Hot Mic!

by Jamie Collins

  Chapter 61

  Grant Leary was a geek-faced all-star jock-monkey with perfect teeth and privileges directly linked to his Neanderthal talent for moving the ball when it mattered most. But mysteriously shrinking attendance records, and erratic and excessive tardiness showed a different view of the ace superstar. A regretful and steadily plunging GPA over the past many months now caused his junior-year transcripts to read like a tragic trilogy, as his hopes for scoring a paid scholarship to Carolina State plummeted like a bad stock.

  All without so much as a flinch of hesitation, Eric worked his plan with exact precision, bringing down the six-foot-four star linebacker with several well-placed keystrokes and the click of a mouse.

  But that was only step one of his plan. Leary was a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and fancied Melissa Gates for his wife—one of his wives, no doubt—lusting for her as did most every other red-blooded guy in school. Eric seethed. He would never have her! Never!

  Rumor in the halls had the two slated as sure bets for King & Queen of Harrisburg High School’s junior prom. Such ceremonious unions only led to no good, as far as Eric was concerned. He would have to stop it from happening—at any and all costs.

  For the sole purpose of incriminating the meathead jock, Eric sent an encoded email to Principal Steller, under the guise of being a concerned student. Eric downloaded all of his own letters and poems, along with an anonymous tip warning Steller of the “troubled” student, Grant Leary’s, threatening alter-ego behavior toward the school, further claiming that Leary was plotting to strike in retaliation against the administration for “botching” up his records.

  Eric typed the warning in boldface letters across the screen, I WOULD NOT PUT ANYTHING PAST THIS LUNITIC . . . HE IS A THREAT TO OUR STUDENTS AND FACULTY!

  In a flash, he sent the damaging lies across the Internet to Steller’s desktop. But, unbeknownst to him, the slanderous fated message had also been copied to Hannah’s computer—sent with a batch of attachments previously forwarded to her at the radio station. All of the attached files forwarded both to Principal Steller as well as to the radio station now appeared on Jon Novotny’s screen as he was perusing Hannah’s messages one last time before the end of the day, as was his usual practice.

  The files were all meticulously altered to be untraceable—with the exception of one—the one that Eric overlooked in haste—still tagged with his full name printed next to his bogus email address: Eric Johansson.

  A quick succession of clicks and Jon was able to locate the I.P. address from the errant email leading to the culprit’s location somewhere in Harrisburg, PA.

  “Gottcha! You little bastard!” Jon exclaimed when he realized what had happened, nearly knocking over his coffee in the process.

  Chapter 62

  The phone in Hannah’s hotel room rang unanswered on the bedside nightstand. Jon Novotny fidgeted on the other end of the line with nervous energy. For some reason, her cellphone was gong straight to voice mail. “C’mon, Hannah. Be there . . . be there.”

  No answer. Hannah was immersed in the soothing torrent of powerful shower jets, pounding away the tension of too many months measure. Her dead-as-a-doorknob iPhone had not been charged in too many hours sitting at the hospital with no cell service. She had not thought to recharge it in the wake of the events in the past twelve hours.

  There was still no answer twenty minutes later, when Jon tried her hotel room, yet again.

  Hannah finally emerged from the shower. A no-nonsense type, she gave her face a quick dusting of translucent powder, dabbed on some lip gloss, and a swipe of blush. She slipped into a pair of comfortable jeans, donned a cotton blouse, slipped into leopard print pumps, and gave herself a finishing spritz of Channel No. 5. In ten minutes flat she was out the door—her still-dead cell phone in her purse.

  Hannah met Peter in the hotel restaurant for convenience and ease. They both needed a good meal, but Peter was loath to eat much of it, understandably. They had planned a swift, public goodbye that would be sealed with the signing of the divorce documents, a few more unavoidable tears, and the mutual promise to maintain utmost respect for each other and unwavering love and continued commitment for the well-being of their children and grandchildren.

  Peter agreed to attend therapy sessions with a colleague at Hannah’s insistence, as was outlined in the divorce decree. She knew that he would need it. She would have sole custody of Olivia, who was still in high school, and he, responsibility for her college tuition and fees.

  Hannah’s determination to bring closure to everything was only further fueled by the confusion and bitterness she felt by Peter’s deep sorrow and distraction over losing Anthony, his lover of over ten years, compared to the cogency of their marriage of thirty-eight years—a contrast that utterly consumed her at the very moment. It was evident that this final step was well overdue. The time had come for Hannah, and for Peter, to start their new lives . . . to move on.

  Hannah returned well after eleven to the hotel room to find the message light on the desk phone flashing. She puzzled and then reached for her smartphone. It was dead, and she chastised herself for not having noticed. She had been unreachable for how long? Quickly, she found the cord and plugged it into the wall and then to the phone. She checked her messages to see if Olivia had been trying to reach her. Thankfully, she had not, but there were dozens of text messages from Jon Novotny. She dialed the front desk, kicking off her shoes and settling onto the bed.

  “This is Dr. Hannah Courtland-Murphy. I believe I have a message?”

  “Yes, Dr. Hannah—a Jon Novotny has been trying to reach you. Please, contact him right away. He says it’s urgent.”

  She contemplated the time. Eleven thirty-eight. Couldn’t it wait? What on earth was it now? Her work followed her everywhere! It was more than she could take sometimes. Considering her important meeting in the morning, she feared that maybe there had been a change in plans with Global Network, so she scrolled through her contact list for Jon’s cell number.

  “Hannah—?”

  “Whoa, Jon. Is everything okay?”

  “It’s psycho-boy—he emailed you. Only it wasn’t exactly intended for you. He copied us inadvertently on a transmission to a Principal Steller.”

  “Yeah, so . . . ?”

  “This has got to be a kid! His name is Eric Johansson. He’s a student.”

  “I knew it!” Hannah stood straight up. Her instincts were rarely wrong. “Did you track down where he lives? What school?”

  “I pulled a few strings in research, and they tracked the principal’s email address, and you’re not going to believe this—he’s close, Hannah. He’s in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. But it’s his personal email address and home phone number. No idea what school.”

  “That’s about a hundred miles from here,” Hannah calculated. All the while she was talking to Jon, she was fumbling with the electrical cord from her laptop, which was also dead. Finally, she successfully plugged it into the wall outlet and booted up. She positioned the screen in the dim light on top of the bed. Manipulating the tiny mouse tracker, she navigated her way into her email files and opened the document.

  “I think I see it. There! I got it . . . it says it’s from a Grant Leary?”

  Jon explained, “Look at the return address. It’s from our wonder-boy, all right. He forwarded all the others under the alias, Grant Leary. His real name is Eric Johansson.”

  She scanned the message. The threatening words sent prickly chills right through her.

  “He says he’s going to waste the enemy in fiery flames . . . all Dragons die by my might . . .. Why on earth would he be pretending to be this guy Grant Leary? I don’t get it. Good call, Jon. Whatever this means, I’m sure the principal would love to know about it.”

  Jon paused. He knew that he had already impressed her with his savvy detective work, but why st
op there?

  “Want me to send this Stellar an email? Give him the heads-up on this thing?”

  “No—no need to that. I think I’ll take it from here.” She sighed. “I’ll reach out to him in the morning on my way to the airport and forward the rest of the email documents to him, so the school counselors handle things from there. I’m sure it’s just an elaborate prank. A rivalry between two students or something. Forward me Steller’s home phone number and email address, will you?”

  “I’ll do it right away . . . ”

  “Great job—really. You are quite the detective!”

  “No problem, Doc. It’s all in a day’s work. And hey, best of luck tomorrow at the signing.”

  “Thanks, Jon. Goodnight.”

  Sleepily, she climbed into bed and perused the file containing the messages that Eric had sent her over the last several months, including the most recent ones he had forwarded under the name “Grant Leary.” She frowned when she re-read the trail of bitter angst and threatening promises of doom. What was this guy capable of? she wondered. Here was an obviously brilliant but disillusioned young man. But why? Why was he doing all this? And why did he choose her to turn to, yet never give himself an outlet for her to help? Perhaps, she reasoned, this twist of fate was a way that she could, after all, help Eric. Notifying the principal was the least she could do for him. He was obviously crying out for help.

  She drifted asleep and dreamt of herself being caught in a labyrinth of school hallways. There were hospital beds engulfed in flames and people screaming and running in all directions. She felt herself running blindly in the heat, exhausted, confused, and frightened. Off in the distance, she could see Peter . . . fading farther and farther from view in the thick, wafting smoke. School bells and sirens rang, louder and louder, drowning out her voice as she called out to him—“Peter!”

  In an instant, he was gone. And the giant dragons were upon her.

  Chapter 63

  “NO!” She bolted straight up in bed, panting. A cold sweat sprang from her forehead as she sat, shivering in the darkness, disoriented and wet with perspiration. The alarm clock on the desk loomed five a.m. and was blaring. The nightmare, which quickly slipped into the half-light, was one hell of a wake-up call, she thought, turning off the alarm.

  She steadied herself and slid from the covers. Parting the heavy hotel drapes, she looked out the window. It was gray and overcast. Hopefully, she would make it out of Philadelphia before it stormed. The news had been predicting more rain all week across the coast. Autumn was coming fast.

  She shook the disturbing dream from her consciousness. She had to. It was, among other things, the first official day of the rest of her life as an unmarried woman now, with Peter’s signature having sealed the deal. That would take some getting used to. And secondly, it was also the day of her signing with Global Network. It truly was a day of “firsts.” She had to pull herself together fast and shift gears for the morning ahead. Her flight was at eight o’clock. Marney would positively crucify her if she was late for the most important deal of her life.

  Heavily, she moved across the room, clicked on the morning news, and then headed for the bathroom for an invigorating shower. Steam and soap would do their magic.

  She turned on the water jets, adjusted the temperature just right, and stepped into the full force of the pulsating water jets.

  In less than an hour, Hannah would be on her way to New York. It would be a short flight to La Guardia, where Marney would be waiting for her with a car. She chose to wear the navy blue Prada pantsuit and sensible Italian pumps with matching Chanel scarf because it always made her feel powerful and confident to coordinate from head to toe, and any shade of blue was an asset to her light complexion and honey-blond hair. She removed her wedding band from her left hand to her right ring finger and added a gold bangle to her wrist. A flat gold crucifix on a thin chain gleamed against her neck. She was ready.

  Outside, the skies were menacing, but she checked in with the airport and all flights were on time. She hung up with United Airlines and then phoned the number that Jon had given her the night before for the principal. She had a few minutes before her Uber car would arrive.

  A young woman answered.

  “Yes—Principal Stellar, please,” Hannah said into her now fully charged phone.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. Mr. Stellar is out of town. He is expected back on Monday. Would you care to leave a message?”

  Hannah shouldered her carry-on bag. “No. Tell me, though, can Mr. Stellar retrieve his email from where he is?”

  “No, I’m afraid not,” the woman replied. “He’s camping in Quarryville with his family. I’m the pet sitter. He’s asked to have all of his calls sent to text or voice mail. He’ll check them when he gets cell service.”

  Hannah paused, then asked. “Would you happen to know which school Mr. Steller works at?”

  The woman hedged. “No, I’m sorry. I do think it’s a high school, though. Just not sure which one.”

  “Thank you,” Hannah said. “I’m sure it can wait until he returns. No message.” Then she hung up.

  Stellar never got the email messages in the first place, Hannah deduced. The phony “Grant Leary” transmissions were still stored in his queue!

  She thought in a fleeting moment of instinct and wished that she could have connected with someone at the school who was connected to Eric Johansson, just as the app sounded with the arrival of her car. It was time to go.

  She shook her head. Enough of this kid and his shenanigans! She had to catch her flight. She would make a note to call Stellar on Monday and pass on the whole ordeal to the people it concerned.

  Grabbing her laptop and briefcase, she headed out the door, leaving the television, which had been muted, still on with its images of the macabre drama in Harrisburg from the night before continuing to unfold in horrifying and vivid detail.

  Hannah tried phoning the radio station from the terminal. A weak signal prevented connection on the other end of her cell phone until she got to the gate, where she sent Olivia a quick text asking her to wish her luck with the signing, along with a few heart emojis and the Woman Scientist emoji, which always made Olivia smile. She would be just heading to her first class of the day, AP Biology. Olivia was her little genius in the making, and she always gave her daughter all the support she could, even though, academically, she didn’t need it.

  Hannah then started to dial Jon at the radio station, but remembered that they were all in the morning staff meeting for another half hour. She figured that she would call him once she had arrived at La Guardia.

  The airline attendant called for early boarding. Traveling first-class had the decisive disadvantage of being on display as a cabin full of gaping passengers filed by on their way to business coach. She would wait. Once on board, she would order a mimosa to calm her nerves.

  She stayed seated in the terminal, flipped open her laptop, and clicked onto her email. Her pulse quickened as she read the subject line—it was a new message from Eric Johansson. And this time, he was finally responding to her directly!

  She stared in disbelief at the subject line and finally clicked on it to open the contents. Time stood still as the venomous words burned on the screen: BITCH—HELP ME? WHEN DRAGONS DIE! HOW ABOUT TODAY? KA-BOOM!!! KEEP WATCHING . . .

  What in the world did he mean by keep watching? What was he trying to tell her?

  She waited as the passengers for her flight filed onto the jetway—mostly businessmen in suits. Then, a jarring hush came over the terminal as all eyes became riveted to the suspended television screens all around.

  Hannah puzzled, then gasped when she felt a hand clamp down on her shoulder, nearly causing her to jump out of her skin as she stood up.

  “Hannah! It’s me!”

  She shot around to find Jon standing behind her with a backpack slung on his shoulder.
He was panting, half-winded, having just run from his arrival gate clear across the terminal. He was breathing so hard he was bent in two.

  “What on earth? Jon . . . what are you doing here?”

  “I just flew in—obviously you have seen the news, right?” he said, gesturing to the television monitors pulsating with the continuing breaking story, which was scrolling across the bottom of the screen.

  The bloody massacre, which occurred at a residence overnight, was caused by a suspected homemade bomb that had been detonated in the basement, killing a family of five. The reporter went on, “Authorities have been on the scene since daybreak, just now beginning the removal of the charred bodies from the cindered rubble . . . ”

  “There . . . there’s been an explosion,” he panted. “It’s all over the networks.” He checked her face. “Jesus, are you just seeing this now? A bomb went off in a house last night in Harrisburg. Everyone inside sleeping was killed. Hannah—it was Grant Leary’s family.”

  “Oh my God!” Hannah’s legs collapsed, giving out beneath her. Jon grabbed her arm just before she fell. “I didn’t know.” Then, she paled. “Jon, what if—?”

  “That’s exactly what I am thinking. Didn’t sleep all night. I caught a red-eye here, figuring . . . ”

  “Oh my God! Eric Johansson emailed me not twenty minutes ago,” Hannah breathed, closing her laptop and gathering up her things. “He had a warning. He told me that he hasn’t even gotten started yet! You don’t think . . . ?”