by Ann Macela
CHAPTER NINETEEN
When she finally made it home, Francie dropped her gym bag and collapsed on the sofa. She should be extremely embarrassed, she thought, as all the shouts from the spectators rattled around in her brain. “Wooooeeeee! Sexxxxy!” had been one. “I’ll play the winner,” came from a number of male throats, while the women yelled, “Dibs on the loser.” “Grrrrrreat moves!” “Let’s hear it for co-ed basketball!” “You can guard me anytime.” And those were the mild ones.
Somehow, she’d broken through the crowd and run for the locker room. Her teammates followed. From what they’d said, she’d gathered they had returned to the court to try again to persuade her to come with them. They had been caught up in the match and stayed to support her. Their presence had attracted the attention of several men, and before long, a sizable number of people were laughing, cheering, and generally whooping it up.
They had all watched her rub herself all over Clay, kiss him like a slut, and behave like a complete idiot. The Y would probably expel her, rescind her membership, toss her out on her ear. Which might be for the best. She didn’t know how she could ever show her face there again.
But, damn it, she’d won. He had been cheating as much as she was. Sweetheart, who couldn’t take it in the end?
She’d won. She’d made her first ever slam dunk, to boot. She should be swinging from the chandelier in triumph. She should have asked the Y to give her the net. She should be happy, gleeful, rejoicing.
But instead, she felt like she’d been trampled right into the court’s hardwood floor.
What about Clay? She hadn’t seen him after the swarm of onlookers parted them. He’d looked so shocked, so dejected, so disheartened. What would she have said to him? Crowed in victory? Told him her winning didn’t matter, she’d talk to him anyway?
No! It did matter. How could she talk to him about magic that didn’t exist? Even theoretically.
But, what if it did? What if, contrary to everything she had ever learned in science classes, contrary to her own view of the world, Clay really could put spells on computers and cause them to do his bidding?
She hadn’t given him the chance to prove his claims. Instead she’d gotten scared, but frightened of what? Going to bed with him? Having sex? Somehow, given the effect they had on each other, “having sex” seemed like an extremely puny description of what might happen.
So, what had caused this reaction? Memories of Walt? Fear Clay would do to her what Walt had? Looking at the situation as dispassionately—what a word—as she could, she had to admit fear was probably at the center of her reaction.
And what about the electric, searing attraction with Clay? He claimed that soul-mate-imperative “force” was causing it, or bringing them together, or causing her pain. She still couldn’t accept its existence or influence. Hormones, it was all hormones, and pheromones, and chemical changes in the brain caused by infatuation. Not some ancient magical compulsion—simply a legend whose power was imaginary.
And now? She had “won.” He said he would leave her alone. She hadn’t understood when he said his bothering her would be only in her head, but she did now. That’s exactly where he was, embedded in her brain cells.
What about in the chambers of her heart? She bent over as agony lanced out from that much abused organ. A tremendous sob wracked her body. She gave in to it and let herself cry until she had no tears left, just a chasm of desolation in her chest.
Eventually she roused herself. The crying jag had had one effect: her mind was numb now, and she was too exhausted to think about Clay. She’d decide what to do after she had had some sleep.
She looked at the clock: midnight. She was still wearing her basketball outfit, having thrown her street clothes into her bag in her rush to leave the Y. Feeling like a twenty-pound weight was attached to each limb, she made her way to the bathroom, stripped, and stood in the shower for a while.
That helped, but only marginally. The pain in her chest persisted, but had subsided to a low constant throbbing in place of the sharp stabs.
Maybe she’d call in sick in the morning. What did she have to do tomorrow? No meetings, only . . . Only the setup for Clay to trap Kevin tomorrow night. But she wasn’t part of the technical tasks. And she didn’t want to hear about how good Clay was, how great a computer wizard. And she definitely did not want to see him. She’d better call in right now.
She turned off the water, hurriedly toweled herself dry, and headed for the phone. After leaving voice-mail messages for Herb and several others, she finished her nighttime routine, took a couple of aspirin, and fell into bed. And finally into a fitful, but thankfully dreamless, sleep.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Clay slammed his kitchen door and threw his gym bag on the floor. He badly wanted something to hit, but now that he could let his fury out, he had no target. He’d had to hold it in at the Y, where he’d managed to joke and laugh with his buddies, all of whom claimed to be extremely jealous of his match, and all of whom heckled him unmercifully about losing. He didn’t know why his jaw hadn’t cracked under the strain of his gritted smile.
What the hell was he going to do now? It was unheard of for one soul mate to reject the other. If a practitioner married someone who wasn’t his soul mate—which happened in the past as families made dynastic decisions instead of letting hearts and the SMI rule—he spent the rest of his days in loneliness, unhappiness, and despair.
Why couldn’t his own soul mate have been a practitioner? She would have understood. They wouldn’t be going through this torment.
He’d been so certain he would win that idiotic game and then demonstrate to that skeptical woman he could do magic. Instead, what had happened? Damn the imperative! How could it fail him when it counted the most?
He filled a glass with water and drank deeply. He had to hand it to Francie, she had turned the SMI around on him with a vengeance. He’d been able to handle its effects before, but this time, he’d just petrified, frozen, solidified while she literally ran rings around him.
Damn! She had felt so good in his arms during that kiss. His body began to stir at the memory, and the now-familiar ache began to build in his chest. He sat heavily on one of the kitchen chairs.
Get hold of yourself, Morgan, he admonished himself. Think. What are you doing to do now?
He rubbed a hand over his face and concentrated. First, he refused to give up the hope, no, the certainty Francie would be, no, was his. Despair and desperation did not appeal to him, and after all, he did have the SMI on his side. The imperative was alive and well. If nothing else, their reactions to each other during the game proved it.
He’d honor his word and stay away from Francie. Let the imperative work on her and hope it didn’t kill him in the meantime. He didn’t like his next idea, but he’d have to ask Daria and Glori for real help. What choice did he have? Maybe a woman could get through Francie’s defenses. Besides, he’d promised to stay away, but he hadn’t said a word about his sisters. For now, should he call Daria tomorrow?
Tomorrow. Oh, damn.
Tomorrow the cops were coming early to set up for Brenner and the hacking session that evening. Brenner. What a jackass. Clay clenched and unclenched his fists and wished he could take out his frustration on the hacker’s face.
But beating up Brenner would serve no other purpose. Difficult though it may be, he’d have to be civil tomorrow. He’d better wait until Thursday night to call Daria. He’d never be calm in the evening if he had to discuss the Francie situation with Daria in the afternoon.
Clay rose, grabbed the gym bag, and walked upstairs to his bedroom. Once there, he realized there was no way in hell he could go to sleep. His body was in no mood to relax.
He changed into swim trunks, grabbed a towel, and went downstairs and out into the backyard. The night was cool, but the pool was heated. He turned on the pool lights and the motor to create a current to swim against. The well-insulated motor emitted only a quiet hum as the jets kicked the placid surfa
ce into a froth of white water.
Clay swam until he was so waterlogged he thought he’d sink. At first he’d concentrated on swimming technique, then occupied his mind with inventing curses he’d like to throw on Brenner and “Walt.”
Finally, he came to a sort of equilibrium based on the mantra, “Francie is my soul mate. Everything will be all right.” He flopped onto his bed about three in the morning and immediately slept. Mercifully dreamlessly.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Clay’s doorbell rang at eight, only fifteen minutes after he had levered himself from his bed. He ushered in Bill Childress and the police team who would install the cameras and recording equipment. Bill introduced Stan Hardy, the West University Place officer who accompanied them.
“We thought it best to involve the West U police to keep the lines of communication clear and in case we need their help,” Bill explained.
After showing the technical team his office setup, Clay left them to it and took Bill and Hardy to the kitchen for coffee.
Over cups of the life-giving brew, Bill eyed Clay and asked, “You okay?”
Just what he needed, an observant cop, Clay grimaced to himself, but hid the feeling behind his cup as he took a swallow. “Yeah, I’m okay. Hard night.”
“Anticipating Brenner? I don’t think you’ll have any problem with him.”
“Neither do I.” He definitely didn’t want to get into his problems with Francie, so he answered simply, “It’s a personal problem, but it won’t mess with what we’re doing here.”
“Fine.”
“How are things at the cop shop?”
“Pretty good. Did you see where we caught that ring of carjackers?”
“Yeah.” Clay asked some questions about the capture, and they went on to discuss local politics and sports.
Before long, the leader of the tech team, Joe Ramirez, walked in. “We’re just about set up,” he said.
“You’re welcome to coffee,” Clay said, pointing at the pot and cups he’d put out.
“Thanks.” Ramirez poured himself some and sat down. “Tonight we’re going to park the van around the corner,” he said. “In a few minutes, we’ll run a test. First, Benny and Phil will impersonate you and Brenner, and you’ll watch from the van. Then you and Bill play the parts. We’ll tape you and look at it to make sure all the angles are covered. That’s a nice setup you have up there, by the way.”
“Thanks,” Clay said.
They discussed computers until Benny stuck his head through the door. “We’re ready.”
Clay, Bill, Stan, and Joe watched and listened from the van while Phil and Benny played their parts. Clay and Bill noted camera angles and mike sensitivity. Then Clay and Bill rehearsed the scenario. Everything went smoothly, and they reviewed the tape on Clay’s TV set.
“It looks to me like the only thing you have to remember is to keep Brenner on your left side,” Bill remarked as Clay shut off the set and handed the tape to Joe.
“That won’t be hard,” Clay said. “Brenner’s due at seven. What time will you get here?”
“Around five,” Bill answered. “Just in case he’s early.”
Brenner did show up early, about fifteen minutes. Fine with him, Clay thought as he opened the door. He wanted to get it over with. “Come on in,” he told the hacker. “Up here.” He led the way up the stairs.
Brenner looked nervous, but he followed Clay with no hesitation. When they reached the office, Brenner’s eyes grew wide as he looked around. “Wow! You have some great equipment here.”
“Yeah,” Clay said. “Sit down there and don’t touch anything.” He pointed at the chair they had carefully positioned for maximum camera exposure. Brenner sat and Clay took his seat at the keyboard and large monitor.
“Do you still want me to hack into Brazos Chemical?” he asked. He knew he sounded surly, but Brenner didn’t seem to mind.
“Absolutely,” Brenner answered, but he had to swallow before he spoke.
“You’re sure Francie Stevens doesn’t know about any of this?”
Kevin smirked. “Still after her, are you? No,” he said quickly when Clay glared at him, “Francie doesn’t know a thing. Do you think I’m crazy? She’s not part of this at all.”
“What about Tamara?”
“Her neither. Especially Tamara. She turned into a real bitch, let me tell you.”
Good, Clay thought. Those statements should negate any future attempt by Brenner to implicate Francie or Tamara in this mess. “Did you bring the money?”
“Oh, yeah,” Kevin said and pulled an envelope out of his jacket pocket. He handed it over. “It’s all there, all five thousand.”
Clay took the bills out of the envelope and riffled through them, making certain the camera got a good shot. “Fine.” He returned the money to the envelope and placed it on the desk to the side.
He turned to the wide screen, which displayed a number of both large and small overlapping windows, some with graphics, some with text only. Two contained scrolling code in a bilious green type on black backgrounds. Clay was rather proud of his display, a combination of spreadsheet, word-processing, and graphics programs that looked complicated and would certainly be confusing to someone like Brenner.
“I’ve routed us around through several Web servers already.” He pointed to a couple of screens as if they belonged to the servers. “If, by some fluke, they detect us, they won’t be able to tell where we are.”
“Sounds good,” Brenner offered, nodding in agreement.
Clay hit some keys, clicked the mouse, and set off a little spell at the same time. A new window appeared with the Brazos Chemical Company logo and password fields for logging in. He filled in the fields with gibberish and a menu came up. “You want sales information, right?” He clicked around the menu, typed in some “code” into another three entry fields, and called up the fake database Herb had created. A table displayed with client names and addresses.
He snuck a glance at Brenner. The asshole’s attention was riveted on the screen.
“Holy shit. You’re good,” Brenner said, an awed expression on his face.
“Yeah, I am.” Clay flipped through another couple of windows until a panel asked for the range of customer names and other query information.
“What time period?” Clay asked.
Brenner looked confused. “What do you mean?”
“How far back in time do you want to go in the records?”
“Oh. How about six months?”
A spreadsheet-like window displayed a table entitled “Outstanding Orders” with each customer’s information. “Is this what you meant?”
“Oh, man, yeah,” Brenner whispered as if he were afraid the display would disappear with a poof. He reached a hand toward the screen and pointed down. “Can you come down the list a little lower to Middle-field Manufacturing?”
Clay scrolled the table and found the company. He glanced at Brenner.
The salesman leaned forward, eyes gleaming with greed. “Come over to the right.”
Clay followed the instructions. The products Middle-field had ordered and the prices they had paid appeared.
“Where’s the delivery charges and conditions? I need those, too. And the payment terms. Can you print any of this? This is great.” Brenner practically jumped up and down in the chair as Clay manipulated the code, and windows with the requested information came on the screen.
“Do you want the whole damn customer list? We could be here all night,” Clay grumbled.
“No,” Brenner answered and scrabbled in his jacket pocket. “Here’s who I need.” He handed a piece of paper to Clay. Twenty company names were written on it.
“Okay. Pull the sheets as they come off the printer and tell me if you’re getting what you want.” He incorporated the names into his search spell, and the screen displayed only those companies Brenner wanted. He hit two keys, and the laser printer started spitting out paper.
“Don’t forget the delivery
instructions,” Brenner said as he scanned the first pages. “Damn. This is just what I wanted.” He read another page. “Shit, we can beat these prices. They must be making the sales on the delivery terms.”
Clay finished printing the delivery and payment data. “Anything else? Say so now.”
Brenner gathered up the pages and flipped through them. “No, no, this is great. Just right. With this info, we’ll be able to steal Brazos’s customers right out from under them. Man, I can’t thank you enough.”
“You already did,” Clay said, waving the envelope with the money and putting it in his pocket. “Remember, this was a one-shot deal. I never want to see you again. And keep your mouth shut about the origin of this shit.” He shut down the windows, then the computer, and rose.
“Right.” Brenner stood, then followed Clay down the stairs. “Thanks, Morgan,” he held out his hand as he stood in the open doorway.
With disgust, Clay looked at the offered hand, but shook it anyway to play out his role. He watched the salesman climb into his car and drive away.
Within seconds the police van stopped in the spot Brenner’s car had occupied. Bill and the team came into the house. Phil and Benny went upstairs to retrieve their equipment.
“How’d we do?” Clay asked.
“Just fine,” Bill answered. “What do you think, Joe?”
“The volume and pictures came through loud and clear,” Ramirez answered. “The man incriminated himself, no question about it. I’ll have extra copies for you tomorrow.”
“Good. We’re planning on arresting him tomorrow,” Bill said.
Clay handed him the envelope. “Here’s your additional proof.”
“Thanks for your help, Clay,” the detective said. “I’ll keep you and Brazos apprised of what happens.”
After Phil and Benny came down with the cameras and microphones, Clay shook hands with the cops and watched them drive off. Thank God that was over, he thought as he closed the door. Now he could get back to his more pressing problem. He went into the house, picked up the kitchen phone, and dialed.
