MalContents

by Wilbanks, David T. ; Norris, Gregory L. ; Thomas, Ryan C. ; Chandler, Randy

  “What did I do!? Just tell me and I’ll make good on it. You want some new computers? You want money—”

  “Don’t fucking insult me, Mr. Baker. Don’t even try to make me feel stupid.”

  He had to have the wrong guy. I just needed to explain it to him. There are lots of Peter Bakers in the world. Clearly this was some issue of mistaken identity. “Okay, look . . . ” I made an attempt to calm down, which isn’t that easy when you can smell your own piss all over you. “I can see you’re mad. But I’m pretty sure you’re confusing me with someone else. I repair computers, see. Like, when people get a computer virus, they bring it to me and I reinstall the hard drive and reboot the OS. I can do Windows, Mac, Linux—”

  “Shut up! I’m not mistaking you with anyone.”

  Really? Had I really done something, then? “Um . . . did I work on your computer? Can you tell me what I did to it?”

  He bopped me on top of the head with his gun again. A searing pain ran down into my teeth. “See you tonight, Mr. Baker of 1453 Montana Road. Don’t let me down.” And with that, he kneed me in the side and drove the wind from me. As I fell to the floor like a sack of laundry, desperately gasping for air, I watched him saunter out through the small showroom where I sold various computer peripherals and then out the front door, the little bell over top jingling with holiday cheer. I never saw his face. All I saw was the damned cowboy hat and the gun by his side.

  As my breath came back to me, I closed my eyes and began to cry. It was all over and I was still alive. Just some whacko, I thought, just some fucking nut out for a good time. Oh Christ, what a sicko. You hear about these random acts of violence in the paper and you never think it’ll happen to you. What does it all mean? How the hell did he choose me? The world is just a sick place.

  The bell over the front door jingled as Kelly walked in, a MacDonald’s breakfast burrito in one hand and his laptop, in its case, in the other. Kelly was my assistant, a young man of twenty-four. He was a hell of a computer programmer, using the job I’d given him to put himself through college and get his masters in Computer Science. He was also fat and geeky as hell and hated his name. I told him Kelly was a cool name for a guy, but truth was, it was only really cool if you had the looks to go with it. Kelly did not. He looked like a pink Michelin Man.

  When he saw me on the floor, he rushed over and stared down at me. “Mr. Baker? You okay?”

  I grabbed the edge of the desk and hauled myself up, my breath stabilizing into a normal breathing pattern. The muscles in my abdomen were tight and throbbing and I felt like I’d be constipated for life. “I just got mugged. Call the cops, would ya?”

  “Serious?” His face went slack for a moment, and then he waddled over to the phone on my desk and dialed 911. As he relayed my message to the dispatcher, I found myself staring at the photo on the desktop of my laptop. An uneasy feeling began to sweep over me as I realized two things. He’d mentioned my address (which anyone could find since my number was listed in the phone book) but even stranger, he’d known about the photo I took last week and the gun in the safe. The gun he could have guessed at—maybe—but the picture . . . how the hell had he known that? Just eight days ago my computer desktop was a big picture of a golf course in Phuket; I’d been trying to book a trip there for three years now. No one, not even Kelly, knew that I’d changed the picture on my laptop.

  Kelly hung up the phone, took his own laptop bag off and set it on a chair. He glanced at my wet crotch, then back up again. “They’re on their way. Do you know who the guy was?”

  “No. Not a clue.”

  “Did he take anything?”

  “No.” I wasn’t about to tell him what he’d demanded of me. That kind of shit was for the police.

  “Did he hurt you?”

  Just my pride, but again, I wasn’t gonna relay that information. “I’m fine. Couple of bumps on the head but I’ll live. Let’s get a disc ready for the cops.”

  “I’m on it.” Kelly shoved the whole burrito into his mouth and then went out behind the counter in the showroom and pulled up the security camera feed on the cashier computer. I had a digital camera hidden behind a small mirror in the showroom. I watched as Kelly opened the video capture program on the screen and scrolled the time bar backwards. “There!” he said, stopping the file at the point when I could be seen opening the front door. He let the file play forward. On the screen, I came in, the man in the suit and cowboy hat behind me. He followed me toward the office and then we were both out of frame. There was no evidence of any violence.

  “Rewind it,” I told him.

  Again, we watched to see if we could make out the man’s face, but the cowboy hat blocked it out, almost as if he’d known about the camera and had kept his head down on purpose.

  “Nothing,” Kelly said. “Shit. Maybe they can use the hat. Like if it’s a custom job or some rare hat you can only by in Europe or something.”

  “I seriously doubt it, this isn’t a movie,” I replied.

  It took ten minutes for the cops to finally show up. Not a super long time, but long enough to make me daydream about the gunman coming back and shooting me and Kelly. At first it was just of couple of patrolmen asking questions—Did I know the guy? Did he take anything? Was I hurt?—then a Detective Larson showed up and asked me many of the same questions again. When the evidence team arrived, both Kelly and I were fingerprinted to rule us out of any trace findings.

  “Can we see the tape,” the detective asked. It wasn’t a question.

  “Kelly, show him.”

  The lot of us stood around and watched it a couple of times, but it was the same with each viewing.

  “We’ll need to take it to the station and analyze it,” Larson said.

  I had Kelly burn the video file to a DVD and handed it over. “Do you need anything more from my employee here?” I asked. The detective said that they might contact Kelly for further questioning, but for now he could go. “Take the next two days off,” I told him.

  “You closing up?” he asked me.

  “Not for good, if that’s what you mean. But for now, yes.”

  When he was gone I decided to offer up the demand the gunman had made of me. The detective wrote it all down in his notepad, then flipped it shut and said, “Not a random request, asking you to hurt your family.”

  “Certainly not.”

  “Sounds like something personal. You’re absolutely sure you don’t know this guy?”

  “As God is my witness.”

  “Okay. We’ll post a car outside of your house, keep an eye out.”

  “You think the guy was serious?”

  “Don’t know, but we take all threats seriously. You have any place you can stay for a couple of days?”

  “Not really. My closest family is in Achron. My wife’s family is in California. They just left two days ago, in fact. But school’s just started again.”

  “Hmmm. I have to ask you if that firearm you mentioned in the safe is registered.”

  “Of course. Are you going to take it?”

  “No. But be careful. If you see or hear anything suspicious, don’t get ballsy. Call us first. Got me? Don’t go trying to fight this guy, gun or not.”

  I nodded, suddenly numbed by the thought someone was out to kill my family and that my only option may be to kill him first. Murder was not the reason I got into the computer business.

  I hung around the store for a bit and watched the cops dust for prints. Of course they found hundreds—I average about four to ten customers a day who come in with viruses and spyware problems, sometimes broken screens or keyboards they’ve spilled soda on. Most of them like to touch the display monitors and keyboards I have for sale near the counter. Computer customers are like monkeys in a playpen.

  I informed Larson I was taking the gun home and he watched as I put it in the black carrying case and stuffed it in a gym bag that had been living in the back of my office for two years.

  When I pulled into my driveway a
t home, I realized I’d done a shitty job shoveling the snow over the weekend and would have to do it again. But not right now. Right now I needed to get in touch with my wife and daughter, needed to tell them what had happened. I still had not decided if I was going to tell them everything though; explaining the proposed threat to our lives seemed like it could wait until there was more concrete evidence to support it. I was still banking on the cowboy just being a whacko who’d had his fun and was now on his way to mug a little old lady at a bus stop somewhere.

  The cold air bit into my neck as I made my way through a small white snow bank to the door. Before entering, my keys in hand, the gym bag over my shoulder, I cast a look around to make sure I was alone. My house butts up against some woods through which a creek winds its way out to Lake Jasmine some six miles north of town. The closest neighbors are a little ways down the road; within sight, but of no help should I suddenly get jumped at my front door. It would take someone at least a minute to run to me, and that’s if they were in prime shape.

  The surrounding fields of snow were bare with the exception of dead trees, chirping birds, and a squirrel digging in the ground for food. It came up with a rock in its mouth, spit it out, and went back to work.

  When I entered, the inside of the house was strangely quiet, and I felt disoriented. I hadn’t been home during a working day for over a year—when you own a small business, you wear too many hats to be absent. All of a sudden it felt like it was Sunday, chiefly because the only time I ever experienced the sun coming through the windows at this angle was on my one day of rest. I stomped the snow off my feet on the small rug inside the door and unbuttoned my coat, slung it over one of the kitchen table chairs, set the gym bag on the table. I grabbed a new pair of boxers and trousers from the hamper near the bathroom, used a wet towel to clean my legs, and changed in the kitchen. At least I smelled better.

  On the counter, the answering machine was blinking, so and hit the message button. Heavy breathing sounded from the speaker, and I went to hit erase, assuming it was a prank call, but then stopped short. Way too coincidental to get a call like this after what had happened this morning. I let the message play, feeling the hairs on the back of my neck prick up, feeling my stomach do a somersault. Finally, a voice spoke, low and gruff.

  Familiar.

  “Hello, Mr. Baker. I just wanted to dispel any thought that I might not be keeping an eye on you. Please know that I am.”

  My scrotum compacted into a tight walnut, and I grabbed the gym bag and yanked the gun out. The voice spoke again: “You now have twelve hours.”

  Without thinking, I spun in a circle, checking out each window to see if anyone was in my yard. Jesus Christ the house had a lot of windows. Big ones. In the kitchen alone there was one over the sink, one near the table, and sliding glass doors that looked out into the backyard. Everything outside was white and sparkling, the birch trees bare enough to see through the woods for at least a hundred feet, if not more. But even in the brilliant afternoon light all those tree trunks could easily mask a human being, especially if he was wearing silver-gray clothing and a white cowboy hat.

  A quick yank of the drawstrings next to each window brought the blinds down and bathed the kitchen in soft shadow.

  The machine was still playing: “And don’t think a police car outside your house is going to scare me off. I never back down when something is owed to me. Guess I’ll be going now. Oh, by the way, you’ve got the safety on.”

  The line went dead, and the machine asked me if I wanted to save or erase the message. I saved it, then popped the tape out and put it in my pocket. I didn’t want my wife or daughter to hear it, and I knew the police would want it.

  My whole body was tense now, and I felt the need to run about and check every entrance to the house, but first I needed to call my wife and daughter. Before I did, I sat at the kitchen table for a moment and looked at the gun. The safety was on, just like he’d said.

  “Doesn’t mean shit,” I told myself. Anybody with half a brain keeps the safety on. This guy was just using con man techniques, nothing else. Or so I hoped.

  For some reason the landline felt unsafe so I used my cell phone to call Angie, my wife. She picked up in her usual cheery voice. “Hi, honey,” she said.

  “Hi. Where are you?”

  “I’m in Fiji, on the beach with a Mojito and a group of Chip ‘N’ Dale’s dancers. You?”

  I wasn’t in a joking mood, but I didn’t want to outright scare the shit out of her either. “I’m home. The store . . . um . . . there was an incident today.”

  Her tone shifted. “Everything okay?”

  “Yeah, fine. Well, not entirely fine. Some whacko came in with a gun and made some threats, roughed me up a bit—”

  “My God! Are you okay! Where are you?”

  “I’m fine. I’m home . . . ”

  A crunching sound from outside caught my attention and I leaned my head into the living room and looked out the front window, saw a police cruiser pulling to a stop in front of my snowy lawn. I assumed it was the protection Detective Larson told me they’d send over.

  “I’m coming home,” she said.

  “No,” I replied. “Look, I want you to relax for a moment and not freak out. Can you do that?”

  “Stop patronizing me, Peter.”

  She always used my full first name when she was pissed at me. “I want you to swing by the school and take Mandy out of class.”

  “What? Why? What’s going on?”

  “Nothing. Nothing. Just, the cops think it might be best if we spent the night somewhere else.”

  “Why the hell would we do that? You’re not telling me something. Don’t omit information from me, Peter. What did this guy say to you? Tell me.”

  “Nothing. Nothing. Just . . . made some dumb threats. The cops think he’s just a nutball out for kicks. But they’re gonna check up on it first. They gotta take it seriously for a bit, so . . . Can you just get Mandy and meet me somewhere? How about the Raddison on Route Four?”

  “I’m calling the cops,” she said. I don’t know what the hell she thought she was going to accomplish doing that, but I couldn’t fault her for having a frantic reaction. It’s not everyday your husband calls and says you need to get your daughter out of school so you can lay low for the night and oh by the way nothing is wrong.

  “Angie, aren’t you listening? The cops are already aware of the situation. In fact there’s a patrol car here at the house—”

  “Well, I’m still calling them.”

  No use arguing with a frantic wife. “Fine, when you’re done can you get Mandy and meet me? Just for the night. Just until we’re sure the guy is gone.”

  She paused. “You didn’t tell him where we live, did you? Peter?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then how would he know where to find you?”

  A shadow passed by outside the driveway door. Footsteps crunched in the newly fallen snow as they made their way around to the front of the house. “Jesus fucking Christ, Angie! Just get Mandy now. I’ll see you in a few minutes.” I hung up, knowing full well I’d just sent her anxiety through the roof, but better she take this seriously than tie me up on the phone while someone was walking around the yard. The footsteps stopped near the front door. Must be the cop come to talk to me. I figured I should tell him about the creepy message on the machine and see what he wanted me to do.

  But then I had one of those movie moment thoughts: what if it was Mr. Cowboy Hat playing dress-up. Right? Like, this is the time in the film when the hero sees the cop, lets his guard down, walks outside, discovers it’s the murderer in a police costume, and gets an axe to the face. Either that or he opens the door and sees the cop, but before he can say anything the psycho killer pops up behind said cop and cuts his head off.

  Okay, maybe I just watched too many movies.

  Just to be safe, I grabbed the black gun case and took out the box of bullets. I shoved fifteen of them into the magazine and set
the gun back in the case’s foam molding. It was the first time I’d loaded the gun outside of the gun range, and it added weight to the situation. If you have to carry a loaded gun around on your person your life is anything but stable. I’d been shooting twice since purchasing it at the request of Angie, who had warned me the area I worked in still had its fair share of trouble-makers. Staring at it now I couldn’t help but think: Guess she was right.

  I went into the living room and looked out at the police cruiser. The cop was sitting at the wheel drinking a cup of coffee. He had the driver’s side window rolled halfway down, and was staring blankly up the street. I’d be remiss to say it didn’t look like he’d moved in some time. I saw no footprints on my snowy lawn or near his car.

  When I stepped outside, his head snapped toward me. The afternoon air was crisp and instantly turned the snot in my nose into sharp little crystals. My coat was still in the kitchen, and my skin burned from the icy breezes. “Afternoon,” the cop said as I stopped beside the car. “Mr. Baker, right?”

  “Yes,” I replied.

  “Officer Valley. Chief sent me down to keep an eye on things. I heard you had a run in with some kook this morning?”

  “Yeah. Any word on that video I gave you guys.”

  He shrugged. “Nobody told me about a video. They find anything they’ll probably call you direct. Don’t’ worry, if anybody comes by they’ll see the car here and leave. That’s typically how it works.”

  “And the not so typical times?”

  He gave me one of those give-me-some-credit looks. “It always works that way.”

  I let the attitude slide by; I was more interested in why he’d walked up my driveway. “I saw you come up to the door a minute ago. Was there something you needed?”

  “I didn’t come up to the door.”

  “You sure?”

  “Pretty sure. Unless I’m sleep walking when I’m not asleep. Been here the whole time. Why, you see something?”