You’ve been busy.
Who is d4rkn!te? Do you know? I ask.
I can’t tell you anything right now. Can you trust me enough to help me?
I want to, I really do. But putting a skimmer on an ATM? Again, I’m worried about the criminal element of all this. I tell myself that Zeke’s FBI, so maybe it’s OK. Is it?
Spencer doesn’t seem to be having the same inner turmoil that I am. He’s already typing. Tell us what we need to do.
I put my hand over the keyboard. ‘Are you sure about this?’
‘Aren’t you?’ He is genuinely perplexed by my reaction, and I can’t blame him. Until this moment, I have been willing to jump off a train and fly to Europe under an alias in order to track Zeke down, and now I’m waffling.
‘I want to know more before we do this.’
‘I don’t think he’s going to tell us any more. Something’s going on. We have to help.’
The message appears on the screen: It’s OK, Tina. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.
How does he do that? How does he know exactly what I’m thinking?
Spencer’s responding to him. I’ve got to step away for a few minutes. He turns the laptop toward me. ‘I’ll be back in a few.’ And he gets up and leaves the room, shutting the door quietly behind him.
I’m alone – with Zeke online. Like all those times so long ago. Every day for months – years, actually – we connected online in the chat rooms. We were almost like one person, each of us finishing the other’s thoughts.
Tina?
I’m here, I type.
Take the tape off the camera.
I reach toward the screen and gently peel it off, exposing myself.
I miss you.
Me, too.
I’m sorry you had to leave the beach. I know how much you love the ocean.
You’re not OK, are you? I want to see him, see his face. He won’t be able to hide it from me if he really isn’t OK. But before I can ask him to reveal himself, the words appear on the screen.
Remember where you shot me?
His question startles me. I don’t like to remember that, how I accidentally shot him and thought I’d left him for dead. Yes.
Be there in an hour.
And suddenly the message box disappears.
He’s vanished.
I sit for a few minutes, wondering what he’s up to. He was still cryptic about locations. It’s possible he’s worried that someone’s spying on him – on both of us. The news stories about me, about his alleged death in Paris, only mentioned the city. There were no details. Zeke and I are the only ones who would know where our meeting spot is. I think about that night so long ago. I was in Paris with Ian Cartwright, the man I hacked into the bank for, but Zeke showed up and wanted me to run away with him.
Now Ian Cartwright is dead, and I still have no idea exactly where Zeke is.
The door creaks open, and Spencer steps back inside, a questioning expression on his face.
‘Everything good?’ He notices the blank screen. ‘What happened?’
I don’t know if I’m supposed to tell him. I don’t know if he’s supposed to come with me or not. And then it dawns on me. ‘He knows where we are. He must have traced us while we were online.’ While we took a lot of precautions, I don’t doubt that Tracker could get through the firewalls. Our IP address is still buried within the hardware, and someone as skilled as he is could unearth it. We should have known better, but I’m not sorry that he knows.
‘Did he tell you that?’
I shake my head, still uncertain how much I should tell him. If Zeke has set it up so I’ll see him, I don’t want Spencer there. But someone’s been following me, taking my picture, and even though I’ve traveled across the ocean, who knows who’s watching?
‘I have to go somewhere,’ I say as I stick the tape back over the laptop’s camera.
‘Where?’ His tone is guarded, suspicious. ‘Are you meeting him?’
I sigh. ‘I don’t know. He told me I have to be somewhere. In an hour. But I don’t know if he’s going to be there.’
‘Where?’
‘Where I shot him.’
Spencer’s lips quiver, like he wants to smile, but he manages to stop himself. ‘That was on the houseboat.’
There is one other person who is privy to this information. I shouldn’t be surprised, though, considering Spencer and Zeke’s friendship. I nod.
‘So he knows you’re in Paris. That we’re in Paris.’
I nod.
He gives a little chortle. ‘He’s too fucking good.’ He’s thinking, too, about how Zeke must have gotten through the firewalls. ‘Did he tell you to bring me with you?’
‘No.’
‘I’m going with you anyway.’
I had a feeling he’d say that. I gather up the laptop and stuff it into the backpack, slinging it over my shoulder. ‘OK,’ I say flatly, as though he’s putting me out, but the more I think about it, the more I’d rather that he tag along. Safety in numbers and all that.
The metro drops us at the Bir-Hakeim station. Spencer hasn’t said anything; we’ve traveled in silence, both of us lost in our own thoughts. He’s a little jittery, though. He must be going through weed withdrawal.
When we turn onto Quai Branley, the Eiffel Tower is in sight, but Spencer barely reacts. I wonder if he’s been here before, but I’m too distracted right now to ask. Along Port du Suffren, the houseboats are lined up in a row along the side of the Seine. A chill runs through me as I remember the last time I was here: the sound of the shot ringing out, Zeke on the floor of the houseboat, blood trickling out from underneath him. I was about where Spencer and I are right now when I heard the second shot, the one I thought Ian had fired but it turns out it was Zeke. I didn’t stop. I kept running through the dark; I was on a plane back to the States by morning.
I don’t know if I can do this.
Spencer stares at me curiously. ‘Are you OK?’ he asks.
I shake my head. ‘Too many memories. This wasn’t a good idea.’
He puts his arm around me and slips something into my hand. It’s a joint. ‘I can’t believe you. How?’
‘The world is a small place.’ He takes the joint and lights a match, taking a drag and then offering it to me. I hold my hand up, but he shakes his head. ‘You need to relax, Tina. You’re on edge.’
‘I like it that way.’
He rolls his eyes, and takes another drag. ‘Suit yourself.’
We reach the end of the fence so we can go down right next to the houseboats. The walkway is cobblestoned and it’s uneven beneath my feet. I’m concentrating so much on where I’m stepping that I almost miss it. I stop short, and Spencer practically runs into me.
‘Dude,’ he says, stretching the word out into two syllables.
I cock my head at the houseboat, which I remember now is called a péniche in French. Most of these steel boats used to be freighters, built to navigate the rivers and canals. This one is painted chocolate brown with ivory awnings. It’s got a terrace on the top with teak deck furniture and planters with colorful flowers. But that’s not what’s caught my eye. ‘That’s it.’
He frowns. ‘That’s what?’
‘The boat.’
‘Which boat?’
I’m going to have to get used to him stoned again. ‘The one we were on that night.’
‘That was a long time ago. You sure?’
I point to the brass plaque that’s on the hull: ‘Soleil.’ Sunshine. When Ian and I came to Paris after the bank job, we found this houseboat for rent and, because of the name, I couldn’t resist. It reminded me of the French phrases Tracker and I had been using. Ian didn’t know that, though. He didn’t know about Tracker then. Tracker was my secret, and I didn’t even know until last year that he and Zeke were the same person.
‘Whatever he wanted us to find is here,’ I say, walking up the short gangplank before Spencer can stop me. What if it’s him? What if he’s waitin
g on the boat for me? I so desperately want that.
And as I reach for the door, it suddenly swings open.
TWENTY-NINE
Instinctively, I take a step back, half expecting to see Zeke, but the woman who’s opened the door has short white hair and is wearing a pair of neatly pressed jeans and a crisp white button-down blouse. She is hardly threatening as she smiles kindly and asks in French, ‘Can I help you?’
I’m flustered. Zeke sent me here, but I still don’t know why. I decide to be honest. ‘I used to live here. A long time ago.’
Her expression changes and she studies my face. I shift uncomfortably. I’m not used to being stared at quite so intently by a stranger, although there is something about her eyes that seem oddly familiar. I’m also acutely aware of the bruise on my face. I don’t know how to explain that, so I don’t.
She finally says, ‘I have been waiting for you. Come in.’
I’m not sure what I expected in coming here, but this woman is not it. Nor is the houseboat, which has clearly undergone a complete remodel sometime in the last seventeen years. This shouldn’t surprise me, but it does. I take a step inside, noticing the sleek wood paneling, the plush red loveseat and chairs. Without seeing them, I know a bedroom and a bathroom are behind the floor-to-ceiling cabinet on the far side of the room. It’s larger than I remember, and cozier.
Spencer is close on my heels. The woman frowns at him, her eyes skittering back to my face. She probably thinks he hit me, too, like Joan and Ron back in North Carolina. She looks as though she might say something, then thinks better of it and merely says, ‘He told me there might be two of you.’
Her words pull me out of my memories. Zeke. Zeke was here.
‘What else did he say?’ I ask eagerly.
She shakes her head. But I need to know. I come further inside, my eyes straying to the spot where Zeke had lain, bleeding. I blink a couple of times, trying to unsee it, but I’m not successful. Instead, I focus on the woman, who has gone around a long wooden kitchen island and is reaching inside a cupboard. Spencer comes closer, as though the woman is going to pull a weapon out, but when she turns with only a large envelope in her hand, we both take a deep breath.
‘Here,’ she says, thrusting at us. ‘Now you have to go.’ The smile has disappeared, and she is much more agitated. Her eyes dart from window to window, as though expecting someone to be peering in at us.
I reach around and open the backpack, stuffing the envelope inside. Spencer and I start to head out, but suddenly she hisses, ‘No. It’s too late.’
A shadow crosses one of the windows.
‘They can’t see you,’ she whispers.
Spencer and I share a glance. We both look around to see if there’s an easy escape, but there’s none. At least, none that we can see. My heart is pounding, and I can’t breathe. The woman grabs my hand and pulls me around to a side door on the other side of the boat. Spencer scrambles after us.
She opens the door and points. I don’t waste any time. Her fear is contagious, piggybacking on the panic I’ve felt ever since I saw those photographs of me online. I’m outside on a small platform, hugging the side of the boat, Spencer next to me. There’s nowhere to go except in the water, and I can’t do that. I’ve got the laptop and that envelope in my backpack, and I can’t bring myself to submerge them or myself.
‘Tina,’ Spencer whispers, cocking his head. One more step to the left and we will no longer be hidden by the houseboat’s living quarters – we will be completely exposed on the roof of the lower level.
It’s at that moment that we hear the voices inside the houseboat – and if we can make it just a few feet, we will be only a short jump to the next boat that will provide more shelter for us. I give Spencer a nod and take a deep breath, swiftly sidestepping along the boat until I reach the end, until I don’t have a choice but to jump. I pray that I’ll make it.
I am momentarily airborne before my feet hit the deck. My ankle gives way, though, and I drop and roll, the backpack breaking my fall. I open my eyes – I didn’t realize I’d closed them – to see Spencer’s sneakers overhead. I put my arms over my head, but he clears the landing better than I did. Maybe I should have gotten stoned, after all.
I don’t have time to catch my breath, because the voices are louder. I scramble to my feet. Spencer and I make our way along the edge of the houseboat, until we’re again hugging the wall. I peer around the corner but, from this angle, I can’t see anyone.
‘We can’t stay here,’ I whisper.
Spencer’s looking in the window of the boat. ‘There’s no one home,’ he whispers back.
‘How will we get in?’
He leans back slightly and surveys the side of the boat. ‘Door,’ he says simply and begins to make his way to it. I follow.
He tries the knob, but nothing happens. He reaches around into his back pocket and pulls out his wallet. With one hand against the side of the boat to keep himself balanced, he bows his head over the wallet and extracts a credit card with his teeth. If I weren’t so nervous, I would be more curious about what he plans to do. But as it is, I just wish he’d get to it. We can’t afford to be out here too much longer.
With the card still in his mouth, he puts the wallet back, and then with one hand slides the card along the crack between the door and the doorjamb. He tilts the card toward the lock, and he jiggles it slightly. The card goes deeper into the crack. He then bends the card slightly the other way and the door pops open.
Spencer gives me a grin. ‘After you,’ he says softly, then shrugs. ‘It’s not exactly high-tech.’
I try not to show that I’m impressed. I move inside, stepping down into the living space of the houseboat. The windows along each side are covered with thick curtains, so it’s fairly dark. This boat is smaller than the other, and it looks as though the kitchen level is below this one.
Spencer puts his finger to his lips to indicate we need to stay quiet. I am already moving through the room into the bedroom at the far end to see if there is another way of escaping. We can no longer hear the voices from the other boat. I’m dying to know what’s happening, if whoever showed up has left or if they are still lurking around somewhere.
We crouch down by the bed, just in case anyone outside would be able to see our shadows inside despite the curtains. Spencer reaches around me, and I jerk back, but then realize he’s reaching for the backpack. The envelope is sticking out of it.
Without speaking, I take it out and open it, peering inside. I turn it upside down and the skimmer slides out into my hand. But there’s something else. A cellphone. Spencer frowns as he takes it, hitting the power button. It lights up, and it has all the standard apps. Nothing more.
I try to get inside Zeke’s head. I understand the skimmer, since he wants us to install it, but the phone is a puzzle.
I don’t have time to ponder it further, though, because we hear footsteps on the deck. My heart pounds, and I’m sure that whoever is out there can hear it, knows that we’re here. Is it those men who showed up at the other houseboat?
I slip the skimmer back into the envelope, but Spencer’s still holding the phone. The latch clicks, and someone’s coming inside. Every muscle in my body is taut. I’m ready to run, but I have no idea where to go. I scan the room but there’s no way out.
I hear the voices in the living area, and I shut everything out and focus on what they’re saying. They’re speaking some sort of Germanic language, so I have no idea what they’re saying.
The voices come closer. Spencer scrambles to his feet, and he grabs my arm and pulls me up with him. We’re standing like that, next to the bed, the backpack hanging from my hand, when three people come in. They are all middle-aged – one man and two women. They are frowning.
One of the women steps forward. She is wearing a white blouse, a black pencil skirt and black pumps. She’s holding a folder filled with papers and has a Gucci bag slung over her shoulder.
‘You were supposed to be
out yesterday,’ she chides in strongly accented English.
THIRTY
For a second, I’m confused, but then something dawns on me. She thinks we were renting this péniche. Relief rushes through me, and my heartbeat slows considerably.
‘So sorry,’ I say. ‘We forgot something here.’ I take Spencer’s hand that’s holding the cellphone and hold it up. ‘We’ll be going now.’
I begin to move past them, Spencer right behind me. We both try to look contrite as we continue through the living area and out of the door. I pause for a second, glancing around to see if anyone’s lying in wait, but I see no one. The woman is coming after us; she’s saying something about ‘the agency,’ her tone definitively angry. Spencer and I exchange a look and, without hesitating, we take off, running up Quai de la Seine in the opposite direction of the other boat.
We go under Pont de Bir-Hakeim and, up ahead, I see stairs that lead to the main road above. We make our way up, the muscles in my legs screaming now. We’re not far from the Eiffel Tower. I point up at it.
‘Is it really time to sightsee?’ Spencer asks.
I roll my eyes at him. We’ve slowed now to a fast walk. We’re on Port de Suffren, and our adrenaline pushes us so it doesn’t take too long to get to the iconic tower. Hundreds of tourists are milling about, and we easily mix in with them.
‘Do you think we were followed?’ Spencer asks. His eyes dart around us, checking out our environs.
I shrug. ‘I don’t know.’ I didn’t notice anyone behind us, and no one stopped us, but that doesn’t mean much. Someone had been taking pictures of me without my knowledge for who knows how long. I am clearly not all that aware of my surroundings.
Spencer’s looking up, and I follow his gaze. I’ve never been here. My grandmother eschewed anything that was too touristy, except for the Louvre and the Musée d’Orsay, because she said they were part of my education. For the first time, I wonder how much of that ‘education’ contributed to my life as an artist. I’ve never thought about that before – how that may have influenced me. I needed a way to make money, and I discovered I had a talent for it. My Block Island seascapes and Cape Cod and Charleston watercolors were, in a way, reminiscent of what I’d seen as a child here in Paris.
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