Vanished

by Karen E. Olson

  My smile and mood fade as I settle in on my bed and open my laptop. I use the new adapter and plug it in so it will power up while I’m working.

  When I log into the chat room, I scan the screen names. I admit that I’m looking specifically for Tracker, to find out whether he’s been here again, but I don’t see him anywhere. I push down my disappointment, telling myself that it was unrealistic to expect him to be here. Still, I check archives and the private chat rooms to make sure that I’m not missing him anywhere.

  Still nothing, though.

  But I do spot someone I recognize.

  D4rkn!te. And to my surprise, he asks me to join him in a private chat.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  I’m leery of any requests, especially since the shadow infiltrated my laptop, yet I’m curious what he wants to talk to me about. He can’t possibly know who I am. Again, I’ve logged in with a screen name I’ve never used, so there’s no way anyone could know who I am or who I’ve been before.

  But this could be my chance. He might invite me into the carding forum. My hopes rise. Perhaps I can do this without Spencer’s help. The thought of showing him up is appealing. Serves him right for abandoning me on the bus.

  Before I can respond to d4rkn!te, however, he disappears.

  I stare at the screen, uncertain what’s going on. Is he playing games, or has he vanished because of something outside this world? Back in the day, when I was a teenager, there were times when I had to shut down unexpectedly because my father walked in the room or my mother demanded my attention. There could any number of reasons why d4rkn!te would do the same thing.

  It bothers me, though. This is the same person who posted those images of me. Does he somehow know who I am behind the screen name? Is he doing this on purpose to unnerve me?

  I shake aside the thoughts. There is no possible way he could know who I am. I am too paranoid. But the idea that he might nags at me.

  I begin to wonder just who he might be.

  He lured Tracker into a private chat and posted those photographs of me, so even if he doesn’t know who I am online in the chat room, he does know Tina Adler – and he knows about my relationship with Tracker.

  If he knows that much, then it’s more than likely he knows that Tracker is FBI Agent Zeke Chapman and he is even more dangerous than just someone who’s running a carding forum. He may be linked to Tony DeMarco, who wants both Tracker and me dead. Using those pictures, d4rkn!te might have enough leverage for Zeke to come out into the open.

  I wish that I had that remote access Trojan on this laptop rather than on Spencer’s. I want to know what he’s doing when he’s not here. I remind myself that I don’t need Spencer. That I have been hacking a long time without him and can do this on my own perfectly well.

  My confidence rises as I devise a plan. Before I was distracted by the lack of a plug adapter, I was about to set up a bitcoin wallet in order to be prepared when I get into the carding forum. I push the laptop aside and take the cellphone out of the backpack.

  Fortunately, bitcoin wallet apps seem to be free. I’m a little uncertain, though, about which one might be the best, so I spend a little bit of time reading reviews. I’m procrastinating. I finally choose one and download it, watching the little circle fill in on the screen. I’m watching the phone with one eye and the laptop with the other. My thoughts stray to d4rkn!te. He disappeared, but the more I think about it, he might not be gone.

  It’s not easy getting into the source code of the chat room; hackers have devised a lot of firewalls to keep someone from doing what I’m trying to do. But it’s not impossible. And after a little poking around, I discover that I can access the php files, which will give me access to the databases. This isn’t standard. In fact, it’s as though someone wanted the site to be hacked. So while it’s not impossible, for some reason, right now, it’s incredibly easy.

  First I navigate to the database that lists all the screen names, or user names. Whenever someone signs into the chat room, he or she has to pick a name, and the database will search to see if it’s unique. If it isn’t, then the person has to choose another one; if it is, then he’s good to go. If someone hasn’t been in the chat room for a while, his name’s removed after a certain period of time passes. The screen names I used two years or even a year ago should be erased by now.

  Except one isn’t.

  ‘Tiny’ is still listed.

  I stare at the name on the screen, a chill shimmying up my spine. Granted, someone else must have chosen it, but it’s not very creative, not like the others. ‘Tiny’ was a throwback to the years before the Internet really exploded, before I knew better. It’s the name that Tracker always knew me by. I haven’t used ‘Tiny’ in seventeen years.

  I check when Tiny was last in the chat room. This morning. I can’t explain why I’m curious, except that something doesn’t sit right with me, considering everything that’s gone on in the last couple of days. I don’t hold out much hope that I can find out Tiny’s IP address, since everything’s circumvented by Tor and VPNs, but when I get deeper into the code, I see it. This shouldn’t be possible, but I make a copy and switch to an alternate screen where I can search for the location.

  My curiosity and suspicion is justified.

  The IP address is here. In Paris.

  I tense up, then jump off the bed and cross the room, making sure that the door is locked. I turn and scan the room as though someone is going to jump out from the bathroom, from the balcony outside. This is just like when d4rkn!te was supposedly at the same address when Spencer and I were in North Carolina. No one would have known where we were, just as no one knows I’m here now except Spencer. I’m not using my real name; I’m not using a screen name I’ve ever used before. So how can the screen name I hid behind all those years still be active and originate from the city I’m in right this very moment?

  It can’t be a coincidence that ‘Tiny’ has an IP address in Paris.

  I was hidden in Charleston until I met Madeline Whittier. But someone was watching me. Photographing me. I have not been as hidden as I thought. Maybe I’m not as shrouded online, either. It was easy to think that d4rkn!te had turned the tables on our remote access Trojan and traced us to our IP address, but I’m not using Spencer’s laptop now. I don’t have access to the RAT, and there is no way d4rkn!te could discover my true identity behind an obscure screen name.

  Unless he followed me here as stealthily as he followed me around Charleston, around Folly Beach, and he’s been watching me all along. He knows who I am, that I’m online, and he’s trying to unnerve me by using the name ‘Tiny.’ He might not know that I’m already unnerved, having found the photographs. They were not meant for me.

  They were not meant for me. They were meant for Zeke, for Tracker. What if using my screen name is meant for him, too? What if this is still more about him than about me?

  I sit up straight and pull the laptop closer. Tracker was in the chat room earlier.

  I go through the same steps I did to find Tiny, and there he is. But not where I expected, which is also here in Paris. Tracker is in New York City.

  What if my trip here was in vain? What if Zeke really isn’t here at all? I shake off the thought. IP addresses aren’t always what they seem to be. The Tor software causes IP addresses to jump from one place to another so users can maintain their anonymity. So that their locations cannot be pinpointed.

  And yet Zeke was in Paris. At least four months ago. Granted, he’s had plenty of time to get back to the States – or anywhere else, for that matter. Maybe I should have stayed put and waited for him. He was in touch with Spencer, and Spencer knew how to reach me – and vice versa.

  I shake the thoughts away. It’s too late now. I can’t go back in time, so I might as well see what I can find while I’m here.

  Despite the fact that I’ve dismissed the accuracy of the IP addresses, I can’t help myself. I look for d4rkn!te. He is not in Paris. According to the program, he is in Omaha. Whil
e this is most likely wrong, it gives me a false sense of security.

  Even though I still want to find out more about the Tiny who has been visiting the chat room with my name, I’m realistic enough to know that I probably won’t find much more about her – or him. And it might just be a coincidence that he shares my old screen name. I don’t exactly have a monopoly on it. I try to focus on the reason why I came to the chat room in the first place: to get an invitation to the carding forum, where I hope to run into Tracker.

  I wonder if I shouldn’t devise a clue for him, so that if it really is him, he’ll know that it’s me on the other side of the screen. I can’t use the French phrases; too many people seem to know about those and they’ve been used against us. The easiest way to get his attention is through another screen name, but I’m hard-pressed to think of one that will jog his memory and make him think of me – and one that won’t make anyone else think twice, too.

  It’s at moments like these that I realize just how little time Zeke and I have actually spent together. Most lovers have pet names for each other, but we haven’t even reached that point. I’m not sure, though, that’s really who we are, anyway.

  Suddenly, I think of something. He once directed me to a dark web site called The Waste Land, which was also the title of a poem. His knowledge impressed me. I wonder how versed he is in poetry.

  I don’t want to use ‘The Waste Land’, because there are too many people who are familiar with the dark web site, so I need a different poem. I can’t make it too obvious, but Zeke does know my fondness for islands. I do a simple Internet search and find something that might pique his interest if he’s lurking. My fingers hover over the keyboard as I read the first line: ‘No man is an island.’

  This by itself, though, might not give him enough of a clue that I might be behind the message. I log off the chat and sign back in, using a new screen name: TSEliot, the poet who wrote ‘The Waste Land’.

  It’s a long shot, I know, and maybe it’s a little too obtuse, but it’s the only thing I can think of, so I type the first line from the John Donne poem in a public message, and wait.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  The sun is peeking through the window, casting shadows on the floor when I awake. I never even really went to bed, merely settled back on the pillows and closed my eyes, the exhaustion of travel overwhelming me. I glance at the clock and see that I’ve been asleep for more than twelve hours. I did not have dinner; I’m still wearing my jeans and T-shirt.

  The laptop is attached to the power cord. While I am anxious to know whether my ploy worked and Tracker has responded to me, I shove it aside and head into the bathroom. It’s been hours, so a little more time isn’t going to make any difference. I take a quick shower, brush my teeth, use my fingers to comb my hair. I peer into the mirror. Despite the bruise on my cheek, I look rested. I should.

  My stomach growls, and I pad out into the main room wearing only a towel. The French windows are still open, and the cool morning air washes over me. The rooftops are a familiar sight, and I am at once content with my surroundings.

  The bags that I brought back from the department store are untouched in the corner. I pull on a pair of jeans and slip a new top over my head. I also bought a pair of more stylish canvas shoes, so I can abandon the sneakers that are a bit worse for wear since the jump off the train and race through the woods. It isn’t only my face that’s bruised.

  Since the laptop is fully powered up, as well as the wireless router, I unplug them and put them into the backpack, slinging it over my shoulder. I can be patient a little longer. I attribute this to the fact that I am not unaccustomed to living without a computer. Seventeen years ago, I would certainly not have had this type of self-control.

  I toss one of the new scarves around my neck as I head out.

  There is a different person behind the front desk now, a young man with a mop of dark hair that flops over his forehead and into his eyes. He wears a crisp white shirt and a suit jacket. I consider pulling out the photographs to ask him about them, but my stomach growls. It will have to wait until after I’ve eaten something.

  The sidewalk is bustling; the cars and buses whiz past me on the street. I am famished, and I duck into the first café I see. There are tables and chairs out front, and I find an empty one that faces the sidewalk so I can watch people walk by. I am barely seated when the waiter comes out and offers me coffee. I order a café au lait and croissant. I may need two croissants. And two coffees. At least.

  I take out the wireless router and set it up before I open the laptop. I don’t trust anyone else’s Wifi, and my router is password protected so no one can jump into my network. I find my way to the chat room just as my coffee and croissant arrive. I take a sip of coffee as I peruse the messages.

  There has been a lot of activity since I fell asleep last night, but I don’t need to weed through any of it. I am able to narrow down what I see by my own screen name. I spot the message I left, and I get a tingle when I see that someone has responded. I click on the message.

  It’s not Tracker. He wouldn’t engage with me using that name, but still I’m disappointed. Instead, it’s someone called Z3r0.

  He’s written something puzzling: Every man is a piece of the continent.

  Wait a minute. I toggle screens and find the poem. This is the next line. I have either found Zeke or someone else who apparently knows the poem and is playing along with me. Who knows which. I’m uncertain what to write next, scanning the lines to see if there’s anything that might continue this odd intrigue, but nothing jumps out at me. I don’t understand it; I’m not one for poetry or literature or even sweet nothings. My idea of flirtation is sharing code, but you can’t do that with just anyone.

  It doesn’t really matter anyway. Z3r0 has not been online for the last four hours. I was fast asleep when he continued the poetry recitation. But maybe it’s worth continuing. I type in the next line.

  If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less.

  I see a woman at the next table with a small baguette covered in butter and strawberry jam and wish I’d ordered that instead. While I’m coveting her breakfast, I take another drink of my coffee and a big bite out of the croissant. The buttery, flaky pastry melts on my tongue, and I no longer regret my choice.

  I feel myself relaxing as the hunger pangs are satiated, and I’m no longer glued to the laptop screen. Paris is bustling, and the familiar smells and sounds comfort me. For the first time since I met Madeline Whittier, I am relaxed.

  Until I look at the screen again.

  All my muscles tense as I see that Z3r0 has materialized.

  He greets me with: Any man’s death diminishes me.

  I need to determine whether this is Zeke or merely someone with a poetry fetish. Before I can respond, another message pops up: You like John Donne?

  I’m not a poetry reader, I write. That was Zeke’s observation when he told me about The Waste Land site, and I can only hope that if this is Zeke, he’ll remember the conversation and know that it’s me behind the screen name.

  He doesn’t write another message, but a URL to a private chat room appears on the screen. I don’t trust it. I don’t trust him. It’s too easy to get a remote access Trojan and insert it into the code, like Spencer did with d4rkn!te.

  As I’m pondering the situation, drinking my coffee, Z3r0 adds: What do you see?

  The words jar my memory. This is exactly the question Tracker would ask me when we first met, and even last year when we were hacking together again, he couldn’t help but continue to be the mentor by asking me what I saw in the code. Is Z3r0 actually Tracker, or is this turn of phrase just a coincidence? I so desperately want it to be him. I want that connection again, even if it’s online. That’s all it was for years anyway.

  I put my fingers on the keyboard, but I let them rest there, my head spinning. I left that message for him, and now I’m playing coy. No. I’m safeguarding myself. I’m protecting my identity, protecting my whe
reabouts.

  Give me a URL.

  He knows I’m hesitating. He knows I don’t trust him. He’s trusting me. He’s trusting that I’m not going to put a remote access Trojan in the URL I give him. Does that prove he didn’t put one in his message?

  I don’t want to test it. I send him a link, and even though for a moment I consider a RAT, I don’t do it. Even if it’s not Tracker – Zeke – there’s something about Z3r0.

  We both arrive in the private chat room at the same time.

  There are a million questions I want to ask, but I need to take it slow. I need to determine who Z3r0 is before I let my guard down. But he’s one step ahead of me.

  I’ll never forget the first time I saw you on that chaise lounge at your father’s house. Remember what we did the next day?

  I catch my breath. FBI Agent Zeke Chapman first came to my house in Miami when I was twenty-five. I was outside by the pool when he arrived. I thought he was there about my father – since he’d been in prison, the FBI came around from time to time to keep an eye on things – but later I found out he was there about me. He knew I’d stolen the ten million from the bank, but I didn’t know he knew. I also didn’t know he was Tracker, who had helped me steal that money.

  Both of us had been more than a little in love with the idea of each other ever since we met online when we were teenagers.

  While this is enough for me, his question shows that I have to prove who I am. He suspects that it’s me, but he needs to know definitively.

  We went to the beach on your 1983 Goldwing, I type. He’d refurbished it himself.

  Are you safe? he writes, making it clear that I’ve passed the test. But he’s still wary and unwilling to identify himself or me any further. We don’t know if anyone’s spying on us. I’ve gotten into the private chat rooms unnoticed before; someone could be in here with us. Neither of us will take it for granted that we are alone.