’t too far down, and I roll, hitting one of the backpacks. I scramble out of the way just in time to see Spencer come out after me.
We run through the side yard. While we’ve disabled the security system through the app, it’s still a relief that no lights flash and no alarms go off. I don’t know why I even questioned that it would work, but considering everything that’s gone on in the last twenty-four hours, it wouldn’t have been a surprise if there had been a glitch.
We zigzag through back yards. I keep an eye on the woods behind us, but soon it’s in the distance, too, just like Ron and Joan’s house.
‘Where are we going?’ I ask.
Spencer seems to be on autopilot. He keeps checking his fancy GPS watch. ‘This way,’ he says when we reach a road. It’s not a side road, either, but a main one with four lanes.
‘Are you sure about this?’ It’s the middle of the night, and I haven’t seen any cars, but you never know who might be lurking. D4rkn!te is out there, somewhere, or at least someone who’s connected to him. We can’t get too far on foot.
And then I see that we might not have to. A bus is coming toward us. Spencer begins to wave his arms, and the bus slows. It’s a large bus, a touring one.
‘What’s going on?’ I ask.
‘Trust me.’
I don’t like trusting anyone, but I don’t have much choice, and if I must trust anyone, it’s him. Especially after today.
He gives me a grin and waves his wrist at me. ‘You really need to get one of these,’ he says about the watch. ‘Pretty amazing thing. Bus schedules and routes are all online.’
The bus is stopping next to us and the door opens. The driver gives us a dubious look.
‘Our car broke down,’ I say when Spencer seems suddenly taken mute. ‘Can we get a ride?’
The driver looks out of the front window and then back at us. ‘Where’s your car?’
‘We left it back there,’ I say, waving my hand absently for good measure but not elaborating on where ‘back there’ actually is. ‘We didn’t realize it would be so far to a town.’ I pause a second. ‘We can pay.’
The driver gives me a curious look. ‘You’re not too far out,’ he says. ‘I can take you, but if you want to go further, you’ll need a ticket.’
I scramble up the steps. ‘No problem,’ I say. ‘Thanks so much.’
The bus is not all that crowded, but I make my way to the back, shrug off my backpack and fall into a seat. Spencer settles in next to me. He leans over and whispers, ‘We don’t have to get off at the next stop.’
I don’t understand.
‘Get some sleep,’ he instructs, leaning back and closing his eyes.
‘What’s going on?’
He smiles, his eyes still closed. ‘He’s not immune to a little payoff. Let’s just say that. No one will bother us until we get to Washington. So get some sleep.’
I shift a little to get more comfortable, staring out the window into the darkness. Just as I begin to nod off, I hear him say softly, ‘I really could use some weed right about now.’
‘Sorry.’
‘No need to be.’
I feel his hand wrap around mine. It’s warm, and I give it a squeeze.
TWENTY
When I wake, my neck is stiff and my shoulders ache. I shift in my seat and realize my feet have gone to sleep. I sit up straight and wiggle my toes, the pins and needles feeling getting a little less so with each movement. The sun shines on my face, and I blink a few times and wonder just how awful the lavatory on the bus will be, then decide that it doesn’t matter.
It’s right about now that I notice Spencer is not next to me. I remember hearing his snores at some point, but I don’t recall him getting up. I must have been in a very deep sleep.
I put my hands on the back of the seat in front of me and pull myself up, scanning the bus passengers. Everyone is in his or her seat; I don’t see Spencer anywhere. Maybe he’s in the toilet.
But the vacant light is lit above the door.
A look under the seat and then above on the rack tells me that his backpack is missing as well.
My backpack is still under the seat, but now I see something different about it. The front pocket is unzipped and something’s sticking out of it. I lean down and stick my hand inside, bringing out a passport. The photograph is me; the name on it is Elizabeth McKnight. This must be the passport that Zeke had Spencer arrange for me, in case I needed to make a quick escape.
But where is Spencer?
The bus jolts as it moves along uneven pavement, and I make my way to the front, to the driver who took Spencer’s cash so we could go all the way to Washington D.C. without being bothered.
‘Do you know where my friend went?’ I ask him.
He glances back at me, and then back at the road. ‘He got off.’
‘Where?’
‘Baltimore. I have to ask you to get back into your seat. We’ll be coming up on D.C. shortly.’
‘But did he say anything? I didn’t know he was going to get off there.’
The driver’s expression changes a little. ‘Maybe you’re better off without him,’ he says. ‘You can get a fresh start.’ He pauses a second, and then, ‘You really need to get back to your seat.’
I head back, but before sitting, I go into the lavatory. I stare in the mirror and see that the bruise on my cheek has spread and it’s an ugly, angry purple. I suppose I don’t blame Joan and Ron and now this bus driver for suspecting that Spencer did this to me. I might think the same thing if I were them.
When I get back to my seat, I pull the backpack onto Spencer’s seat next to me. He left me the passport. Maybe that’s not the only thing he’s left behind. I rummage through the pack, taking out the cellphone. I hit the button and see that it needs powering up. I find the cord and plug it into the outlet that’s in the armrest. The screen shines bright, and for a second I think that Spencer might have left me a message, but a search indicates nothing out of the ordinary.
I take my wireless hotspot router out, and then pull the laptop from its sleeve.
A piece of paper flutters out after it. It’s folded in half, so I open it and something drops out. I lean over and pick it up. It’s a credit card. In the name of Elizabeth McKnight. I read the sloppy scrawl: Sorry, but we need to separate. I’ll meet you in Paris in two days. Hotel Adele.
I don’t expect the rush of anger that floods through me. He left me here. Left. Me. Here. With someone following me. With someone stalking me, taking photographs of me.
I take a few deep breaths to try to calm down. It doesn’t do any good to be angry, even though it’s completely warranted, in my opinion. Instead, I focus on the credit card. I turn it over in my hands. It looks legitimate, but it can’t possibly be. Elizabeth McKnight doesn’t exist.
Spencer didn’t do this while I slept. This was already set up. Even if he’d been able to get into a carding forum, there is no way he could have gotten a physical credit card made up and sent to him on the bus. No, he had this as well as the passport when I met up with him in Charleston. This plan had been already underway.
It was Zeke. He did this. It’s like
Spencer said. He arranged all of this before he vanished. He knew I might have to escape again. But did he know exactly why? Did he know someone would stalk me, send him photos of me, proving that he knows exactly where I am? Or was it just a good guess that something would happen that would necessitate documents like this? It’s not as though I haven’t needed them before. Zeke, as Tracker, helped me get out of the country as Amelie Renaud after the bank job.
Why exactly did Spencer leave me here? After all we’ve been through, now he decides that we have to separate? Does he know something I don’t?
I fiddle with the phone, noticing something else. It’s not just the passport and the credit card. I’ve got an app that’s got all my flight information loaded into it. My flight to Paris out of D.C. is tonight at nine. A closer look tells me that I’ve got an Uber app and account as well.
Spencer and Zeke really did cover all the bases, didn’t they?
For a second, I consider not going. I’ve been on my own for so long and this feels like I’m being controlled. I could get off the bus in Washington and make my way somewhere else: New York, California … somewhere no one would find me. I’ll leave my laptop and live off the grid. I have proven that I can make a living, that I can survive.
As tempting as it might be, I shake off the thought. If I do that, I will have to hide forever. And I will never see Zeke again.
So I guess I have to go to Paris.
I get to Union Station and hunt down the subway. It will take me to the airport. Sure, I could call an Uber, thanks to Spencer’s thoughtfulness, but I’d rather hide in plain sight on public transportation. I’ve got a few hours before my flight, but I’d rather just get there and wait. Somehow it feels safer, although I am constantly on alert, watching my fellow subway passengers warily. Every time I see a phone pointed in my direction, I am anxious that there will be another photograph posted online and sent to Tracker – to Zeke – showing that I am merely an arm’s length away.
At the airport, I check in at the airline’s desk, my passport verifying my identity. I easily pass through security. I notice people giving me sidelong glances, but I think it’s more the bruise on my face, because when I meet their eyes they quickly look away. No one says anything to me, no one questions. I am Elizabeth McKnight, another pseudonym in a long line of them. As I sit at the airport bar nursing a cognac, I feel nostalgic for all of those other identities and regret having to take yet another one.
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