We should meet.
No. No, definitely not.
They found me at the supermarket?
I was being followed. Panic struck my heart, and my breath accelerated. Relax, I schooled myself. I grabbed the note and took a lighter to it. When the ashen remains fluttered to the ground, I stomped it into the pavement. The message should be pretty clear to whoever was watching me.
I drove through thickening traffic toward the freeway. Thrash metal soothed me, Bobby Blitz serenaded me. My fingers drummed the steering wheel. I turned up the music.
Everything was going to be okay. If I kept my nose clean for a while, there wouldn't be any trouble.
As I passed a fast food place with a marquee sign, I could have sworn it read: we should meet.
Weird. I did a double take but couldn't read it in the rear view. Now I was paranoid. I sped onto the freeway, shaking my head. At the tunnel, the marquee that announced traffic jams blipped: we should meet.
I screamed with frustration, rolled down the window, and gave the sign the finger.
My own personal stalker. Not a first, but one with this much tech was unusual. I assumed only an electronic genius or someone in the Department of Transportation could hack into that sign.
I took the first exit off the freeway, did a round-about, and went back to the FBHS headquarters. I stormed like a gimp lunatic, hobbling past the gate and over the skywalk, mumbling: “Trying to entrap me? Ruin my privacy and sabotage my Lurch? Send me porn? Touch my truck? Uh-uh. Think I'll roll over and play dead? Got another thing coming! Two can play at that game. As soon as I figure out what that goddamn game is.”
The office was almost entirely dark. I stomped to Yoshino's desk and slapped my hand on top, tearing him from an online game of Dungeons and Dragons. He yelped and spilled his strawberry soda. His petite hand went to his chest like his heart would fly away if it wasn't pinned down.
“Ms. Durant? Are you back to work?”
“I need tech tracking right now.”
“Uh, sure, yep, absolutely no problem. I've got your back. Anything you want. Coincidentally, what exactly do you want?”
“Traffic control sign on the east side of the I-10 tunnel by seventh. I need to know who can access it and how someone might hack it remotely to send me a message. Any activity within the last half hour would be nice.”
I sat on his desk, crossed my arms, and tapped my fingers. He watched me fidget.
“Uh, you're going to wait here?”
“Yep.”
“Oh.” He paused. “Did I mention I don't work well under stress?”
“Did I mention I'm in the mood to punch someone?”
His fingers snapped back to the keyboard and flowed in a blur. He sipped his soda, devoured a lollipop, and brachiated through the electronic kingdom like Tarzan. My anxious energy wound down to practically nothing. The morphine chip took the edge off my pain and anger.
Finally Yoshino rubbed the back of his neck and said, “The sign was remotely accessed. No IP signature or traceable lines. Whoever did it knows how to get in and out quickly.”
“No trail of breadcrumbs?”
“Doesn't seem to be. I can work on it.”
“How can someone commandeer a street sign from a home computer?”
“Good math skills.”
“Seriously? That's it? No hardware necessary? No one has to physically flip a switch or turn a screw?”
“Well, math is the short answer. Knowing how to get into the system, navigate once inside, and maintain a homogenous stream of code requires crazy-intense math and computer coding skills.”
“Homogenous?”
“A good virus convinces the parent system that the foreign body is another portion of its own code. This particular string of math wove flawlessly into a system. With frayed edges of the code, we could identify unique markers and trace the virus to a tech personality. This one, however…the system must have accepted the virus and erased the string when prompted. Unless there’s an unraveled equation somewhere, I have little chance of tracing such expertly-inserted code. Sorry. I'll keep at it if you want.”
“Thanks, but this has a distinctly hopeless feel.”
“Sorry,” he said. “Maybe if you tell me what the sign said, we could figure out a different angle of approach.”
“Nah, it’s probably nothing.”
And I don’t want my tech guy investigating my piracy.
I tucked my hands in my pockets and strolled toward my truck. How could someone remotely access and commandeer electronic infrastructure? That's close to magic in my book, and I hate untouchable stuff.
Untouchable?
I paused, spun on my heel, and stomped down to forensics. I ached and burned with pain, frustration, anger, and an utter lack of humor.
“Get me a print kit.”
They obeyed without a hesitation and looked relieved when I left. I dusted the truck's mirror where the sticky note had been. Eureka: three partial prints, hopefully not mine. I did a happy dance in the parking garage, one that involved a lot of hopping and minimal arm movement. Damn injuries. I took the prints to the office and paused by the vending machine to buy a strawberry soda. Back at Yoshino's desk, I handed him the cold can.
“Thanks for your help. Would you mind running these prints?”
“Sure.” His fingers brushed mine and left him sheepish. I quickly went away. Back in my office, I pulled video surveillance from the grocery store to see if anyone had approached my truck. The trouble was I couldn't even see my truck. Full view of the lot, but my truck wasn't in it. I compared the time printed on my receipt to the time stamp on the video. Something was missing, like I'd never been there. Someone had played with the camera's memory. They covered their tracks so well that Yoshino couldn't find their code, but left missing time stamps on security video that even I would see. He was rubbing my face in it.
My personal terrorist had major talent and was a braggart. Wonderful.
My gut ached like a mutt was munching on it.
Go home and sleep, I thought.
Morphine clung like a swampy film inside my veins and clouded my mind like miasma. Chills took me randomly, cravings rode me constantly. Like a drug-hyped bull stomping the crap out of a slow-ass rodeo clown. I needed...a meeting. Though I loathed to go. Margret might assign me another useless sponsor. Or worse yet, someone else I might have to kill.
Like Juan.
I needed to know that I wasn't as miserable as I could be. Anything to guilt me out of taking the Oxycontin which I was too stubborn and weak to throw in the garbage.
I hefted screaming muscles and wailing ribs into the truck and drove to the community center. A chill nipped my throat. I pulled the hood over my head and wrapped my hair around my throat to hide some scars. I was tired. Without anger spurring me on, I felt horribly weak. Pain set in and cinched tight. Breathing was a trial on my ribs. My journey from the truck to the building was full of unladylike grunting and groaning.
Usually the back row was deserted and I had space to myself, but not tonight. Full house. I grabbed a pastry and eased into a metal chair equidistant between two young men.
Margret stood front and center. Tears illuminated her eyes as she recalled the time she woke from a bender to find her son unconscious. She assumed he had been beaten senseless by his stepfather, who had a habit of doing such things, only to learn she was the one who throttled him. CPS took the boy and even the cat, too, because she was deemed unfit. Now her son and ex-husband lived together, sharing drugs and occasionally landing in the hospital.
If she could rise above that, wasn't there hope for everyone? An impossible question. Obviously, I didn't believe everyone could be redeemed. My lack of faith enabled me to kill Juan. He hadn't shed but I shot him anyway. Judge, jury, executioner. I accepted the trinity of power that came with the job, but rarely was it so...premeditated.
Was I experiencing guilt? Ugh. I hope not. That would be messy.
I bit into th
e sticky pastry. It reminded me of Ms. Crowley, my fake grandma story, and the mucked remains of her body. After all the love she poured onto those boys, in the end it didn't matter.
She trusted too much.
I didn't see the disease fast enough.
We let her die.
That, too, was my fault.
A scurrying like miniscule feet tickled my belly. Guilt felt like a mutant centipede, a sensation awfully similar to the feeling of being watched.
A bald white dude with Aryan nation tats sat to my left, staring like I should bring him a cup of coffee and go back to the kitchen. Maybe he recognized me. Maybe I should go. On my other side, a hipster slouched, wearing a wool cap, a scarf, and tight striped pants. He cast uneasy glances my way. I zipped my sweatshirt up to my chin and stood to leave.
The neo-Nazi grabbed my arm. “Kaidlyn Durant.”
“Uh, nope. I'm Kate. Just Kate. Long time listener, first time caller.”
“What?”
“Not the droid you're looking for. Let me go now.”
“Better do as she says, dude,” the hipster said. “She's got a gun.”
The offender dropped my arm.
“Lady, I'm trying to congratulate you,” he said. “What you do is God-ordained. Plus, you have the highest mutt kill rate of all female FBHS agents. Righteous. The eradication of bestial diseases is a primary step toward the greater America. We must clean the filth off the streets and keep our bloodlines pure. First the mutts, then the niggers and spics and Jews. We're on the path toward cleansing this nation.”
“Filth?” the hipster said, voice shrill. “Lykos are a gift from supreme Mother Nature to give us a respect for the wild, pure forces. The poor treatment of animals is the main reason we can't stop the hatred and wars in this world. If we can't love the earth and all its blessed occupants, how can we hope to accomplish anything of value? This country won't be at peace until it demands total animal liberation.”
While the Nazi and the PETA dude bickered, I tried to sneak away before anyone noticed. Wishful thinking. The supremacist pointed at me.
“She's a hero. Despite her weakness of gender, she made a stand against the contamination of our race.”
He put his tattooed finger into the hipster's face, jabbing him forcefully in the nose. The surprisingly fearless animal activist stood and yelled right back.
“This woman slaughters innocent animals because the corporations who run this country are too greedy to give Nature the respect she deserves!”
Everyone in the room stared at me.
Hands up, I said, “You both are crazy. Stone cold nuts. I've seen the silly propaganda from both your parent organizations and all I can say is: wow. Y'all need a hobby and a role model. Preferably not someone who campaigned a genocide or advocated sex with animals. Time to grow up. And when it comes to mutts, some of them behave more humanely than either of you. Have a good night, you bat-shit loons.” The Nazi sneered and advanced. I promised, “Touch me and I'll kill you.”
With that, I limped away.
“You been told by a gimp druggie bitch,” someone said.
“Shut up, fag,” the Nazi retorted.
I heard whump whump behind me and turned, my hand sliding under my sweatshirt to find my weapon. Margret screeched at the sight of the gun harness. I settled my clothing and continued retreating. She followed anyway. Brave or daft?
“Kate, wait. Did you hear what happened to Juan?”
This was definitely one of those from-bad-to-worse days.
“Something happened to Juan?”
“He was murdered during a break-in.”
Gasp! “No!”
Who was I to say differently? Why sour Margret's memory of him by mentioning the disease?
“We're having a small funeral service,” she said. “You can give the eulogy.”
“Oh, I really don't think that would be appropriate.”
“Please, step into my office,” she said.
“You have an office?”
“Not really, but a few moderators have the code to the copy machine.”
I walked into a small office where she closed the door and cornered me.
“Kate, dear. Despite all the crap and crud he dealt with in his few short years, Juan was a good young man. Bless his soul. His unfortunate death proves how precious life is. If we can't express love for his memory, we're only hurting ourselves.”
“That right there was a great eulogy. You've got this in the bag.”
“C'mon, Kate. Without you and me, well, no one knew him like us.”
“I didn't know him.” Only killed him.
“Say a few words,” she begged. “Only a few. I know you're shy.”
Shy? Guilty was the appropriate term.
“Margret, I can't. I won't. Take your pick.”
“I'm very disappointed in you, young lady,” she said, hands on hips and tears in her eyes.
“I understand completely.”
I stormed from the community center and stomped toward my truck, planning a quick escape to the nearest coffee shop. Or bar.
What was wrong with me? No reason to panic. Anxiety and pain, combined with Juan's funeral guilt-trip, formed a tornado of negative energy about to touch down and do damage. If I gave into the liquor temptation now, I'd be in the bottle for days.
Clearly I couldn't return to this support group. Fine. I still hadn't managed step one anyway.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. I was too sore and tired to care.
Of course, I was the idiot who parked in the back of a dark lot and had to limp across the distance. God, I needed a break, a vacation, time to relax and…what? Maybe take the bike on the road? No nosy coworkers, invasive cameras, nagging neighbors, pensive rehab coaches, or infected sponsors with a scalding theory of life.
I'd settle for my go-to speed vacation: a bubble bath and an extra cup of coffee in the morning.
My damn phone wouldn't stop its wretched buzzing. I yanked it from my pocket and pushed the button to shut it up. I reached out to unlock the truck door. The phone screeched, vibrating like it was trying to start a fire. Persistent demon technology. I opened the truck door, smacked the phone screen, and read a text.
THERE IS A MAN UNDER YOUR TRUCK WITH A KNIFE.
My heart whupped my chest.
A hand grabbed my ankle.
“Eeeek!”
The phone went flying. I grabbed the steering wheel and clung to my truck for dear life. Pain shot through my ribs. The wounds on my ass and loins torqued and burned.
Couldn't think, wallowing in a moment of sheer surprise. Busted ribs made it hard to catch my breath, which heightened my panic.
The assaulting hand nearly yanked me down. Strong. I couldn't spare a hand to draw a weapon. I looked down to see a tattooed hand with a pig-sticker. Blade slashed my boot. Bit skin. I screamed and kicked with my spare foot. Smashed his knuckles. He lost his grip.
I wormed into the driver's seat, started the truck, and stomped on the gas. The vehicle shot forward with a surge of power. A scream carried over the sound of the revving engine, but I didn't feel an appropriately big thump. I put the truck in reverse, checked the mirror, and floored it. The assailant hit my tailgate and passed beneath the undercarriage. Tires squished the offending lump.
I put the truck in drive and surged forward. Hit legs. A broken mass flopped out of my path. A blood-soaked, dismembered torso. Bald, flattened head. I watched, expecting a horror-movie resurrection. He didn't get up.
Damn Nazi.
Blood trickled inside my boot. The pain in my ankle agitated the rage I felt at being ambushed by a human. I parked, limped out, hissed as my foot hit the ground, and pulled a gun. Half-hopping to the body, I leaned against the truck and fired several bullets into him.
Shooting him made me feel better.
Overkill, surely, since he didn't have an ounce of life in him. I hobbled to the fallen knife and kicked it under my truck. I retrieved my phone. The warning texts ha
d come from an unknown number. A centipede sensation crept back into my stomach.
The phone buzzed with a new message.
We should meet.
Screaming, I threw down the phone and tried to stomp it to pieces, but it was more of a hop-shuffle-thump of frustration. My older wounds burned, ribs seized like a fist. The morphine chip activated. I limped around my new truck and inspected it for damage: not a scratch nor a bump underneath the blood. Oh, happy day.
A small crowd gathered around the perimeter of the lump on the pavement and pointed at the three-meter smear of road kill leading to my vehicle. No one asked if I was okay. Someone took a picture. So much for a discrete, anonymous AA meeting.
I plopped down on the asphalt, set the gun on the ground between my legs, and removed my boot. The knife hadn't done much damage, but without the leather biker boots, he would have severed my Achilles.
I'd never wear flip flops ever again.
Sirens muffled the hum of the crowd. I put up the gun and pulled my tag to the outside of my sweatshirt. PD arrived at the scene. The middle-aged officer maneuvered his gut out of the squad car and lumbered over.
“Higgins,” I said.
“Busy night.” He pushed thick glasses up his nose and surveyed the damage. “What happened here?”
“Douchebag hid under my truck. Tried to cut me down and pull me under. Rude. I had to back over him a few times.”
“A few?”
“Just to make sure.”
“And the bullets in his busted throat?”
“Making double sure.”
“God, Durant.” He examined the blood smear. “Only you could ruin that jelly doughnut I have waiting for me.”
“You're such a cliché, Higgins.”
“I was on a legitimate coffee break, missy. Believe it or not, this grab-the-ankle maneuver is fairly common.”
“Yeah, in every horror movie.”
“A string of similar incidents occurred in the ruins of Detroit. After the city disbanded, women were scarce so men would hide under a car, slice the girl's Achilles, and then drag her away to a remote place for an old-fashioned gang rape followed by indentured servitude.”
“Well, this was different.”
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