Painful Truths

by Brian Spangler

  “Playing poker?” I asked, clearing my throat. I’d shown my cards to his bluff, showing I wasn’t much of a poker player. I chewed on my upper lip—another nervous tell.

  “I’m a cop, Amy—I’m always playing poker,” he answered in that same stony voice he’d used on the train platform.

  It was my turn to laugh, and I let out a guffaw that turned the heads at the counter. His lips thinned and he sat up, air squelching from the booth’s seat. I’d embarrassed him. Good.

  “You’re no more a cop than I am,” I told him. “You don’t even dress like a cop.”

  As if he knew I’d measured him up, Garrett ran his hands down the front of his suit jacket and then pushed his hair back in a single motion. He was good at looking rich, but I’d put him on the defensive.

  “You’re right again,” he agreed. “Call that two for two—but you’ll never guess the third.”

  “Right about what exactly?”

  “I’m not really a cop,” he said and then rocked his head from side to side. “Technically I am, but I haven’t worked as one for a very long time. That’s what happens when you marry rich. Very rich.”

  As he talked, I fixed my coffee with a touch of creamer, watched a swirly galaxy come into being, and wished I could disappear into my cup.

  “My wife’s family? They’re rich. Me? I just get an allowance.”

  “Must be some allowance,” I muttered, pointing to his $1,000 suit. “You don’t seem to have a problem spending her money.”

  He sipped his soda and cringed. “That’s not diet,” he said, complaining. He motioned to the waitress.

  But the soda wasn’t really the problem. I’d struck a nerve about the money.

  “Awww,” I continued in a snarky voice. “Mommy not giving you a big enough allowance?” I made sure to use my most condescending tone.

  “Shut it about that,” he scolded, the color in his face flaring. “Whole family spends like there’s no tomorrow, and I marry a philanthropist. Should’ve married her slut sister.”

  I thought I’d lose it. I thought I’d laugh as loud as I could, poke at his pride like a finger prodding an open wound. And while my insides came alive, I held back, keeping my composure. He had something on me, and I needed him to finish what he started. “Oh poor you. I can tell you’re suffering.”

  Ms. Potts came to our table, bringing back a ghost of her smile, noticing the evidence bag had disappeared from the table. “Ready to order something?” she asked, pushing the thick frame of her glasses up her nose. “Breakfast, lunch or dinner—any time of the day.” The smell of chicken and waffles nagged at me. My earlier hunger pangs were still with me.

  Just a bite, I thought. Just something to put in my stomach.

  “Could I get some fries?”

  “And more coffee?” she asked.

  “Yes, thank you.” I glanced at Garrett, who’d started to fidget, annoyed with his soda.

  “And for you?” she asked. Her smile paled while she waited.

  “Could I just get some diet soda?” he asked, sounding unsettled. He picked up his glass and perched it on the end of the table. “This is regular.”

  “Right away,” Ms. Potts answered, taking the glass without looking down. She shot me a grin before leaving us alone again.

  “Why am I here?” I asked, growing impatient. “You’ve got an evidence bag. So what? As far as you know, it means nothing.”

  “And that would be number three,” he answered, with confidence returning to his voice. “Must be driving you mad.”

  “Get on with it,” I blurted, but lowered my tone. I shifted in my seat, the air trapped under the vinyl moving around as I went back on the defensive. I glanced at my phone to check the time, making sure he noticed. I wanted him to think I still had other plans for the day. “Well . . ?”

  “I know what you’ve been doing—”

  I shook my head without letting him finish. “I—”

  He raised his hand. “I’ve been following the links for a while now—shopping, you might say. Just another Deep Web customer. So imagine my surprise when I found you on the other end of those links. Then again, given the family history, maybe I shouldn’t be surprised at all.”

  “Book publishing. E-book publishing,” I said, choosing to ignore the comment about my mother. “My company is called Team Two. You can look us up, we’re incorporated. I’ll even give you the website address.”

  At some point, I’d lost him. He’d dropped his chin to search his phone—a giant tablet thing that reminded me of Nerd’s.

  “I’m talking about this,” he said, sliding his phone across the table.

  On the screen, I saw Nerd’s software, listing all the cases we’d taken. My mouth went dry, but I hid my reaction. And though my coffee had grown cold, I drank it anyway.

  “And how am I supposed to know what I’m looking at?”

  “We’re not talking about some homeless man here,” he answered, letting out a gruff laugh. Ms. Potts’s shoe chirped, announcing her return. She placed the basket of fries between us and freshened my coffee. I could only stare at the basket of food—my appetite had been swallowed by nerves.

  “Better?” she asked Garrett, waiting for him to try his soda. He offered a cursory glance and took the glass.

  “Yes,” he answered without looking up. But when Ms. Potts didn’t move, he gave her an annoyed smile and added, “Thank you.”

  When we were alone again, I told him, “If we’re done here . . .” and made like I was going to leave. “You’re wasting my time.”

  “Is that right? Well, you—you and whoever else works at ‘Team Two’—are going to murder my wife for me.”

  “What—” I began to ask, sitting down.

  He turned back to his phone again, waving his hand, dismissing whatever I was about to say. He flicked the screen with a scrape of his finger, and in his eyes I saw a blue reflection: a video. The corners of his mouth curled up like they had on the train’s platform. I felt sick.

  “While I’ve got all of your online activities documented—illegal purchases, murder solicitation, and whatnot—I also wanted to make a stronger case, but not for the DA. For me. For a little extortion.”

  “Videos?” I asked.

  My first thought was to have Nerd hack the shit out of Garrett’s computer and phone. My second was to have Nerd hack his online existence, killing him. By the time we were done, Garrett wouldn’t exist—virtually, that is.

  “They’re terrific, really. It’s amazing what you can do with phones today. But I’ll let you be the judge,” he continued, turning his phone around to face me. “Tell me, does this qualify as e-book research?”

  On his phone, I saw a frumpy figure emerge from the corner of the screen. And although the video was shaky and the quality blotchy, I could make out Ghoul pacing back and forth. I realized that Garrett must have been sitting in the diner that day. Maybe even in the same booth we were sitting in just then.

  The video panned to the small alcove across the street and showed the soft outline of a figure against the wall, hiding. It was me, but the quality was so poor Garrett could only be speculating that. A moment later, his phone showed a handful of lightning plunging into Ghoul’s chest, dropping him to his knees, the blue flash following like a trail of smoke. I turned away from the phone and stared out the diner’s window.

  Night was coming, and the tall window reflected my face in a fluorescent silhouette. When I focused beyond the glass, I couldn’t even see the alcove amid the storefronts across the street. The skyline had turned the color of a bruise, leaving just the outlines of the buildings visible in the dusky light. They looked like a row of crooked teeth—with a diamond inset shining back at me. It was Garrett’s phone, now playing a video of Messenger. The pixelated face of a woman was visible in the backseat of the taxi. The taxi’s door swung open, and the bike messenger crashed violently, breaking his neck. And in the slanting glare of sunlight, the video showed me rushing across the busy
street and disappearing into the city’s subway. The video of Messenger’s death was clear enough—that was my face.

  A motorcycle flew past the diner in a gray blur, the sound of its exhaust pipes clapping the air with a throaty growl. The noise was enough to break my trance, and I glared at him.

  “What do you really want?” I wasn’t going to try denying anything. He had enough evidence to prosecute.

  I’d begun to sweat—a nervous and angry, hot sweat that stung the back of my neck. For Garrett’s safety, I had to turn away. I thought if I looked at him, I’d throw myself across the table and gouge the smugness out of his eyes. Instead, I started focusing on things inside the diner—the booths, the counter, the toasters, and the cook behind the grill. His broad shoulders rocked up and down to the faint sound of a seventies tune playing on an AM radio.

  “Like I said, you’re going to kill my wife,” Garrett answered without looking around, without worrying about someone overhearing him. He shifted in his seat to make his suit jacket fall open just enough for me to see his gun. “I have to admit, I would’ve never found you if not for that great bit of software. Unique. Very good. Came upon it quite by accident. Didn’t know a thing about the Deep Web or what was out there—it’s a playground, you know. Amazing find for people like me. Crazy what you can order for a few bitcoins. Drugs, weapons . . . women too, or men, if that’s how you take your eggs. All kinds—”

  “Who else?” I asked, shutting him up, wanting to know if anyone was working with him. “And what do I get in return?”

  “It’s just me,” he said. “As for what you get . . . How about my silence?”

  I couldn’t trust him to be silent. I couldn’t trust that he’d want just this one thing. There’d be more demands. But more than that, I could never go through with it, never even consider it.

  His wife—his philanthropist wife—would be missed.

  “Your silence isn’t going to cut it—you’re treading water in the deep end,” I told him, lowering my voice, trying to sound threatening.

  On the inside, I was terrified. Sweat covered my skin and my face was on fire. I finished my coffee, steadying the shake in my hand, and let the silence stretch on until it became uncomfortable. We were playing poker again, and he was waiting for me to fold.

  I motioned to his jacket with a flick of my chin. He raised his brow, and I nodded until he took the evidence bag out. “I’ll consider those as a down payment. Nothing is free. And I’ll let you know what the fee is.”

  “Well, aren’t you all business?” he answered, dangling the evidence bag from the end of his fingers. I seized his hand, closing my fist around the bag like a prize and twisting my grip on his fingers until he grimaced. He fought to hold on as though we were arm wrestling, but then let go of the bag. “Okay, then! A down payment.”

  “You don’t know what you’re fucking with!” I scolded with a rasp in my voice. I stood up to leave, slapping the basket of fries and sending them across the table.

  Ms. Potts caught the commotion, her expression asking if I needed help. The cook circled the counter to join her, coming into full view: a tall, muscular man wearing a grease-stained apron and gripping a spatula like a hammer. He stared intently in my direction, ready for a signal to jump in and help. I met their eyes, gave them a look that said “I’m fine,” and then turned back to find Garrett picking the fries off his jacket. His face was full of disgust.

  I leaned over and nearly touched his nose with mine. The smell of his cologne mixed with fries turned my stomach. I held my breath and added, “I don’t care what you have, but threaten me again and I’ll kill you.”

  “What, no ketchup?” he asked, puckering his lips and blowing me a kiss before laughing.

  At that moment, I really thought I could kill him. I backed away though, and gave Ms. Potts a final look, telling her I was leaving.

  “I’ll be in touch with the details. Don’t forget to give me the friends and family discount.” I heard him say as I walked away.

  By the time the bell above the diner’s front door rang out, I’d already started planning my next murder. I was inspired. I needed my ceiling-high whiteboard to get the designs down. And for the first time, I didn’t care if my next victim was going to be missed or not. I only cared that my family was going to be safe. Garrett’s hold on me would never loosen. I knew that. His demands would never end. I knew that too. The only security I had for my future—my family’s future—was to free myself of him.

  And to do that, I’d have to kill him.

  THIRTY-SIX

  “What?!”

  I jumped at Nerd’s sudden scream. The color drained from his face, and he stumbled backward, his foot catching a chair leg and sending him into his seat.

  “Listen to me,” I said, trying to calm him.

  “What do you mean, he knows? The cops know?” He began to pant heavily as his eyes bulged.

  “It’s not like that,” I said cautiously, knowing what he could do in just a few keystrokes. Kill our company, wipe out any evidence we’d ever existed. He lunged forward, hammering his keyboard wildly, the sound of his fingers striking it like he was marking off a checklist. I stomped my foot and screamed, “Brian, just stop!”

  He lifted his hands as if under arrest, his face wet and his eyes glassy. He rolled his chair back and forth, unsure of what to do next. He heaved a cry that sounded like a tortured animal.

  “Amy, I can’t go to prison,” he began as he touched the screen, touched the evidence of what we’d done. “I’d never survive.”

  “Nobody is going to prison,” I exclaimed, speaking cautiously again. “The cops aren’t after us.”

  He blinked, a perplexed look surfacing on his face. “What do you mean?” he asked, sounding calmer although he feathered his keyboard with a few touches, continuing whatever he’d started.

  I glared at his hands until he put them to rest in his lap. “Amy, I’ve got his profile open. He is a cop, you know!”

  He spun his monitor around, showing me Garrett’s identification badge. He wore the same smugness in the picture as I’d seen in the diner. The image of him gave me a chill, but it also gave me an idea. Nerd hadn’t been deleting his source code or our company books. He’d already started to hack Garrett, to take a closer look.

  “And what else can you find out about him?” I asked, circling his desk.

  Nerd spun his monitor back around, typed a few commands. His screen immediately filled with news clippings about Garrett and his wife.

  “He’s married to Sophie Lawrence, of the Lawrence family?” he answered, jerking his head back. “Why the hell is he a cop? He married into the Lawrence family. I mean, why bother?”

  “Not sure if he was a cop first, but that doesn’t matter. He’s not interested in our company, or in you,” I told him, bending the truth a little.

  “But you said he knows,” Nerd scowled, the look of confusion returning.

  “He knows all right,” I began, nodding. “But he won’t be making a case—or any arrests. He wants to do business.”

  “It was the software, wasn’t it?” Nerd asked, shaking his head, putting on a face as though he’d failed. “I knew those links were a setup. This is all my fault.”

  I closed my hands on the sides of his face, locked my eyes on his to reassure him, “Brian, are you listening to me? He’s not interested in making an arrest. He wants to do business with us.”

  He blinked. His face went blank. “Garrett Williams, a cop, married to one of the richest women in the world, wants to put out a contract?”

  “Yes. A contract.”

  “We can do that,” Nerd said, shrugging his shoulders. Color returned to his face and relief creased his lips with a smile.

  “Who’s the mark? I’ll start a profile. Let me guess—tax cheat let out on good behavior,” he joked.

  “His wife.”

  Almost at once, the color was gone again. “Sophie Lawrence?”

  “The one and only.” />
  He shook his head to object.

  I quickly added, “The world would certainly miss her.”

  “You think!?” he blurted. “Famous philanthropist—probably get canonized by the Pope when she’s dead.”

  I let out a laugh, but stopped it short. I didn’t want to make light of the predicament we were in. “Come on, let’s get to work.” I turned to face the whiteboard and began drawing out a design. “We have a murder to plan.”

  “Amy, you’re not serious?” he asked. I heard the squeal of his chair, the wheels rolling as he moved over to me. Nerd’s hand went to mine, taking the whiteboard marker from my fingers. “Amy, we can’t. We can’t kill this woman.”

  I took the marker back, drew a long line across the board with no particular direction in mind, just getting us started. When I reached the corner, I turned and told him, “The design isn’t for Sophie Lawrence.”

  Nerd raised his shoulders, asking, “Then who?”

  “We’re killing Garrett Williams.”

  “Oh. Well, in that case—” he began to say sarcastically. “Amy, are you freaking crazy!?”

  “Not crazy,” I said, refusing to turn around. I continued to draw instead, marking the whiteboard with a nonsensical design. I had no idea what I was doing, but I knew I didn’t want to have anyone try and talk me out of my decision.

  “There’s a better way,” he said, the calm returning to his voice.

  I heard the sound of keystrokes again and then heard him hammer the Enter key. The sound unnerved me enough to make me stop.

  “You’re not going to talk me out of this,” I said. He turned the monitor around for me to see he was running Becky, navigating the police station. “What are you looking for?”

  “We don’t have to kill anyone,” he said, clicking on the box next to Charlie’s office. “I’m going to hack the shit out of him . . . make it look he extorted money or something.”

  A window opened on Nerd’s screen, showing Garrett’s face. I followed his eyes and listened to his breathing. The threat of danger I had felt at the diner was gone. His face was blank, save for a sad look in his hazel eyes. And then a spark. I told myself it was just my imagination, but then I saw it again. Another spark, and life coming into his expression with a slow dip of his chin. All his attention was focused.