Predator

by Terri Blackstock

  As if she knew how.

  She hoped she could find a firing range, and someone to teach her what in the world she was doing.

  When she got home, she went into the quiet house, feeling a bit more empowered as she set her box on the table. Her father wasn’t home, so she sat down and took the gun out of the box. There was a red lock on it, but the salesman had shown her how to remove it. She found the key, took it off.

  Her hands were still trembling as she slipped her hand around the grip, her finger in front of the trigger. What had she been thinking? Why would the clerk sell her something so big?

  She pushed the slide with her thumb, making the cylinder pop out. She made sure it wasn’t loaded, then popped it back in. Lifting the gun, she aimed at the wall and squeezed the trigger…and squeezed…and squeezed.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.” She couldn’t pull the trigger. There was too much resistance. She gripped the gun with both hands and squeezed with two fingers. It still resisted, but finally it clicked, pinching her finger.

  This was no good. How had she bought a gun she could barely shoot?

  She would have to take it back. She rifled through the bag with the box of .22 bullets, and found the receipt.

  All Gun Sales Are Final

  Great. She sat back in her chair, wondering if a burst of adrenaline would help her shoot if the time came. Target practice would be miserable. Her fingers just weren’t strong enough.

  She should have gone to the gym more often.

  The thought of finger-calisthenics pulled her thoughts to a halt, and she smiled. She was an idiot. A complete idiot. She started to laugh—soft, breezy laughter, then it turned into hysterical laughter that lost its way in her head, making her fold over the table and lay her forehead against the wood. Tears rose up in her eyes, as gales of hilarity seized her.

  Finally, she rounded over the rise of her laughter and slid the slope back down. When the laughter died, her face was wet.

  All humor drained from her heart as she stared at the gun. She was stuck with it, and she couldn’t afford another one. It would have to do. She’d practice, and build up the strength in her fingers. She wondered if they had mini barbells made especially for fingers. Somehow, she didn’t find that thought amusing anymore.

  She put the gun back in its box, not sure what else to do with it. Gathering the bag with her boxes of ammunition, she took them into her room and hid them on a shelf in her closet. Her dad would be scared to death to know she had a gun, as if she were an eight-year-old girl breaking into the gun cabinet.

  Maybe he was right.

  But even knowing how hard it was to shoot, she hoped the gun would give any attacker pause. He wouldn’t know she was a limp-fingered beginner. Maybe it would serve its purpose whether she ever fired it or not.

  Thirty-six

  Ian followed Ryan to the Apple Store, and they stood side by side as they ordered new laptops and iPhones. As they waited for their orders, Ian unloaded.

  “There’s something not right about this whole thing, man.”

  “No, it isn’t right. It’s downright wrong.”

  “I don’t mean in a moral sense. I mean in the sense that something smells in Denmark.”

  The reference to Hamlet didn’t quite click. “What do you mean?”

  “Do you realize how much information that Data-Gather program is collecting? It’s not just advertising stuff, man. It’s schedules, likes and dislikes, habits, connections, of every person on our site. It’s like they’re looking into people’s homes. Only not into their homes. Into their heads. It’s scary.”

  “But that’s no surprise. We knew they were doing this for advertisers.”

  “The advertisers need to know what time people go to work? What time they get home? What political affiliations they have? What banks they use? What their kids’ names are? Pictures of their kids?”

  “Data-Gather collects all that?”

  “Yeah, man. They have search strings for all that stuff.” A clerk came near them with a customer, showing her the latest notebook computer. Ian lowered his voice. “I don’t think this is just about advertising. I think it’s something else. If this is legal, it’s sure not ethical. And firing me isn’t going to get me off their scent.”

  “Ian, if you hack in again, they’ll know,” Ryan whispered. “They’ll have you arrested.”

  “Not if I do it right.”

  “What do you think you’re gonna find?”

  Ian shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe where all this information is really going. What it’s really gonna be used for. Man, we need to get together and figure this out. I’m telling you, something stinketh.”

  “Then let’s do it, Hamlet. My house or thine?”

  “How ’bout yours? My garbage is probably festering.”

  Armed with their new equipment, they went by Ian’s house to get his backup drive, then headed to Ryan’s house.

  Though Ryan had the resources to buy much bigger digs when he’d moved to Houston, he’d bought a 1500-square-foot home in a subdivision. The realtor, who’d hoped for a huge commission, had asked him for a wish list for the house of his dreams. At twenty-three, he really didn’t have a dream for a house, so his list included a bedroom, a toilet that flushed, and a microwave oven.

  She did better than that, but he rejected all of the mansions before going in. Finally, she humored him with a new house in a neighborhood close to work. He’d walked through it once before deciding to buy it.

  The place was still not furnished, except for his living room and bedroom. The dining room and other two bedrooms sat empty. But he was doing better than Ian, who’d bought one of those mansions but still slept on a mattress on his bedroom floor.

  When they unloaded their new laptops, they transferred their files from their backup drives. Because Ian was a backup fanatic, he had backups of his backups. He’d even backed up the code he’d gotten from Willow’s computer on a small external drive he’d kept in his briefcase. While their computers worked on transferring their files, they sent out emails to all of their contacts, letting them know their new phone numbers.

  When they finished with that, Ian showed Ryan the code and search strings he’d gotten from Willow’s computers. His friend was right. The amount of data they were gathering about GrapeVyne clients was unwarranted, even for advertising purposes. If something illegal was going on, it might explain their reaction to the breach.

  “Do you think they acquired GrapeVyne to help them collect all that data about millions of people?” Ian asked.

  Ryan couldn’t believe that was true. “They acquired us because we were worth a lot, and they knew the sky was the limit.”

  “I don’t know. There we were, this break-even company, and they swooped in with millions of dollars. For what? Our business model wasn’t that profitable.”

  “They saw our potential. And we’ve fulfilled it. We’ve made them a good profit for the last few years, and our membership is growing by twenty-five thousand people a day.”

  Ian looked at Ryan. “So tell me again what you saw when you went over there?”

  Ryan leaned back and messed up his hair. “An entire floor of servers.”

  “So why would they need that? They need it because they’re collecting all this data on millions and millions of people. Don’t you get it?”

  “No, not really.”

  “Well, just imagine what all that information in the hands of the wrong group could do. It could be given to terrorists, rogue nations, political groups…”

  “Where do you get this stuff?”

  “I’m telling you, it doesn’t take a brain surgeon to figure out that this is too much. They fired us over it, Ryan. They weren’t just mad because I overstepped my bounds. They fired us because we were getting too close to the truth.”

  Ryan tried to process that. “So what if that’s it? What can we do about it?”

  “I’m going to start by finding out everything I can about the
board members. What their interests are, where they invest their money, political affiliations, other companies they have interest in.”

  “Ian, please don’t be reckless. Don’t hack into any accounts—”

  The doorbell rang. What now? Ryan went to the door, looked out through the peephole. Krista Carmichael stood there.

  He turned back, saw the laundry on his couch, the shoes on the floor, books and papers everywhere.

  “Hold on a minute!” he called as he ran back and scooped up the laundry. “Get your shoes, man. It’s Krista.”

  Ian slipped his feet back into his shoes. “What is up with you?”

  “I don’t want her to think I’m a pig. She’s never been here before.” He ran into his bedroom and dropped the clothes on his bed. There wasn’t time to clean off his coffee table or straighten papers.

  He tried to steady his breathing and opened the door. “Krista!”

  She looked distraught. “Ryan, I’m so sorry. I just heard on the news you were fired.”

  “It’s on the news?” He motioned her in, then turned on his TV. FOX News had a crawl about him at the bottom of the screen. “Good grief.” He turned to Ian. “Look at this.”

  Ian shook his head. “You didn’t think this would go unnoticed, did you?”

  “It’s my fault, isn’t it?” Krista asked.

  “No, it’s not your fault. Krista, this is Ian.”

  “You were fired too,” she said in greeting. “This is horrible. If you hadn’t had me come and talk to the board of directors, they wouldn’t have gotten so mad. I never meant for you to lose your jobs. That’s the last thing I wanted.”

  “I appreciate that,” Ryan said, “but that’s not really the reason we were fired.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “We’re still trying to regroup,” he said. “It’s not like either of us will go hungry. But since they’re reporting this on cable news, I’m going to be getting interview requests. I just sent the media an email with my updated contact info, and I should be hearing from them soon. The problem is, I’ve been threatened with a hefty lawsuit if I talk to the press about GrapeVyne or Willow, so I can’t. But you can.”

  She frowned. “What?”

  “You can go to the interviews with me. I’ll say a few things about Internet safety and then turn it over to you. You can say the things I’m legally not allowed to say.”

  Ian chuckled. “Way to get revenge. I like it.”

  Ryan sighed. “I’m not out for revenge. I just want to make a difference. If I have contract prohibitions, then we have to find another way to alert the public.” He looked at her. “What do you say?”

  She frowned. “I don’t know. Television makes me nervous.”

  “Krista, people need to hear from you right now. Between the two of us we could really raise awareness. Isn’t that what you’ve wanted?”

  She thought about that for a minute, dropped her head down, and looked at her feet. Her silky hair fell over her face, and he fought the urge to sweep it back behind her ear.

  “What program would we go on?”

  He shrugged. “Take your pick. Probably got my choice here.”

  “When?”

  “Tomorrow?” he asked. “That would give us enough time to decide what we want to say. We could send those statistics you have ahead for them to put on the screen while we’re talking.”

  He saw the conflict on her face, the wheels turning behind her eyes. “I guess I can’t really say no, can I? It’s what I’ve wanted. To educate the public. You’d give me a forum that I would never have by myself.”

  “So I’ll get the forum, and you’ll give them the one-two punch.”

  Ian cleared his throat. “Are you gonna tell the press what Willow’s doing?”

  “I don’t know. I have to think about it.” Ryan gave Krista a self-conscious glance. “So let’s get together tonight and prep for the interviews.”

  Ian looked up from his computer, grinning. Ryan wanted to kill him.

  “I can’t,” she said. “I have church tonight.”

  “On Wednesday night?”

  “Yes, it’s our mid-week service. I need to go.”

  “You can’t skip just this once?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t like to miss. Some of the girls at the teen center come, and I need to be there. It’s only an hour. You could come with me, though, and we could work on the interview afterward.”

  Again, Ian shot him a look. Ryan ignored him this time. “Yeah, I can come with you. It’s been a long time since I’ve done church, but I guess it’s like riding a bicycle.”

  “What about you, Ian?” Krista said. “Why don’t you come too?”

  Ian shook his head. “Can’t. I’m Jewish.”

  Ryan grunted. “You are not Jewish! You’re Italian.”

  Ian grinned. “I was thinking of converting.”

  Krista smiled. “Okay, maybe another time. Ryan, do you want me to pick you up?”

  “How about I pick you up?”

  She looked troubled. “I don’t know. I don’t really want to show up for church in a Jaguar. It would call a lot of attention to us.”

  He laughed. “You’re disparaging my car? Ian, did you hear that? She’s disparaging my car.”

  Ian grinned. “I knew I liked her.”

  Her laugh was like music. “So it starts at six. Why don’t you come to my house at five thirty, and we’ll go in my car?”

  “Okay, I’ll be there.”

  She started back to the door. “Shalom, Ian.”

  Ian laughed as she closed the door behind her. “She’s a doll. You better not blow this date.”

  “It’s not a date. It’s church.”

  “Church with her. It’s a date, man.”

  “It’s not a date.” Ryan went to the window and looked out at Krista as she pulled out of the driveway. “She probably sees me as a project. Her latest mission field. Once she gets me in church, she won’t give me the time of day.”

  “Do you hear yourself? You’re a millionaire, and you’re worried that this girl won’t like you. Don’t you know we both got better looking the minute we started depositing those checks? She’s probably giddy.”

  “She’s not like that. You heard her. She doesn’t even want to be seen in my car.”

  Ian chuckled. “Anyway…wish I had some hot chick to get my mind off my unemployment. If you don’t think of her that way, mind if I ask her out?”

  “You’d have to give up your dream of converting to Judaism.”

  “Can do. So that’s a yes?”

  “No,” Ryan said. “That’s a no.”

  Ian grinned like a fifth-grader as he went back to his computer. “I don’t blame you, man.”

  Ryan wondered what they wore to mid-week services these days. The last thing he wanted to do was embarrass his date.

  Thirty-seven

  David’s hands were shaking as he sat over coffee with Megan Quinn in Rice Coffeehouse, on the university campus. Upbeat pop music played over the sound system, and the voices of students around them were out of sync with his dark mood.

  Megan seemed nervous and kept looking around, probably searching for the man who’d attacked her. Her face looked terrible, purple bruises attesting to how close she’d come to death. Her crutches leaned against her booth, and she kept her hand on one of them, as if to use it as a weapon if she needed it. David could see that her torture hadn’t yet ended.

  “The police haven’t found the guy yet,” he said. “And that’s just not acceptable. He’s still out there, and we have to stop him.”

  “I agree,” Megan said. “But what can we do?”

  “I’m going to find him myself. So I need as clear a description as you gave the police. Every detail you can think of. I know you said he was about five foot ten and had dark hair. But I need more. When you first saw him, before you were afraid of him, what did you see? What made you trust him?”

  She sighed, and veins in
her forehead bulged, as if the very act of thinking about him caused her blood pressure to spike. “He didn’t look like a killer. He looked like a clean-cut, decent person when I first saw him. He had on a long raincoat. His smile seemed…pleasant.”

  “Did you notice the color of his eyes?”

  “No, it was kind of dark.”

  “So his hair. You said it was brown. Dark brown, light brown…?”

  “Dark.”

  “Did you see the color of his shirt?”

  She frowned. “How will that help you find him?”

  “If he’s someone I know, I might recognize the shirt. Maybe if it was someone Ella knew, that’s why she got in his car.”

  “Oh.” She looked off into the distance. “I think his shirt was white.”

  That wasn’t helpful. He tried something else. “What about his face? Did he have bags under his eyes? Dark circles?”

  “I couldn’t see that clearly,” she said.

  “Was his nose big or small?”

  “Long,” she said. “His lips were kind of thick.”

  An immediate image popped into his mind. Ron Luzzo at his church had thick lips and a long nose. He was about five-ten and had brown hair.

  Ron Luzzo. He was an insurance salesman. He’d watched Ella grow up and had running jokes with her, hugs and high fives. Could he have been her killer?

  “What kind of accent did he have? Was it Texan?”

  “A little, but not heavy. His voice was deep. Authoritative.”

  He wasn’t sure if Ron Luzzo had that kind of voice, but then, he didn’t have a young girl’s perspective.

  “I know someone that could be,” he said. “I’ll try to get a picture of him and show it to you.”

  She looked hopeful. “You can send it to my phone.”

  “All right.” He would see him at church tonight. If he sent it to her from his phone, he could have an answer from her right away. If it was him, he’d make sure the man didn’t get away. He’d inflict instant justice.

  He took Megan back to her dorm, dropped her off at the door, and watched her crutch her way in. For a moment he sat there, wondering how many bones in Ella’s body had been broken before he’d thrown her into her grave. How many stitches would she have needed if they’d patched her back up?