Hashtag Rogue

by Chautona Havig

  That left a conundrum. If he flipped on the light, the surveillance crew would check in on him. If he didn’t, he’d either need to take something to make him sleep—not possible with the Flynne and Schmatloch situations—or lie there until boredom ate his soul.

  Soul… Mark sat up, flipped on the lamp, and waited with fingers hovering over the intercom button. It blipped. He tapped it. “All’s well. Can’t sleep. Reading instead.” All two-word sentences. If he used three words, they’d mobilize. Can’t even remember what it’s like not to have to think about it. Would Claire be able to stand it?

  That was all it took. Mark pulled the Bible from his drawer and flipped it open. Acts… he’d start there. Again.

  One chapter, two… five. Fifteen… Two hours passed and he’d nearly finished when his phone blipped. Mark turned the page with one hand and swiped his screen with the other. His gut churned at the name that glowed back at him. Nick Fahrina. What prompts this one?

  “Hello.”

  “You have a problem.”

  Interesting choice of words… None of his usual disconnected responses would work with that one. He hesitated, but there wasn’t any way out of it—not if Fahrina called. “What kind of problem?”

  “I have a gal dogging me everywhere I go. She’s convinced that her sister was murdered, and it’s being covered up.”

  “And this is my problem because…”

  A huff sounded more like an arctic blast through the airwaves. “Because I finally gave her ten minutes to convince me to look into her concerns. She did it in one.”

  “And her name is…?”

  Nick Fahrina’s voice deepened as he said, “Olivienne Todd.”

  Oh, no…. Without bothering to deny it, Mark asked, “What convinced you?”

  “She said, and I quote, ‘My sister supposedly died while hiking in the woods up behind Lake Vienna. Here’s the thing. I found out that she paid her gas bill the day she died. You can’t get cell reception up much past the lake once you start hiking—not since they upgraded the tower…’”

  Changing the date of death bit us this time. A few choice words bubbled over.

  Fahrina didn’t sound amused when he said, “Glad you find it funny. I have a girl who is on a mission to prove a cover-up.”

  “Sorry. Made the wrong call that time. Should have stuck with the actual date of death.”

  “I can trust you to handle this?”

  “Yes.” Mark disconnected the call and stared at the empty bed beside him. “With any other woman, she’d be there—now. When I want her.” He picked up the Bible and glared at it. A moment later, it smashed against the wall beside his bathroom door and landed in a heap on the floor.

  Six

  A keyring hung suspended from one finger. Another finger flipped the far-right key up… It fell over to the other side with the slow swing of a hammer-head carnival ride and landed with a plink. The next key didn’t make it to the top before it clattered back into place. Plink!

  Nondescript. It was the best description for the house on Rosewood. Nondescript. Gray siding, painted white brick, manicured landscaping that looked ripped from a Playmobil set, obligatory welcome mat.

  Two days they’d hunkered down in the house belonging to Karl and Mona Detweiler. That silly peacock of a girl, Flynne Dortmann—another German name. There was Schmatloch, too. Three. Interesting how that worked out.

  Another flick to the last key. This time it spun around as it should. Plink!

  How long could they hole up in the Detweiler’s house before fear sent them running? That would make a mess of things. Too much hassle to look when one could just follow.

  Alert The Agency somehow? The tech guy-turned-agent… Tyler. Yes… he and Flynne had a thing going.

  Another key couldn’t quite make the crest and fell back into place. Plink!

  As tempting as it might be, the simplest solution, as usual, was the most obvious. The brother. A bozo picture appeared, and with a tap everything changed. “Rosewood Court. Slow pass once an hour.” A moment later, a picture zipped its way across cities and countryside in the space of a second. “Slow in front of that one.”

  “For how long?”

  “You’ll know.”

  At the disconnect, a flick of the hand sent all keys spinning over the finger, caught in one movement.

  Splink!

  Thirty-six hours. Twice as long as she’d expected—and twice as irritating. If Keith hadn’t found them yet, then she needed to act herself. As it was, Erika knew more about how to do the protective detail than Flynne did. The girl alternated between cowering in the house with all drapes and blinds closed and practically announcing their presence to the world.

  “Hey, Flynne?”

  The girl turned the tranq gun on her again. “Yeah?”

  “If you want to keep the cops at bay, you might not want to do that where anyone can drive by and see you.”

  “Do wha—oh.” She turned her back to the window and kept it pointed. “Tape your ankles.”

  “What?

  Flynne glared. “Choose. Taped up or in the bathroom with me. I gotta pee.”

  “Can you just grab some zip ties from the kitchen trash or something? What if I promise that I won’t move? There’s not a landline in here, anyway, so it’s not like I can call for help.”

  Flynne got a look on her face—one Erika didn’t like. The girl waved the gun at her. “Go on. I have an idea.”

  “What’s that?”

  “What my mom did when I was little. It works great, and we don’t have to, like, trash the planet with wasted duct tape.”

  At the bathroom, Flynne entered and pushed the door mostly shut. “Grab the handle on the inside and hold on. If you let go, I’m chasing you down and shooting you in the butt with this thing again, and I don’t care who sees.”

  “I’ll promise not to go anywhere if you’ll find a way to show me the guy you think is stalking me.”

  Flynne spun in place and stared. “Pinky promise? On like, Keith’s grave—or better… Jesus’ grave?

  “Not allowed to do the swear thing, Flynne. I’m pretty sure that’s one of the things we can’t do. But, seriously, I don’t want to be where someone can get me if they’re after me. I’ll stand there, hold the dumb doorknob, listen to all the things I do not want to hear going on in that bathroom, but then you’ve got to find a way to show me this guy.”

  It took twenty-seven seconds—not that Erika counted or anything—for Flynne to enter the bathroom and empty her bladder. It took triple that time for her to exit—wiping damp hands on her yoga pants. At Erika’s prodding look, she just said, “If you’re going to dress one-handed, you shouldn’t wear anything with Lycra.”

  She held the gun the whole time. Why? So she could shoot my fingers? Really? So as not to antagonize the girl with the gun, Erika reduced her sarcasm level to Defcon 5 and said, “I’ll try to remember that. Where’s a computer?”

  The home office—impressive. With dual, large-screened monitors and a desktop that booted in ten seconds flat, if Erika had a job that required any techiness, she’d want that room. “Nice.”

  “It’s not bad. I tried to get Mona to let me make a few security tweaks, but she said no.” The sigh that followed sounded just like a toddler doing his best to sound as grown up as possible to show his mother how ridiculous she is.

  The first password failed—as did the second, third, fifth, and tenth. Lucky eleven, however, got her in. “Interesting,” Flynne muttered.

  “What’s interesting?”

  “I threw out her boss’s name and it got me into her computer. Why her boss’s name? That seems weird.”

  “What’s weird is that you not only remembered that name, but you thought to use it.”

  Flynne began typing, and as she did, she explained. “Always start with levels of contact—not knowledge, contact. Spouse, kids, pets, favorite things—and move out. Since merlot didn’t make it, I tried her boss because he was next. I suspect
ed her personal trainer. At least he’s eptastically hot.”

  Ignoring the eptastic word, Erika brought the conversation back to some semblance of normalcy. “How would you know?”

  “Instagram.”

  Who could argue with that? Some women posted their breakfasts of coffee and muffins, clearly Mona Detweiler liked to post her crunches and stud-muffin. Before she could comment, a third, incognito window prompted Erika to ask. “Why are you using those? You of all people should know that they’re not any safer than a regular window.”

  “And you should know enough about computer stuff to know that people have to know that they can look and where to look to find it. It’s the best I can do from this site without messing with stuff that wouldn’t be right.”

  Like kidnapping, drugging, and holding me hostage is the epitome of moral excellence. A wince followed. Ouch. Salty, much?

  “Okay… here…”

  One by one, pictures of a man, usually hidden from view, appeared on the screen. “I dated each one—that’s a month ago… and that’s—”

  “So, you’ve found how many pictures of Brent Knupp outside Java the Hut?”

  “Brent…” Flynne turned and stared at her. “Brent, who?”

  “Knupp. He’s a regular—comes in with his girls sometimes.” Erika took over the mouse and tried to find a picture with one of them, but there were none. “Odd… that parking space.”

  Flynne huffed. “It’s like he knows it’s the only one in the entire place where I can’t read the license number. I can get a partial on the one next to it, but—”

  “That’s just it. He always parks on the east side and comes in the side door. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him out there. He must come in when I’m gone, too.”

  Flynne’s fingers flew over the keys. Backspaced, tried again. A wail that Erika couldn’t understand at all filled the office.

  In fact, she became so engrossed in her search that Erika could have snatched the gun from her. However, just as the thought occurred to her, a list of files came up on the screen. Erika recognized the website name. Java the Hut’s security service. And the files… .wav. “Are those?”

  “Yeah. What time does Brent Krup—”

  “Knupp. He usually shows up around eleven-fifty. Unless he brings his girls. Then it’s more like ten after seven—almost on the dot.”

  Two days showed nothing, but then it came. Same car. Brent getting out. Zooming in… License plate blurry but readable enough to make a start. She opened another incognito window and passed the keyboard to Erika. “Log in to your Twitter. I need it.”

  “Why not use yours?” she asked, but she logged in anyway and stood back. “Why mine?”

  “They’ll be watching yours if anyone there has any brains left.”

  As the screen pulled up, Flynne typed in one word—sort of. A hashtag.

  #hashtagrogue2B7B92H

  What?

  Erika’s silence screamed for answers.

  With a huff, Flynne clicked on Erika’s Twitter name, EriKaff2, and pointed. “See. I left your phone open to that. All they have to do is turn it on, and they’ll see it. Then, if they’re smart—if they’ve got Tyler back in the office, anyway—they’ll monitor that hashtag.”

  “Why’d you write out hashtag if you put one in front? Isn’t that redundant? And will it come up in a search if the number is attached?”

  Flynne gaped. “I don’t know! I’ve never actually searched one. I don’t use hashtags or Twitter. Social media is a security nightmare. I just look up names and stuff and make, like, fake accounts for people.”

  “Well, I’m pretty sure you have to search for the exact hashtag to find it—and they’ll never know to put those numbers behind that.”

  She floundered until Erika asked what she was doing. “Trying to find the edit button. Where do you edit these things?”

  In a huff, Erika took over the mouse and copied the post. She deleted it and a moment later, posted it again—this time with a space between rogue and the license plate number. #hashtagrogue 2B7B92H

  “Thanks.”

  “I still don’t think it’s a big deal, but it is odd that he’d be parked there when he’s usually on the other side…”

  Flynne closed out everything, turned off the computer, and shooed Erika from the room. “Let’s go eat something. I’m starved.”

  As they passed through the family room, Flynne noted a car passing. Something about it felt familiar. Probably just someone who lives here. I’ve probably seen it drive by like a million times. This protection detail stuff makes you supes jumper cables.

  A new idea hit her. “Erika…”

  The woman glared. “If you tell me I have to take a pill before I eat, I’m going to kick you—even if I land on my butt afterward.”

  “I’ll buy you anything you want for dinner if you let me tie you up so I can go—”

  “Let you? Now you’re asking?”

  Probably a dumb idea, anyway. I’ll just give her a tiny bit of the wine in the fridge to go with an Ambien. That’ll knock her out long enough.

  “You’re right. Sorries.”

  Of course, getting Erika to drop the subject and onto something else proved detrimental to sanity. Finally, Flynne blurted out, “So, what made you go all relige? It all sounds nice, but then I read about Corey, and she was a nut job with crackers to spare.”

  That worked—bring up all the religious stuff and Erika’s most disliked agent in one move. She launched into a rant on why Corey personified what people hated about Christians, Christianity, and Jesus—in that order. Then she went on to talk about comparing Corey to Keith and her father. Flynne listened, asked intelligent questions, or so she hoped, and kept the conversation going all through dinner, clean up, and a gab fest on the couch.

  “Do you really think Jesus did that?”

  Erika nodded.

  “But I thought wine is bad—like really bad. Alcohol and stuff. That’s bad, right?”

  It worked. Erika launched into an argument in favor of casual, light drinking and how people didn’t have safe drinking water. Flynne insisted she keep talking and raced to fill two glasses of wine. Erika would balk at the Ambien later, but it had to be done. Even if I have to lie about it.

  “—then a big-wig in the early church—a guy named Paul—told another guy to drink wine for something wrong with his stomach. So, I don’t think you can make the argument that wine is bad.”

  Flynne offered a glass as she entered. “All this talk made me crave it.” She forced a giggle that sounded real enough. “I think I’m too rebbie to be a churchie.”

  Though Erika had been set to refuse the wine, Flynne’s words seemed to make a shift. She reached for the glass and took a sip. “Oooh… good one. Very nice.” After a third sip, she asked, “Okay, so I get churchie. What’s rebbie?”

  “You know, with or without a cause? Rebs.com.”

  “Rebel. Rebbie. Great.” Erika took another sip.

  Flynne smiled inside. This is gonna work.

  Fifteen minutes after Erika finished her drink, she held out her hand. “Give me the Ambien. Is it safe with this much wine? Did you make sure of that?”

  “I—”

  “I’m not stupid, Flynne. You never drop something as fast as you did earlier. I figured you had another plan. Alcohol and Ambien, though…”

  With greater success than she expected, Erika accepted her assurances that, as long as Erika didn’t drink much alcohol, not on an empty stomach, and didn’t plan to operate machinery, it would only accentuate the effectiveness of the meds. And if her god is a thing, maybe he, she, it—whatever—maybe I could be right about that, so I don’t totes fry her brain or anything…

  Erika was out in less than thirty minutes. Flynne tried to rouse her, and even saying, “It’s over. We can go home!” got her nothing more than a moaned, “Great.”

  Flynne grabbed the Camry keys from the hook, locked the doors behind her, but didn’t set the alarm. If Erika
woke up and the motion sensor went off… Not good.

  It took only a minute to hop into the car, start it up, back out of the garage, and roll down to the street. There, however, with the taillights glowing in the gutter, Flynne waited. She stared at the darkened house with only a light in the kitchen glowing through the family room. Was it safe to go?

  The picture of a more comfortable Erika blended with the expectation of less antagonistic interactions and spurred her to shoot out into the street and zip up Rosewood Court. FreshMart closed in twenty minutes, and FreshMart carried gift cards—great, heaping gobs of them. Including ones for Amazon. With one of those, and same-day shipping in Rockland, she’d be set.

  I’ll get their Danishes, too. She’ll like that.

  Shaking the sense of foreboding—of being followed or watched—that proved impossible. Flynne parked out front, dashed inside, stacked all four kinds of available Danishes, and stood before the wall of gifting shame, searching for the familiar, black, Amazon-with-an-arrow smile. It didn’t appear.

  A kid pushing a dust mop sidled up and asked if he could help. “I need Amazon. Fifty bucks.”

  “Forget a birthday?” He reached for it—white, of course.

  Flynne could have sworn that they did it deliberately—swapped out white for black and vice versa—just to keep her sanity on the brink of no return. “No… I just don’t put my card online. Supes stupes with how easy it is to hack into databases and steal identities.” She grabbed another one—just in case she needed it later. “You never know… and what’s with changing the color so we can’t find it?”

  “It’s like when the store moves stuff around. They want you to have to look for it, so you see other things you missed before.”

  Something shifted in him—the way he shuffled his feet and couldn’t quite look at her again—and Flynne backed away before the miserable moment occurred. “Don’t let them have the moment.” Her mom said it every time, and Mom was right. If Flynne didn’t get away, she’d be making a date to meet the kid and tell him she was ten years too old for him. Stupid, but true.