Nickel Plated

by Aric Davis

  “By the creek a couple of miles from your house. I rode down to the library and then back again. Found it on the way back.”

  “Was there anything else?”

  I thought about the boot print and said, “No, just that.”

  She started crying then. I thought about reaching out to take her hand, but like she said, I was just a kid. I let her cry, and she sniffled and said, “So somebody did take her then. This pretty much proves it.”

  “If it’s hers, then yeah, I’d say so. Whether it is or isn’t, my work doesn’t change.”

  “Should I give it to the cops?”

  “No reason not to, but I can’t see what good it’s going to do you. They really should have found it on their own.”

  We sat together, the weight of everything hovering over us. Finally Arrow broke the silence and said, “Nickel?”

  “Yeah?”

  “How much is it going to cost for you to help me? I don’t have much; I’ll do what I can to pay you.”

  “I don’t want anything. I had a couple other things come in solid for me, so I’m flush right now.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Listen, I’m going to get out of here, do some more research. Something’s sticking in my head funny. I’ll talk to you soon. Page me if you need me.”

  She hopped off the bench, gave me a little wave, and was out of there. It was awful to see her go but nice to watch her leave. I shook my hand at Eyepatch, got the typical response, and walked to my bike. I was going to need to start wearing a jacket; it was getting cold out. A parent would probably have reminded me to do that. I rode home, my head full with hair bands, blood spots, and boot prints, as well as a dark face from my past that will never get all the way gone.

  Chapter 5

  My dad told me before he died to never let someone else make me be a civilian. He said that was my choice. I never believed him. Hot fires and red death taught me otherwise; Dad had been more right than I’d ever allowed myself to realize. After that, after becoming Nickel, I knew I’d never be a civilian. Work like I did for Arrow or Veronica was just practice for my future life, for my real life. Earning money was growing pot and making grown men think I was an angel on a keyboard. Could be worse; it sure had been before.

  When I had been trying to figure out somewhere to stay, it had been warm out. If it had been cold, I either would have died or ended up with the state again. I made a plan, and I made it work. More dumb luck than anything, but it worked, and I didn’t go back to foster care. I suppose after the fire at the Richardsons’ I could have even gone to prison.

  At first I wanted to leave Michigan, go somewhere else and try to start from scratch. It wasn’t until I started doing research on how homeschooling worked that I realized I had a chance to live a normal life only if I stayed in Michigan. It would just take a lot of oil to keep it moving.

  The house had been easy once I got my ducks in a row. I fished Craigslist for what I wanted—a nice little two-bedroom for rent with a landlord who wouldn’t be too pushy as long as the checks came on time. You’ve got to love the Internet; I set the whole thing up via e-mail in the public library. Told him over the Web how I was a businessman who was almost never home, but my teenage son would be. He had the right reaction—he didn’t care. When I told him I wanted to pay him for the first year up front, he jumped at the opportunity, barely even looked at the bum I hired to hand him a check, and even better, barely looked at me. The whole deal was over in less than ten minutes. I’ve got an open-ended lease that I can terminate whenever I want regardless of contract. It’s hard to trace a man who doesn’t exist.

  That was the last time I used my real name; I put it on the fake ID I made for the bum. I still have the thing somewhere or another. My name next to a picture of a man paid two hundred bucks to take a shower and play house for a few minutes. Could an ID get any faker than that? In any case, work gets me money, and money in the mail lets me keep my place.

  With that in mind, I logged back on as shyBoy. Four separate rooms just waiting for a hit. Fish on the line in minutes. I read up on a few more sex offenders by Four Oaks but felt nothing. I read the chats again and went to the one with PartyAnimal13. He wanted to private, and I said I did too. I suppose in a way I really did want to screw him.

  “ASL?”

  “Thirteen, male, Ohio. How about you?”

  “I’m eighteen, male, Florida.”

  Already lying. PartyAnimal13, actually Ron Michaels of Indiana, thirty-six years old. I love computers.

  “Is it hot down there?”

  “It’s always hot. What are you doing on here?”

  “I don’t know, I’ve just been having these urges lately. I’m not really sure what they mean, but sometimes in gym class when we’re showering, I don’t know, it’s weird.”

  “I used to have feelings like that when I was your age. You know what I did? I found an older guy to help me out with my urges.”

  “Did it help?”

  “It sure did. He just knew exactly what I wanted him to do.”

  “Like what?”

  This is just so easy.

  I strung him along for a while, let him go into the intimate details of all the awful things he wanted to do to me or any kid like me. Finally, even my strong stomach had enough and I said, “Ron, cut the crap. You’ve got a wife, three kids, and a dog named Rudy. Looks like a Jack Russell. Those are nice dogs, kind of wild though.”

  He didn’t even try and explain, just bounced. I started with his work e-mail. I took a picture of the chat and sent it to him with my dummy e-mail account; the IP is blocked and makes it look like I’m out of California. The subject in the e-mail was “Ron Michaels wants to suck boys.” Not my best, but it would do. While I waited for Ron to get back to me, I went back to the sex offender database. I had a brainstorm and opened another tab to look at Zappos.com.

  I went right to work boots, stopped halfway typing it, and opened a tab for Amazon. Did work boots there too. I got my little notebook out, set my pager on the desk, and opened the notebook to the sketch of the boot print. My e-mail caught a ding, but I ignored it. I opened my eyes to the world of work boots. There sure are a lot of work boots out there for a person to pick from.

  After an hour I took a break from the boots and checked the e-mail. Typical.

  “This is Ron, and I’m not sure what you are talking about, but I think you have someone else even though you have my personal information right. I don’t see how you could think that I want to suck or molest or whatever on boys because I don’t. I’m a married Christian man with a family and please leave me alone. You have the wrong guy.”

  All of them say this. All of them. I used to make them send me a picture of their unit before the big reveal, but it really just made for too many upset stomachs. It’s one thing to know you’re doing them a favor; it’s another to have to see how much they appreciate it. My biggest complaint? I think most of them would get more turned on if I told them the truth about me living alone like an adult. I responded to Ron in a way I thought he’d appreciate.

  “Ron, I really hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I know what you are and so do you. Look, I’ve got you hung up in a noose that spans continents. I’m a cop paid to do this stuff, and I don’t like it any more than you do. Don’t get me wrong, I think you’re sick and all, but I’m not too happy with my bank account either. For a nominal sum, shipped with proof within forty-eight hours, I will change my mind about sending our talk to your boss and wife. I’ll work with you as best I can, but the vehicle and house shots your wife put on her Facebook? I know you have money.”

  I took a break to wait. I’d come up with a few thousand matches on the boot print, from Doc Martens to Rocky, and the go-to fall tread pattern was close to what I saw in the print by the hair band. I sighed as the e-mail dinged and was happy for the distraction. There was more work to be done with the shoes than I’d anticipated, maybe a few days’ worth, but money talks.

  This
time it was short.

  “You have the wrong guy. Please leave me alone.”

  When I first started doing this, I actually believed guys when they’d say that. Three minutes later the same dude’s user name with the exact same IP signature would pop up in the same room. I lost empathy and compassion for my fellow males that day. This was controllable, but some people took that sicko leash off on purpose. I vowed never to take it easy on one of these pervs, and it hasn’t hurt my moral sensibility or wallet ever since. I like to think most of them who pay me stop. What’s really scary is thinking about all of the ones that I miss. I ever tell you I don’t sleep too well?

  “No I don’t. E-mail to your boss goes in two minutes. Your wife will get one in five. After that, it looks like Tyler and Adam have e-mail accounts, and I’m sure Leslie will too someday. I may as well shoot this their way.”

  I waited, got bored, and did another Google search on boot print patterns. Ron mailed me back. He was contrite, and I thought that was a reasonable enough way to be—embarrassed, but understanding his life didn’t have to be destroyed. Of course he didn’t know that all of my transcripts get sent to an FBI office in Detroit—just as soon as the check is cashed, of course. The hope is that they’re happy enough to work with what I give them that they won’t start looking for who’s sending them the info. I told him two thousand, and he asked how he could know that I’d go away. I told him he didn’t and that he should just hope I found a new source of income. He said he’d mail it tomorrow, and I thanked him for his haste. He didn’t respond. I was hungry, and for the first time in months I went out to eat. I wanted to think, I wanted to relax, and God help me, I wanted Thai food. I put on my backpack and got on my bike. The restaurant was close, and my bike was fast; I was there in ten minutes.

  The older lady working didn’t recognize me, and that meant I’d waited long enough to come back. I ordered spring rolls, pad Thai, and green curry with shrimp and scallops. I ordered it all to go and sat in one of the plastic chairs they have to wait in. I learned a long time ago that you have to order at least two entrees if you don’t want weird looks. If you got two, then they’d just assume you were picking up food for you and a parent. I spent the time waiting reading an issue of People, who, at least by the title of the magazine, were a race I understood little about. Why would anyone care who celebrities were dating? The mysteries of adults stretched far out of my realm of understanding, and I have a feeling I never will completely understand. To tell the truth, I don’t mind not understanding. I paid for my order and slid the plastic bags into my backpack, hoping nothing would spill and knowing without a doubt that it most certainly would.

  The weather was turning cold as I worked the pedals on my bike, and the darkness was sinking in earlier and earlier every night. My pager buzzed while I rode, and I checked it with one hand on the bars. Arrow. I stuck it back in my pocket and made a mental note to call her before I ate. The air ran through my hair; I needed to get it cut soon. Needed to mow the lawn too. So much crap to remember; it was still overwhelming even after almost two years. I walked the bike into the garage and shut it behind me.

  When I got in the house, I took the backpack off at the door and set it on the floor. The smell of the food was strong, and that meant some had spilled. No sense even hoping that it wouldn’t. That was like praying for the snow to stop—you’d run out of breath while it piled around you. I took the food out and put it on the table, and then I plugged in the rotary to line seven. Called Arrow. She answered on the first ring. She knew it was me.

  “What took so long?”

  “I was out.”

  “I gave the hair band to the detectives. They kept it, and the one that was at our house said they’d do some tests, but I could tell from the way he was looking at me that he thought I was being stupid.” She’d been crying; I could hear it in her voice. If I was brave, I’d have invited her over for dinner. Instead I said, “Typical police. You did what you could.”

  “My dad still thinks she ran away, but my mom is starting to at least see the possibility that she could have been taken by somebody.”

  “They’ll come around.”

  I didn’t say what I was thinking: “But it’ll be too late.” It was probably already too late. Every second that passed, my window to find Shelby alive was closing.

  “I know. It just sucks, though.”

  “I gotta go.”

  “All right. Thanks, Nic…”

  I hung up the phone and unplugged it. Went to the kitchen, got out a plate and a fork. Spread rice on the plate, laid a spring roll on it. Topped the rice with green curry and put a pile of pad Thai next to it. It smelled delicious. I took it with me to the computer.

  I set the food down on my desk and opened a new window. Went to Facebook, and I found Veronica’s boy Jeff in about ten seconds. He was set to private, so I went to make a new profile. Gave myself the name of Amber Tease—you know, lowest common denominator and all that. Went looking for a picture for Amber on Google; typed in hot girl and went to page fifteen. Tried again, this time with it set to safe search. Now I had something I could use. Picked a blonde at random and set it up as my avatar. Did a little more research on my girl; she had a few more pics out there, none of them obscene. She looked more college than porn star. I wrote up a short little profile for her and registered the account. Went in and added some pictures.

  When my page was how I wanted it, ditsy girl 3.0, I looked up Grand Rapids, Michigan. I sent friend requests to everybody who looked like they were under twenty-five, Jeff included. I had a few dozen buddies in less than five minutes, but not Jeff. I took a break, put my feet up. I ate a spring roll, dove into the pad Thai, and tried the curry. Even getting cold, everything was fantastic. Checked my Facebook. I had a new friend—actually about a hundred more new friends, but that’s okay, I have a feeling that Amber likes to party.

  Jeff’s account was exactly what I expected to see. Stupid pictures of a man-boy hanging out with like-minded individuals at social events. Most of the pictures were of Jeff either drunk or trying to look hard. He was better at drinking. Jeff would probably look hard for about four seconds if things ever got real around him. Relationship status listed as single. Looked like Veronica didn’t know the score as well as she thought she did. I took a bite of curry, rice, sauce, and scallop. Started a message.

  “What’s up, hottie? Just moved here from D-Town and looking to get my drink on!!!! Anything happening this weekend I wouldn’t want to miss?;-)”

  It took literally less than two minutes for this knucklehead to get back to me.

  “Hey, shorty. Yeah, there’s some stuff going down at the old drive-in up by Knapp Street on Friday. You need a ride?”

  Lord help these kids if the cops are ever looking for them. I ate some more pad Thai and waited a second so I wouldn’t sound too desperate. “I don’t need a ride to the party, might need one later though. I’ll see you there. XXOOXXOO;-)”

  Immediately back from Jeff: “Oh alright, you find me. I’ll be by the kegs. Lookin’ forwards to seein’ you!”

  Confirmed, then: if he was willing to try and hook up with some random girl in public, he and the girl were much less serious than Veronica had thought. Could be she was just a decent arm piece, maybe matched a couple of his shirts. I logged out and went back to my boot research. Worked at that for an hour or so and got up to put the food in the fridge. I thought about doing some more chats, but I went to bed instead.

  Chapter 6

  The next morning I woke up, took a shower, and ate Thai food. Even stone cold it was terrific. I went outside and watered my garden. I was going to need to do some harvesting again soon. From looking up, it seemed a storm was coming; I had to hope it would be gone soon, or my research project on Friday would be a bust. I thought about Shelby and Arrow. That storm was already here. I went back in and put away the Thai food. Went in my room and put on my camo. I exited to the garage, got on my bike, and went back to Four Oaks.

&
nbsp; I stopped at a gas station on the way there to grab a newspaper. The clerk gave me a look, and I stuffed some Airheads candy on top of the paper. The look went away. I walked out and tossed the candy in the garbage. I can’t see a dentist, so candy is a no and twice-a-day brushing is always a must. I sat on the curb next to my bike. There was a little piece on Shelby on the front page. I scanned it, but there was no mention of a hair band. In the little picture they had she looked just like Arrow, beautiful, just smaller. I had to find that kid.

  Rolling through Four Oaks, I felt something at the front of my mind, I just didn’t know what. Something was sticking out and waiting to get hammered flat, but I just couldn’t see it. I guess I was so busy looking for something that I didn’t see who was looking for me.

  There were three of them, all on bikes that looked a lot nicer than mine, and all three of them bigger than me. Dressed nicer too, and none of them looked like they needed a haircut. I thought about my chances of just pedaling away from them and gave it up. I took my feet off the pedals and stopped the bike with my Converses. They pulled right up to me, their front wheels almost touching mine. I shifted my legs so that if I dropped the bike I could bounce free and not get hung up on the bars. The one in the middle, both in size and positioning, spoke first: “You don’t live in this neighborhood.”

  I shook my head no, trying to make it look like I was scared. That part was easy; I had practice.

  The one to my left spoke: “Then why are you here? We don’t need white trash around here.”

  “I’m just riding my bike.”

  The middle one: “‘I’m just widing my bwike.’ You picked the wrong place to ride.”

  I got ready to drop the bike. This was so not what I needed right now. I needed Four Oaks to be normal, a place easy for me to move about without making waves. I kept my hands flat at my sides. If I had to get aggressive, it needed to happen fast and needed to be a surprise if I was going to have a chance. I scanned their faces. They were trying to look tough, and at least from my perspective, it was working pretty well.