Vanished

by Karen E. Olson

  Spencer inspects the skimmer a little more closely than he had earlier, spending quite a few minutes checking out the tiny motherboard. Finally, he looks up at me. ‘This is more sophisticated than I thought.’ He points at something, and I lean over to get a better look.

  ‘That’s a cellular network chip,’ I say.

  Spencer nods. ‘This can send a text to someone’s phone with the information that’s captured from the card that’s swiped through the skimmer.’

  It’s all too clear now. ‘And then the app transfers the message to a server somewhere.’ I don’t understand something, though. ‘Why did he give us both? The skimmer and the phone? Why didn’t he just keep the phone for himself?’

  ‘Unless he’s got it so it sends a text to his phone, too. Or maybe even his laptop. It could go anywhere. No one has to be close by; no one has to retrieve the skimmer for the information. It’s fucking brilliant.’

  But that still leaves me with the question: why did he even bother giving us the phone? He’s not here to answer, so I shrug it aside.

  Spencer holds out the skimmer and explains what I’m supposed to do.

  ‘Won’t it fall off?’

  ‘It’ll be snug. If someone yanks on it, it’ll come off, but do you ever do that at an ATM?’

  I remind him that I don’t have a bank account and have never used an ATM. He rolls his eyes at me as he tucks the skimmer into my hand. The smallness of it strikes me. It fits neatly into my palm and I close my fingers around it comfortably.

  ‘Time to go,’ he says.

  THIRTY-THREE

  I buy a baseball cap in the Monoprix, lying to myself that the brim will disguise me. I wish I had sunglasses, and Spencer suggests it, but I have to wear my glasses. My eyesight has gotten that bad. I’ll take my chances.

  Spencer will wait for me in the Monoprix. I don’t want him to watch me; I’m nervous enough. He reluctantly agrees. He’ll hold my backpack and the phone.

  I’ve got the skimmer in the front pocket of my jeans. I cross the street and approach the ATM. My eye is on the camera, and I make sure to keep my back to it, my head down. I’m not sure if anyone watching will be alerted to a middle-aged woman approaching the machine. My experience is that middle-aged women are invisible, which has served me well these last couple of years in hiding.

  And then I have the sudden thought that maybe Zeke is watching.

  I am momentarily distracted by that, but then shake it off. Whether he’s watching or not, I’ve got a job to do, even if I don’t quite know why. With my back to the camera, I block the machine as I slip the skimmer out of my pocket. I glance around once, but no one is paying any attention to me, and in one swift move I stick the skimmer over the card reader. It fits snugly, and Spencer is right. Only if someone really pulls on it will it come off.

  I pretend that I am swiping a card and cover the keyboard, punching a few random numbers, then make a show of stuffing my imaginary card back in my pocket. Still with my back to the camera, I walk away, affecting a gait that may lead someone to think I’ve got some sort of problem with my hips. I wish I’d thought about that on my approach, but it’s too late now.

  It’s a huge leap of faith for Zeke to ask us to do this, and I suppose we could have said no. But admittedly, the adrenaline that’s rushing through me now is akin to the way I feel when I’m online and, even though I’m a little ashamed of it, I would do it all over again just for the rush.

  Spencer is loitering outside the store, holding a plastic bag. He holds it up as I get closer. ‘I got what we needed,’ he says loudly, laying it on a little too thick, but the natives will just think he’s a loud American and ignore him. When I am close enough, he adds in a whisper, ‘Looks like it went OK.’

  ‘We’ll see.’ My face feels flush and my heart’s pounding.

  ‘You’re fine,’ he says, giving me a wink. ‘Maybe we should find another skimmer and do it again.’ He knows how I’m feeling, and I’m too far gone to be embarrassed.

  ‘I’m not sure about that,’ I say so he doesn’t get cocky.

  I catch movement in the corner of my eye, and someone is at the ATM. I am aware that I’ve stopped breathing for a few seconds as I watch the transaction take place. I almost expect the skimmer to come off, for the woman to track down a police officer, but nothing happens except she tucks her wallet back in her bag and walks away as though everything is perfectly normal.

  ‘Good to go,’ Spencer says softly. He’s got the cellphone out and is checking a text message. ‘It works like we thought.’ I am at once impressed when I see all of the card information recorded and at the same time appalled. I don’t want to be a part of this, whatever this is. What have we done?

  ‘He wouldn’t ask us to do this if it wasn’t important,’ Spencer tells me yet again. I don’t like that he has to keep reminding me. I also don’t like that he doesn’t seem to be appalled at all, but is intrigued by the way this system works. He nods at me. ‘This is pretty fucking genius.’

  ‘But it’s criminal,’ I remind him.

  ‘Maybe. Tracker’s FBI. There’s got to be more to this than it looks.’

  It’s nice that he’s got confidence in this, since I don’t have any at the moment. The adrenaline rush that I’d felt only moments ago is gone. I want to get away as soon as possible. ‘Let’s go,’ I say.

  He shrugs and hands the backpack to me. I slip it over my shoulders, and the weight of it calms me down a little.

  ‘Didn’t you say that your grandmother lived around here somewhere?’ Spencer asks. It sounds like an innocent question and, when I study his face, I don’t see anything except curiosity.

  Standing on this corner, I suddenly get my bearings. A rush of emotion overwhelms me. Until now, I’d been so focused on our mission, on getting that skimmer on the ATM, that I had subconsciously pushed aside the memories. But with the mission complete – for now – I have serious déjà vu. Perhaps because I have been here before, even though the last time was about thirty years ago.

  Without thinking twice about it, when the sign begins to flash with a walking man figure, I cross the street, not really paying attention to Spencer, who is close on my heels. To his credit, he doesn’t speak, but allows me to lead the way up rue Meslay. Oddly, I don’t remember much about this street, which isn’t a main thoroughfare. Storefronts all along the street on both sides show off displays of shoes, all types and sizes, one shop after the other.

  ‘I guess this is the go-to place for shoes,’ Spencer ruminates, stopping in front of one window. He points at a particularly high-heeled snakeskin in red. ‘Looks like a place for strippers or drag queens.’

  He’s right, but I don’t want to linger. Now that I’m here, I want to find it – the building I lived in during my time here with my grandmother. And suddenly, there it is. I’m surprised I recognize it, since most of the buildings look the same: tall stone buildings with large elaborate wooden doors and small balconies off the windows that aren’t large enough for any other purpose than to sport some flowerpots in the summer and to chill the occasional bottle of wine in the winter.

  I stop in front of the door. We don’t have the key to go inside, but if we did, we would step into a dark foyer that leads to a courtyard in the middle. I close my eyes and picture the wrought-iron tables and chairs for the residents, the lush plants that made it feel as though it was my own personal playhouse. To the right, a wide, wooden stairwell narrows slightly as it leads up to the four stories of apartments. My grandmother scoffed at the ‘modern’ buildings that had elevators as she proudly carried her packages up to the top floor.

  I am taken aback at the extent of my memories; how it seems only yesterday that I was here, running alongside my grandmother, chattering in French.

  ‘There was a dog,’ I say out loud, remembering it as more of an afterthought.

  ‘Of course there was a dog,’ Spencer says, although not unkindly.

  ‘I can’t remember his name. He was only around
one summer. I’m not sure what happened to him.’ It bothers me that I can’t conjure any more than that. I want to relive it all in my head, and forgetting even the dog’s name somehow makes it all wrong. And then: ‘Why here?’ I ask, looking directing at Spencer for the first time since we arrived.

  ‘Why where?’

  ‘Why did Zeke want us to put the skimmer on here, where my grandmother lived? What does that mean?’

  He shrugs. ‘I’m not sure, but maybe it was on purpose.’

  It’s probably not about me at all, just like Zeke’s disappearance. But it still nags at me. ‘I never told him where my grandmother lived,’ I admit.

  Spencer shakes his head. ‘Yeah, but I keep telling you, Tina, he’s FBI. He knows things.’

  He’s right, yet it continues to nag at me. Zeke does have access to more information than the average person – both through his job and his hacking. So why this particular corner? What message is Zeke trying to send to us?

  I shake the thoughts aside when I can’t come up with answers to the questions. ‘OK, come on.’ I start walking, but Spencer doesn’t move. He’s studying the cellphone. He doesn’t look up, so I sidle over next to him and peer around to see what’s got him so mesmerized.

  It’s a text message. Someone else has used the ATM, but when I see the name on the card, I gasp.

  Spencer Cross.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Spencer’s shaking his head in disbelief, frowning at the phone. I’m confused, too, but I remember that hotel reservation made with the Spencer Cross credit card. That wasn’t a debit card, though, and this one is. How many Spencer Cross cards are there out there?

  Without saying anything to Spencer, I turn and jog down the sidewalk, back to where the ATM is. Maybe this is the reason Zeke wanted us to use the skimmer and phone app. Maybe he wants us to find out who’s using Spencer Cross’s card.

  Maybe it’s Ryan Whittier. He’s used a Spencer Cross card before. I feel a little rush of adrenaline as I consider confronting him.

  But when I get to the corner, no one is at the machine. I spin around, scanning the people on the sidewalk, the vehicles on the street. While there are several young men in the vicinity, I don’t see anyone who resembles the Ryan Whittier in the article’s photograph.

  Does he exist at all? It’s possible that the article was fake, especially since no one at Charleston College knows about him and there’s no Internet footprint. But then I remember how the desk clerk at the hotel got skittish when I showed her the picture. It’s possible she recognized him but for some reason wouldn’t ID him for me. And why had she seemed frightened when she saw the picture of Zeke? Whatever is going on is eluding me, and Zeke certainly hasn’t been much help. Did he know ‘Spencer Cross’ might use a card at that ATM once we installed that skimmer? If he didn’t know, did he suspect?

  I hate it that there are still more questions than answers.

  All I know for sure is that Spencer Cross was with me and didn’t use a debit card in that ATM a few minutes ago.

  I pull my scarf over the hat on my head and yank off my glasses, throwing caution to the wind. Shrouding myself as much as possible, trying to keep my back to the cameras, I check out the ATM, running my fingers along the skimmer, which is still tight against the real one. I touch the keypad, as though I can somehow channel Zeke through it. I’m being silly.

  I’ve forgotten about Spencer. I left him with the phone, contemplating who is using a debit card with his name on it. Yet when I turn, he’s not there. I jog back around the corner of rue Meslay, but he’s not there, either. How could he have disappeared? He was right here.

  I reach the spot where we’d been standing, and the glow of the roach on the sidewalk confirms that I haven’t been imagining any of this.

  My paranoia rises until I finally see him. He’s across the street, coming out of the Chinese restaurant. He shuts the door behind him and comes toward me, as though it’s no big deal that he would wander off and not tell me. When he’s reached me, I open my mouth to scold him about this, but something in his expression stops me.

  ‘What’s going on?’ I ask instead. ‘What were you doing over there?’

  ‘I saw someone watching us through the window.’

  I give an involuntary shiver, not liking that I hadn’t noticed. I am too distracted by my memories here, so I am not paying as close attention to my surroundings as I need to be. I have to be more on alert.

  ‘So, what are we supposed to do?’ I ask.

  He looks confused. ‘Do about what? The guy in the window?’

  ‘No, not that.’ I indicate the phone, which he’s still holding. ‘What do you think it means?’

  ‘What?’

  He’s being obtuse. ‘It’s your name.’

  ‘But it’s not my card.’

  ‘I know that. But it’s still got your name on it.’ I pause a second. ‘Did all the information download into the app?’

  ‘Yeah. All the information is there.’

  ‘Maybe we should try to find out if this card has anything to do with the other one that was used to make the hotel reservation. Maybe the accounts are linked,’ I say. But before I can suggest heading back to the hotel to do just that, out of the corner of my eye I see the curtain move in the restaurant window. I reach over and grab Spencer’s arm. ‘You’re right. Someone is watching us.’ I pause. ‘You said you went inside?’

  Spencer nods. ‘I figure if he’s watching us, maybe he’s watching everyone. Maybe he’s seen someone at the ATM.’

  ‘Maybe he saw who used this card,’ I interrupt.

  Spencer shrugs. ‘Maybe. He wasn’t very forthcoming, though, because there’s a little bit of a problem.’

  I know what that might be. ‘He doesn’t speak English?’

  Spencer grins. ‘Bingo. Want to come back with me?’

  ‘You only want me for my French,’ I mutter as we make our way to the restaurant.

  ‘Unless you can also speak Chinese,’ Spencer says.

  I playfully punch his upper arm. ‘I shouldn’t help at all. You can play charades with him and see what he has to say. If anything.’

  ‘Ye of little faith. Come on. Let’s see if he knows anything.’

  Why would this man in the Chinese restaurant be anything special? I still think we should go back to the hotel and get some real work done. I’d also like to find Zeke again, inside the laptop.

  I’ve got a lot of questions for him.

  It seems that Spencer, too, might have a lot of questions for the Chinese man who opens the restaurant door for us, because he’s already turned to me and said, ‘Show him a picture of Tracker and see if he’s seen him.’

  I want to be a contrarian and ask him why he thinks I’d have a picture of Zeke, but it will only waste valuable time, so I take out my own phone – not the one Zeke gave us – and open the photos app. ‘We were wondering if you could help us identify someone,’ I say in French, holding up the phone so he can see it. I accidentally tap the picture of Ryan Whittier, which opens, and then swipe to the next picture, the one of Zeke, and show it to him. ‘Have you seen this man?’ I ask.

  He gives me a funny look, as though French might not be familiar to him, either, and instead of answering, leads us further inside. The walls are painted a deep red, and despite the white tin ceiling that reflects back the light from the hanging fixtures, it’s somber. A large tank containing exotic-looking fish dominates the center of the room. Large Chinese watercolors and mirrors crowd the walls, making the room feel a bit claustrophobic and smaller than it actually is. There are tables with both red leather banquettes and chairs surrounding them. The tables are set with crystal water glasses, elegant china bowls, chopsticks and white linen napkins.

  There are no diners. None at all.

  He seats us at one of the tables and gives us menus, but he still hasn’t said anything. Maybe he doesn’t speak French. Spencer and I shrug at each other.

  ‘Should we order something?’ he a
sks.

  I glance at the man, who looks at us expectantly. ‘I think we have to.’

  The menu is in French and Chinese, and after a little discussion we order pork dumplings and stir-fried noodles with shrimp, pointing at the items on the menu. The man then disappears through a swinging door behind us.

  ‘I’m starving,’ Spencer says.

  ‘That’s because you’re stoned.’

  ‘We haven’t eaten hardly anything today,’ he says. ‘Don’t tell me you’re not hungry.’

  ‘We just had pastries. Coffee.’ But the idea of a real meal suddenly appeals to me. The man returns and puts a bottle of carbonated water on the table before disappearing again.

  I don’t know how long it will take, and I’m impatient, so I pull the laptop out of my backpack. ‘I want to see if Zeke’s sent us any more messages,’ I explain, putting the laptop on the table next to me and booting it up. The screen tells me nothing, and when I check the message app where he’d communicated with us earlier, there’s nothing new there.

  A plate with the dumplings appears on the table, and the man hovers, frowning at the laptop. He can’t possibly have a problem with this, since there is no one else in the restaurant, but clearly he does. I stuff the laptop back in the pack. Spencer’s already digging into the dumplings and, as I reach for one, the man finally speaks, startling me.

  ‘He comes in here once a week,’ he says in French.

  ‘The man in the photo?’

  ‘Yes. Him.’

  ‘Is he alone when he comes?’

  ‘Every time except once.’

  ‘Was he with anyone?’

  The man nods. ‘Yes, a woman.’

  I shouldn’t feel the rush of jealousy that surges through me, but I do. I tell myself that it’s work, that Zeke is here undercover, that being here with another woman does not mean that our relationship means nothing.

  Spencer is frowning. That’s right. He doesn’t speak French. He doesn’t know what the man has said. I tell him.

  ‘Ask him if he knows who she is. Maybe she paid with a credit card.’