Cold Calls

by Charles Benoit

  “I can hear you breathing, Eric,” Ian said. “What’s it gonna be? We gonna do this or what?”

  Eric took a sharp, strong breath. “Can you delete it all?”

  “Define, please.”

  “Can you get rid of everything on the computer? Every file, not just some specific ones. And every picture, too.”

  Ian hummed. “Nuked, huh?”

  “That’s what I want. Everything erased,” Eric said, and after a pause he smiled. “And something added in.”

  “Interesting,” Ian said. “Interesting and very doable.”

  “Then let’s do it.”

  “Cash—no IOUs, no bullshit—paid in full before I show you what to do.”

  “No problem.”

  “And FYI, Eric. You screw me over on this, I unleash it on you.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll pay.”

  “Oh, I know you will,” Ian said. “One way or the other. Now let’s talk about how this is going to work. And about this thing you want added in.”

  Twenty-Nine

  “YOU REALIZE IT’S A SCHOOL NIGHT, DON’T YOU?”

  “Mom, I’m suspended,” Fatima said. “I don’t go back till Monday. Remember?”

  “Please,” her mother said, her hand, white with flour, touching her chest. “Some things I will never forget.”

  Fatima watched as her mother scooped balls of cookie dough onto the baking sheet, her sister Alya popping up at her side to swipe a finger along the edge of the bowl.

  The clock over the stove read 4:50.

  They’d be there any minute to pick her up.

  Eric had wanted to come later, around seven, and he’d wanted to pick her up first, since Shelly’s house was on the way to Town Line Road. But Fatima made it clear that if they wanted her along, she had to be out of the house before her father got home, and also, when the car pulled up and her mother looked out the front window, the only person she’d better see was Shelly, sitting in the driver’s seat.

  She had told Eric all of this when he called.

  He didn’t like it.

  She told him she wasn’t crazy about it either, but that’s the way it had to be.

  He told her he wasn’t allowed to let anyone else drive his car.

  She promised not to tell.

  He doubted that Shelly had a license.

  She said she was sure Shelly didn’t, but that didn’t change anything.

  Then he sighed and asked her where she lived.

  Her mother squeezed in another row of cookie-dough balls. “Did you help your brother with his algebra?”

  “I don’t need any help,” Haytham said from the table.

  “And what about your homework?”

  “All done,” Fatima said. It wasn’t, but it wouldn’t take long, and even if they asked to see it, she knew she could show them something that would pass for a week’s worth of assignments. Her mother spent the next five minutes silently pinching and aligning the dollops, sneaking sideways glances at her eldest child. Then she wiped her hands and picked up the baking sheet, motioning for Fatima to come around the counter and open the oven door.

  Fatima knew the silence, knew that her mother was trying to make her squirm, looking for any sign of nervousness that would hint at some devious plan. She was nervous and there was a plan, but there was too much riding on it to let it show.

  Her mother adjusted the tray twice before standing to check the dials on the oven. “Who is this girl again?”

  Fatima smiled. If it was going to be no, her mother wouldn’t bother going through it all a second time. “Her name is Morgan,” she said, staying close to the truth. “She’s in this drama group after school. She got picked on really bad over the summer, and now she’s got, like, no friends.”

  “And you have to see her tonight. Why can’t you do this on Saturday?”

  “Saturday’s the car wash at the mosque. We’re raising money for the Red Cross. I told you about that weeks ago. Besides, today’s her birthday and we thought it would be nice if we dropped by her house to celebrate.”

  “Who is ‘we’?”

  The first lie was the hardest. “Just Shelly and me.”

  “Where does this girl live?”

  The second came easier. “Close to school.”

  “And how are you getting there?”

  The third rolled out on its own. “Shelly’s driving. She has a car.”

  “You know I don’t like you riding around like that.”

  “We’re not riding around. We’re going straight to her house and straight back home. I promise.”

  “How old is she?”

  “Shelly? She’s going to be eighteen,” Fatima said, not counting it as a lie since it would be true eventually.

  “No. The birthday girl. How old is she today?”

  She picked a number. “Sixteen.”

  “And what did you get her?”

  “Huh?”

  “For her birthday. What did you buy her?”

  Fatima’s mind went blank.

  “That’s why you want to go, isn’t it? Her birthday?”

  “Yeah,” Fatima said, scrambling to think of something, anything.

  “So what did you get for her?”

  “A book.”

  Her mother smiled and shook her head. “Why am I not surprised?”

  “I guess I like books.”

  “Yes, and you like to write all over them. In the margins, between lines,” her mother said, her finger scribbling imaginary notes in the air. “I can always tell when you’ve read a book.”

  Fatima faked a grin.

  “But don’t ever let me see you make a mark in a Quran,” her mother said, the scribbling finger now underscoring every word.

  “Mom, please,” Fatima said. “I would never do anything bad like that.”

  Her mother hugged her. “I just want you to be a good girl.”

  Good like what? Fatima thought. Faithful? Obedient? Unquestioning? Irrational? Doubt free?

  “Insha’Allah,” Fatima said, hugging back.

  If God wills it.

  Thirty

  ERIC SPUN THE WHEEL SHARP TO THE LEFT, SPLITTING the yellow lines and stopping an inch in front of the guard rail that separated pavement from the grass surrounding the baseball diamond. He looked over at Shelly.

  “That’s how you pull into a parking space.”

  Shelly rolled her eyes.

  “I thought you told me you could drive,” Eric said.

  “I thought I could. Besides, it’s not like I hit anything.”

  “She’s right,” Fatima said from the back seat. “She came close, but she didn’t actually make contact.”

  “She drove from Walgreens to your house and back. It wasn’t even a mile.”

  “Fine, I can’t drive, but I can count,” Shelly said, holding up the small stack of bills. “And we’re short.”

  “Impossible,” Eric said. “I put in three hundred and eight, and Fatima put in fifty-something—”

  “Fifty-six, to be exact.”

  “Okay, that’s what? Three sixty-four. And you said you could get one-fifty—”

  “No, I said I could get close to one-fifty.”

  Eric looked at her. “How close?”

  “Eighty-one.”

  “Eighty-one?” He slapped both hands down on the steering wheel. “That’s nowhere near close.”

  “What it is,” Fatima said, “is fifty-five dollars short.”

  “This guy wants five hundred,” Eric said. “We can’t be short.”

  Shelly shrugged. “There’s nothing we can do about it now. We’ll just have to tell him that that’s all we’ve got. We’ll have to owe him the rest.”

  “It doesn’t work that way.”

  “Shouting doesn’t make it any better,” Fatima said. “Maybe we can negotiate with him, get a better deal.”

  “With Ian? No way. He finds out we don’t have the money—all the money—that’s it, we’re screwed.”

  �
�It’s not like he’d come after us—”

  “Yes, he would. He’s a major freak. Going after people is what he does.” Eric’s left arm snapped out, his knuckles thudding against the padded armrest. “Count it again.”

  “It’s not going to change.”

  “Maybe some bills got stuck together. Just count it, all right?”

  Shelly thumbed through the bills, Fatima counting along over her shoulder.

  “Four forty-five.”

  Eric rubbed a hand over his face.

  No one spoke for a minute, then Fatima said, “Let’s just go.”

  “Where?”

  “The girl’s house.”

  “And do what?”

  “Ask her not to do it.”

  “You’re crazy.”

  “No, listen,” Fatima said. “Maybe that’s all we have to do: ask her politely not to do it. Maybe she’ll understand.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “We can try,” Fatima said. “Or we can think of something on the way.”

  “We’ve got an hour and a half,” Shelly said. “We’re out of time to think of anything else.”

  “Oh, perfect,” Eric said as he watched a black F150 pull into the parking lot. “Here he is now.”

  Fatima spun around in the seat, craning her neck to follow the truck as it crawled past. “A pickup? Seriously?”

  “What did you expect, a Prius?”

  The truck stopped, backed into a space fifty feet away, the shotgun rack impossible to miss in the rear window. Then the driver climbed out.

  Fatima and Shelly stared.

  “Wallah.”

  “He’s your computer expert?”

  Eric checked. “Yeah, that’s Ian. Why?”

  “’Cuz he’s hot,” Fatima said.

  Eyebrows raised, Eric turned in his seat. “He’s a freak.”

  “He’s freakin’ hot.”

  Eric looked at Ian as he strolled toward the car. Shaggy hair, rumpled shirt, open, with the sleeves rolled up to show off a pair of Japanese-style tattoos, a black and silver concert T-shirt underneath, skinny jeans, flip-flops. And yet they stared. It had to be a girl thing. He took a deep breath, then rolled down the window. “Hey.”

  Ian bent down, resting his arm on the roof. “Eric. Ladies.”

  Eric swallowed. “Did you get it done?”

  “Of course,” Ian said, smiling at Shelly as he spoke. “The phantom website, the password ignition, the names.” He looked at Eric, nodding so slightly that it would be easy to miss. “Everything we discussed.”

  Fatima pulled herself forward. “What about the cloud?”

  Ian grinned, shifting to look at her. “Forced login capture, remote delete, and account deactivation.”

  “And after?”

  “Automated double-redundant backdoor sweep.”

  “Frequency?”

  “Twice a minute. Two minutes would be plenty, but it’ll run for ten.”

  “And it’ll get the files Eric told you about, right?”

  “It’ll get what Eric is paying for.”

  Fatima nodded. “Nice.”

  Ian nodded with her. “Thanks.”

  Eric checked the dashboard clock and took another deep breath. “Ian, about the—”

  “Nice shirt,” Shelly said, leaning around Eric, pointing at Ian’s chest. “Komor Kommando? Good stuff.”

  Ian looked down, tugging at the bottom of his shirt as if noticing the silver words for the first time. Then he looked back up, his smile shifting to a bullshit smirk. “You sayin’ you’ve actually heard of them?”

  “Not them,” Shelly said, a laugh in her voice the others had never heard before. “Him. Komor used to be with Zombie Girl, and then Squarehead. But I like his solo stuff best. Especially Das Oontz.”

  Eric glared at her. “We’ve got—”

  “It reminds me of first-gen KMFDM,” Ian said, ignoring Eric, eyes locked on Shelly’s.

  “Then you should definitely check out the new stuff from Studio-X.”

  It took a moment, but the tribal connection clicked, all the unsaid things said with a smile and a nod. “Cool.”

  Shelly smiled back, then blinked and looked down at the money on her lap. “So, anyway. We’ve got your money.”

  Ian took a folded paper from his back pocket and held it out. “And I’ve got your solution.”

  “We’re short,” Shelly said. From the back seat, she heard a groan, and she could feel Eric’s eyes burning into the side of her head.

  Ian inched back the papers. “How much?”

  “Two hundred.”

  “That’s all you got? Two hundred bucks?”

  “Noooo. We’ve got three hundred. But you said five, so we’re short.”

  Ian looked at Eric. “Didn’t I say to bring all of it?”

  “You did. It’s just that—”

  “It’s my fault,” Shelly said, looking up at him. “I told these guys I’d have my share. And, really, I thought I would. I sold my necklace, but I didn’t get as much as I thought. Eric put in more to cover for me, but it’s still not enough.”

  He tapped the folded paper on the roof of the car. “I had a deal with Eric here—”

  “So make a deal with me. I’ll get you the rest. Just give me some time.”

  Ian brushed his hair back and looked at Shelly.

  She didn’t look away.

  And when she saw his gray eyes soften, her whole body tingled.

  “So you got three hundred, right?”

  Fatima popped up. “Actually, it’s—”

  “Yup. Three hundred exactly.” Shelly folded the pile of bills and held it out.

  Ian reached in and tossed the paper on the dash, then put out his hand, palm up. “Close enough.”

  Shelly put the money in his hand, her fingers warm against his. “Thank you.”

  Ian wadded up the money and shoved it into his front pocket. “The instructions are pretty self-explanatory.”

  Eric unfolded the paper. “That’s it?”

  “You said you wanted simple.”

  “We do.” Fatima read over Eric’s shoulder. “But you could have been a little more specific.”

  “Trade secrets. I don’t want to put myself out of business.”

  Eric flipped the paper over, checking to see if there was more on the back. There wasn’t. “So we just do this and it’ll all be gone?”

  “It’ll take a few minutes, but once it starts there’ll be no stopping it.”

  “Perfect.”

  “And if it doesn’t work, you get a full refund.” Ian smiled a last time at Shelly, then headed back to his truck.

  “Wait a second,” Eric said. “You mean, after all this, it might not work?”

  “It’ll work,” Ian said without turning. “But save your receipt, just in case.”

  Thirty-One

  THE GLOW FROM FATIMA’S PHONE TINTED THE INSIDE of the car blood red. Sound off, she watched as the digital numbers of the countdown clock clicked closer to zero. When she had first opened the email, there’d been more than forty-nine hours. Plenty of time. Now there was less than thirty minutes. Outside, farmland raced past, the glow of a crescent moon taking the edge off the late-September evening. On the seat next to her, a large pepperoni pizza steamed the back window. Up front, Shelly leaned over to check the speedometer.

  “Can’t you go any faster?”

  “I’m doing fifty-two in a forty,” Eric said.

  “Just so you know, it’s twenty-five of.”

  “And just so you know, we would have had a lot more time if we didn’t have to stop off for pizza.”

  “We couldn’t show up at her door empty-handed. We’re there for her birthday, remember?”

  “She’s not gonna want any presents from us.”

  “It’s not a present,” Shelly said. “It’s a prop.”

  “Our Trojan Horse,” Fatima said, eyes still on the falling numbers.

  Eric watched the road. “Wanna run through
it again?”

  “No,” Shelly said. “We’ll start confusing ourselves. Just stick to the plan.”

  Fatima looked up into the rearview mirror, catching Eric’s eye. “Do you know how Ian set it up?”

  “I’m the one who told him, remember?”

  “Yeah, but how to make it run?”

  “Yes, dear,” he said.

  “And not mess with her files?”

  Eric grunted and looked away. “What, you think I’m stupid?”

  “We’ll see,” Shelly said.

  They rode in silence for five minutes, then from the dashboard, a woman’s voice: “In one-half mile, turn left onto Town Line Road, U.S. Route two-fifty.”

  Fatima clicked her phone off. “I think I’m gonna puke.”

  Eric glanced in the rearview.

  “Don’t worry, it’s just an expression. I’m really scared, that’s all.”

  “Me too,” Shelly said. “My leg’s bouncing, and my heart’s going like crazy. You’d think I slammed a six-pack of Red Bulls.”

  “We’re almost there,” Eric said, hitting the directional and braking for the turn, trying to keep his shaking hand on the wheel. “Just don’t start freaking out and we’ll be fine.”

  “What if she’s not home? We didn’t think about that,” Fatima said. “Or what if we can’t get in the house, what do we do then? We stand there with the pizza all night?”

  “We’ll worry about it then,” Shelly said, the words snapping out. “God.”

  Eric looked over at her and smiled. “You saying a prayer for us?”

  “Yeah, to Saint Jude. Patron saint of lost causes.”

  The woman’s voice interrupted. “In three hundred yards, you have reached your destination.”

  Fatima leaned forward between the front seats. “I don’t see anything.”

  “It’s gotta be on your side. Nothing but fields over here.”

  “There it is,” Eric said, slowing the car to a crawl, pointing to a low ranch-style house set far back from the road, no trees in the front yard, an SUV in the driveway, another on blocks at the side of the house. The porch was dark, but there were lights on inside. Eric spun the wheel, then hit the brakes and cut the engine, the car rocking to a stop behind the parked SUV.

  Then no one moved.

  Shelly took a deep breath. “Guys, I want you to know that if this doesn’t work . . .”

  “Same here,” Eric said. “Let’s go.”