Then we’re bouncing and jostling. Tires dip into ruts. One spins before catching. We’re off road. Something shrieks across the windshield and finally we jolt to a stop.
He pulls off the scarf and then motions for me to exit the van. I blink in the glow of the interior light. There’s only black outside the windows. The moonless night offers no light and I’m under a canopy of leaves.
A wave of nausea overcomes me. Have I misread the guy? If I was a gangster and wanted to get rid of someone, isn’t this the sort of place I might take her?
“It’s going to be okay,” he says softly. Gently. “Come see your father.”
And then I know. It is the kind of place you dispose of somebody or some body. But it’s not me. Not tonight anyways. It was my dad—three years ago, but maybe not. Maybe there’s a hideout nearby. Maybe it’s a place to disappear.
I open the door, pushing back brush, and step down. The ground’s uneven and spongy, not yet completely frozen and too soft for the van. We’re on some farmer’s road. Scraggly cornstalk stumps rank on the left, dense forest looms on the right. The tips of the crutches pierce the frost and sink deep into the earth. Every dozen steps, the man stops to wait. After about ten minutes we turn and push through bramble and into the woods. I’m numb. Both my body from the cold and my mind from what I’m about to see.
In the woods, the dark is near total and I struggle with roots and grasping deadfall. I can hear Ponytail, both his heavy tread through the leaves and old snow and his huffing breaths. I’m exhausted but I don’t want him to stop. There isn’t going to be some little cabin, chugging smoke, dad waving from the porch. There’s gonna be a—
“Here,” he says, and he waits until I’m balancing on my good foot beside him. “You wanted to find him. Here he is. I don’t want you getting hurt, kid. I was a friend of you’s dad’s. But blood in, blood out, you know?”
No marker rests here. No gravestone. There’s nothing but fall’s leavings.
“No,” I say. This can’t be what happened to him. I stare at the small clearing and then back at Ponytail. “No!” I scream, and then with all the years of pent-up frustration and fear, I swing my crutch. It lands squarely on Ponytail’s shoulder but he only grunts, taking the hit. I scream again.
“Dad.” It’s not possible.
I drop to my knees and claw past the icy top layer and into wet leaves and then soil. I’m digging with my fingernails and screaming, screaming. Cold, wet, greasy earth. Every stone and stick is bone. Every clump of old leaves, a scalp of black hair. Daddy.
The guy hooks his arms under my armpits and tries to haul me off, but I whirl free and scrabble deeper into the earth. My ribs burn. Earth mounds to my right and left. I don’t feel the scrapes and cuts on my hands even as they form. Earth spatters my face, arms, and chest. I taste soil. Dad. I retch and start digging again.
Ten minutes later I’m covered in sweat and dirt, and I collapse, sobbing. My dad’s dead. My daddy. The man who showed me how to use a hammer. The daddy who raced me around the warehouse. Who taught me to be me. My daddy is gone.
What happened? I turn to Ponytail. His hands are clasped and I think a tear glistens on his cheek.
“Who are you?” I demand, but what I really want to know is the answer to the question: Who was my dad?
Ponytail’s silent.
But I know how to find the answer to my question.
“Take me back,” I say.
We begin the slow trek to the van.
Chapter 15
Ponytail stays silent for the rest of the drive, tugging off my blindfold once we’re on the McDonald–Cartier Bridge, crossing back into Ottawa. He then hands back my phone.
“Did you pull the trigger?” I ask, cursing the tremor in my speech. Now able to see, some of my confidence returns. To me it’s as if I’ve entered a parallel universe. In all this time, I’d never considered that my dad might be dead.
He gives a small shake of his head.
“Did you bury him?”
I watch as his Adam’s apple bobs, but that’s all I get. Ponytail refuses to answer.
“I thought every kid deserves to know what happened to their dad,” I say and I can’t keep the tears from my voice.
“They deserve to stop waiting,” he replies.
He drops himself back at the church parking lot and disappears before I can say anything more. After midnight—the shelter has swept its clients off the roadway, and the place is empty.
It’s late or early, depending on your perspective, and the streets are clear of traffic. Good thing too because I’m not focusing much on the road as I drive home. I can smell the earth on me. The earth of my father’s grave. Maybe even the dust of his bones.
Once at Assured Destruction I stumble to the door. A sheet of cardboard leans against it. Displayed is a hastily spray painted bouquet of flowers: Jonny’s version of I was here and Where are you? I’m sure my phone has similar messages.
But tonight I don’t need Jonny. I need a very specific part of Shadownet. This is a resurrection.
I slam open the front door and don’t even bother with lights as I clamber down the stairs to Shadownet. I clap on the network and wince at the server’s grinding sound, but I don’t even need an Internet connection tonight. Everything I need is right here.
I sit in my command chair and face the screen of my father’s old computer. With my jacket still on, it’s only then that I notice the cone of frost my breath makes in the green light of the screen. No heat—we’ve been cut off. I’ve been cut off. Not that it matters. Cold and dark is perfect for a séance.
The computer before me houses the hard drive my mom asked me to destroy three years ago. The one I said I’d never search through without her permission. But she can’t offer that right now. Maybe she never will be able to again. And this is different. This isn’t me invading her privacy any more. This isn’t my dad’s computer—it’s mine. It’s my inheritance.
I break down into angry tears, and for a few minutes the screen of my dad smiling at me is too blurry. Finally, I draw a shuddering breath. Clear my eyes. And begin my search.
I’m more scared now than I was when I hacked the hard drive of what I had thought to be a serial killer. I chicken out; instead of searching files and emails, I open the photos. Photos I’ve already allowed myself to see. Pictures of him opening presents at a birthday or diving into a pool. I pause at one of his hockey team—Ponytail? Their helmets are off, tucked under armpits, but Ponytail’s hair isn’t back, it’s down. My dad’s free arm is around Ponytail’s shoulders. Were they good buddies?
I move on, sifting through images of me being a dork in a school play costume. Few photos actually my father. He’s behind the camera, and it makes me realize that no one has taken any pictures of me since he left. Selfies don’t count. I laugh at a picture of my mother, her fingers splayed as she tries to block a photo of her in the bath. Dad was so fun. And then he left. Why?
I tear myself from the pictures and start in on file folders.
Contracts, presentations to potential customers, academic papers on e-recycling, letters he wrote to Assured Destruction’s downstream recyclers, the guys who melt down the gear we send them. He wanted to know the working conditions of laborers. He was working really hard to find more business up until he took off. Died.
I open his email program. This is where I will find out what happened. One email from years ago is marked Tina’s Tests. It’s to his brother, Uncle Todd, who stopped contacting us soon after dad departed. It reads:
Subject: Tina’s Tests
Tina’s sick. Really sick. I feel so helpless, like the only thing I can do is make her comfortable, protect her and Janus, be a good provider. Todd, it’s multiple sclerosis …
I remember Uncle Todd calling a lot early on, but they live i
n Washington, so it’s natural that I don’t see much of him. In a message to my mom, Dad wrote:
Subject: Playing hooky
Let’s blow this pop stand, you, me, a bottle of champagne and a blanket in the park. What are we celebrating? Love. My wife, my life. Love and miracles.
I’m nearly choking, but I opened his hard drive for answers and all I have so far are more questions.
Then I remember what Sw1ftM3rcy said about deleting all my draft messages. I haven’t done the same for my dad’s inbox and having a three-year-old dead guy’s messages sent out might not help me keep his hard drive a secret from my mom.
When I open the drafts folder, I nearly fall out of my chair.
To: Rosebud
From: Daddy
Subject: Mommy and me
It’s a letter to me from the grave.
Chapter 16
I remember how Daddy called me his Rosebud. Tears blur the screen again, and I rub desperately at my eyes until they clear.
Rosebud, I may not be around much in the next while. I can’t tell you why or for how long, but if I’m not, I want you to know a few things.
He knew he was going to die.
I love you and will always love you. Here’s what I’ve learned.
Life: It’s not about money, or about being great at something. It’s about being the best person you can be, that and loving your friends and family. In life you will have many choices to make. Follow your gut. How you choose will determine who you are.
Luck: Luck plays a bigger role than most people believe, but successful people are those who kept trying. Never be jealous of the success of others. They deserve it. I assure you.
About love: You’re not quite ready for boys, but you will be and when you are, I hope you remember the way Mommy and I hugged and held hands and touched one another. How we helped one another become the person each of us wanted to be. How we gave each other the gift of freedom and made each other feel that anything was possible. Find a boy willing to do these things and you will know love.
I don’t want to say anymore, my Rosebud. I suppose I hope I never have to send this. I have so much I want to say to you.
Be curious, be brave.
Take good care of your mom. Take good care of yourself.
My greatest achievement is you. I love you.
I’m sobbing with my face in my hands. Then I close my fingers into a fist and slam it down on the desk.
“You didn’t send it, Dad,” I say. “You should have hit send.” My voice echoes. The mouse pointer hovers over the delete button, but I shift it away.
It takes another minute for me to stop shaking. I’m drained. But I need to finish this. Drawing another breath, I scan to the final email exchanges between my parents.
They used to email each other a lot. Sort of used it like text message exchanges, because they’re old, I suppose. Even with my mom upstairs, she emailed whenever she had a question because of her mobility challenges. After he left, we started using the intercom more, but an intercom doesn’t work for the types of messages they were sending. I would have heard.
I scroll down and start about a month before he left. Even with my eyes grainy with sleep, I might as well hear the whole story rather than jump to the end.
To: James
From: Tina
Subject: Weird Van
Have you seen the white van parked across the road? I’m watching them from the window.
His reply:
Subject:Re: Weird Van
I’ll take care of it.
The next day my mom emailed again.
Van is still there. Have you called the police? I can.
His reply:
No police. They’re not doing anything illegal.
Mom:
I don’t feel safe with them always there. I got up last night. It was still parked across the street.
Him:
It was probably empty. I said, I’ll look into it.
Mom:
Okay, honey.
Huh. Nothing to see here so far. It looks like my dad was under some sort of surveillance before it all went down. Maybe it was the police.
There are a series of emails about new government policies around e-waste and certification yada-yada-yada, then my mom emailed:
Subject: U Technical Receivable
I called U Technical about their being late and they told me to talk to you. Have you worked out a payment plan or something? I’m worried. That’s a big customer.
His reply:
Subject: Re: U Technical Receivable
Don’t worry about U Technical. It’s my account, let me handle it.
Mom:
I may not be well, love, but let me carry some of the burden …
His:
My Rose … there are no burdens here. Some of these accounts simply prefer working with me. I took the U Technical folks out for dinner just last week. I’ll track down our money.
I can sense my mother’s frustration and suspicion at this point, but there’s nothing urgent. I scroll another week further into the future.
My mom emailed:
Subject: Jacket
What’s “Bitchain”? Janus found a jacket downstairs. I’ve never seen it before, but your name is on it. And you’ve earned your “links”?
His reply:
It’s mine. Just leave it alone.
So—I don’t remember finding any jacket. Maybe it’s where I saw the skull—the one from the clubhouse, or whatever the mansion was, the customer in the middle of nowhere. What is becoming clear is that my dad was a part of it all. This Bitchain. There are no emails for a couple of days. I can sense the tension in the house.
Then my mom emailed:
I know what Bitchain is. It’s why the van’s outside. You’re part of a gang.
I lean in to grip the edges of the monitor, the screen warm on my fingers.
His reply:
It’s not a gang. Just some hackers having fun and doing a lot of good too. No one gets hurt.
Mom:
I’m disgusted. And think I’m going to be ill. You’re money laundering for them, aren’t you? AREN’T you?
Him:
Listen, let’s talk about this face to face. I’ve kept food on the table for the last several years, haven’t I? No one gets hurt. I’m a bithead, not a Hell’s Angel.
Mom:
You have a choice to make, James. Either you leave Bitchain, or you leave here.
Dad:
And what about Janus? And what about your health?
Mom:
I would rather die than be married to a criminal.
And that’s the last email. I slouch back into my chair.
But someone did die, didn’t they? Hadn’t Ponytail said, “Blood in, blood out?” They killed my dad because he decided to leave the gang. It was the last email from my dad. A weird one-week gap between that and the final blow up when he left.
If life wasn’t supposed to be about money, then why’d he join a gang? Was his note to me full of lies? Things he thought a father should say?
For some reason I start humming bits of a song my mom used to sing to me. She’d change the words so that instead of son, she’d say daughter and instead of boy, she’d say girl, or dad, mom, but everything else was pretty much the same. It’s called Cat’s Cradle. One of her final lines was: My girl’s just like me. She’d grown up just like me.
But it was wishful thinking. I’m not like my mom at all. I’m just like my dad. And that’s not good.
Chapter 17
I search for Bitchain on Google, and all I find are links to articles with bitch ain’t in them.
So my dad was a gangster.
But not a yo-yo-yo I’m gonna mess you up type. He called himself a bithead, a computer geek, so I suspect he was a cracker like Sw1ftM3rcy. Assured Destruction was used to launder money, which makes sense now. It’s why A ZaZa and U Technical and AAA Limited are all nothing businesses. They’re just shell companies to pass money through. Money that evidently came through hacking and probably carding. Again, Peter’s words resonate. After I told him that I’d solved how the crackers were intercepting credit card information, he’d said: You’ve stopped the leak but you haven’t stopped the cracker. Don’t you realize how deep this goes?
My phone alarm bleats and I realize that it’s time for my IRC chat with Sw1ftM3rcy. I’d forgotten and I’m not ready for this, I’ve too much to sort out. That said, I’m not expecting to sleep anyway, and having just discovered my dad’s never coming home soon, a distraction is welcome. I sign on to the chat.
Despite the cold outside and the lack of heat in the basement, I feel flushed. I’m almost as nervous as I was during my first chat with Sw1ftM3rcy.
Assured Destruction: The Complete Series Page 38