Vanished

by Karen E. Olson

  So I do.

  The man studies my face for a second, and it unnerves me a little. What is he looking for?

  ‘I don’t know her name,’ he finally says. ‘But she looks like you. A younger version of you.’

  His words pinball around in my head. There is only one person I know who looks like me, enough so someone would make a connection.

  My half-sister. Adriana DeMarco.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  ‘Do you have a picture of her?’ Spencer asks when I translate for him.

  I don’t, but she’s easy enough to find online. Adriana DeMarco is famous for being her father’s daughter, and she has been in the newspapers. I call up a photo of her on my phone app and show it to the restaurateur.

  His mouth breaks out in a wide grin. ‘Yes, that’s her,’ he says, as though he is giving me something that I want.

  I suppose he is, but not in the way he thinks.

  ‘When was the last time you saw him?’ I ask. ‘The man.’

  The man scratches his forehead and stares at the ceiling a second before answering. ‘Last week sometime?’

  ‘Was he with her?’

  He frowns, as though he’s thinking hard about this, then shakes his head. ‘I’ll get your food now.’ He scurries back and through the doors to the kitchen before we can grill him further.

  ‘What do you think this is all about? I mean, Adriana DeMarco?’ I ask Spencer, who has finished off all the dumplings except one, which he puts on my small plate. ‘Oh, thanks,’ I say sarcastically.

  ‘No problem.’

  ‘She knows he’s FBI,’ I say. ‘What is she doing with him?’

  ‘You might ask what is he doing with her?’

  He’s got a point. Zeke vanished from my life, from Spencer’s life. But he’s seeing Adriana? ‘Do you think this has something to do with the carding forum?’ I want to think that it’s that simple. He did get into Tony DeMarco’s car right after putting that skimmer on the ATM.

  Spencer shrugs, and I can see from his expression that he might, in fact, think the same thing.

  ‘But wasn’t the carding forum set up by the FBI?’ I can’t keep myself from playing devil’s advocate.

  ‘Maybe. Maybe not. That was the word online, but DeMarco’s got his hands in a lot of shit,’ Spencer says.

  ‘So you think that he’s involved in the forum?’ I turn this over in my head a few times. ‘We couldn’t get him on the kiddie porn site, but maybe Zeke can get him on this.’

  ‘It would explain why he got into that car.’

  ‘Adriana knows he’s FBI.’ This is nagging at me. ‘Yet she’s meeting with him. There’s no way she’d go against her father, so what’s her game plan?’ I mull this over as the food arrives. I scoop some noodles and shrimp onto my plate and absently eat, trying to figure out what’s going on. ‘She’d never believe Zeke’s on her side.’

  ‘Maybe he’s not doing it willingly,’ Spencer suggests.

  It takes me a few seconds to realize what he’s saying.

  ‘You think she’s behind the pictures of me? You think she’s holding that over him? That she won’t follow through with the hit if he helps her with the carding forum? That as long as he helps, I’m alive?’ I don’t like the thought of it, but it makes sense.

  ‘And she has someone following you, taking pictures, proving that she knows where you are, that you are within reach if necessary. It’s not as though she didn’t know about you. About you and him.’ He says it so matter-of-factly, not realizing the effect his words have on me.

  I put my chopsticks down and take a deep breath. At one point, I thought I could approach Adriana. Maybe talk to her. I don’t want to be blamed for my father’s indiscretion, the fact that he got her mother pregnant and cuckolded his best friend. My father was not a good person. He stole from everyone he knew. I am as much one of his victims as any of them. Adriana is probably the least affected by him, since her father, the man who raised her, loves her and shielded her. Logically, she shouldn’t have a reason to hate me. But nothing about this – or Tony DeMarco – is logical.

  ‘I thought Adriana had nothing to do with her father’s business,’ I say, mostly to myself. ‘If it’s what we think, it would mean that she’s definitely part of it.’

  ‘He’s been grooming her,’ Spencer says, slurping up the last of the sauce on his plate. ‘DeMarco. Ever since he got sick.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  He makes a face at me and shrugs. ‘I pay attention.’

  I don’t have a comeback to that. The implication that I haven’t been paying attention is more than that: it’s fact. I sequestered myself in Charleston after our showdown in Miami six months ago. I only knew that Tony hadn’t died yet and that no one had tried to kill me.

  ‘She’s not going to like it if Zeke’s reached out to us,’ I say. But the more I think about it, that’s why the subterfuge. Why he arranged for us to meet up with the woman on the houseboat. Who were those people who showed up there? DeMarco’s flunkies? Did Adriana find out what was going on?

  ‘If he’s been here,’ I say softly, ‘there would be no reason for us to put that skimmer on that machine. He could have done it himself.’

  ‘So why are we here?’ Spencer asks. ‘Why did he ask us to do it?’

  ‘That’s the million dollar question, isn’t it?’

  The sound of the door opening startles both of us. A young couple come in, their arms wrapped around each other, smiles on their faces. I can tell from Spencer’s expression that he’d had the same moment of hope that I’d had: that it would be Zeke walking through the door.

  ‘Are we going to sit here all night and hope he comes in?’ I ask. I wouldn’t mind that, but I doubt the restaurant owner would like it very much. Maybe there’s a place somewhere outside. I am about to suggest that, but Spencer fidgets in his seat.

  ‘I think we’d be better off going back to the hotel and working out this app.’ He indicates the phone. ‘While we’ve been sitting here, three more people have used the ATM.’

  ‘Any names we might recognize?’

  He shakes his head. ‘No. I don’t know if we’re supposed to transfer all the information or keep it in the phone. Since that guy’ – Spencer cocks his head toward the restaurant owner, who’s talking animatedly with the couple who just came in – ‘won’t let us open the laptop here, we should make tracks. The hotel will give us a lot more privacy.’

  He’s got a point. The chances of Zeke wandering in here now are slim, especially since he sent us on this mission. If he had us install the skimmer, then it’s likely he’s not going to be in the area or he could have done it himself.

  Is he even in Paris anymore? While we tried to safeguard ourselves against him finding out where we are, he still knew we were here in order to ask us to run his errand. It’s more than likely the same people who’ve been following me for the last few months are still doing so. And I am still oblivious to my surroundings.

  The only clue we’ve got that he might still be in the city is the fact that he gave the woman on the houseboat the envelope with the skimmer and phone. But did he do that and immediately take off? We’re in Europe. He could have hopped on a train and might be in London now. Amsterdam. On his way to Germany or Switzerland.

  He could be anywhere.

  We wave down the owner and pay our check. He seems rather relieved that we’re going to be leaving. On impulse, I scribble my phone number down on his copy of the receipt.

  ‘If you see that man or woman again, can you call me?’ I ask.

  He gets a deer-in-the-headlights look about him; he doesn’t want to get involved.

  ‘It’s important,’ I say softly.

  After a few seconds, he reluctantly nods. I’ll be lucky if he calls, but I would’ve kicked myself if I hadn’t tried.

  The sun has gone down by the time we get off the metro near the hotel. We haven’t spoken since we left the restaurant, both of us deep in our own thoughts.
I am wrapped up in my memories of Zeke, of what he may be into, and from the surprisingly determined look on Spencer’s face, he is likely running code in his head.

  As we turn to go down the street to the hotel, I see them. I grab Spencer’s arm and pull him back around the corner.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he demands.

  I put my finger to my lips and whisper, ‘Two men. Outside the hotel.’

  He scowls. ‘There are a lot of people around.’ He waves his arm to indicate the passers-by.

  I can’t explain my suspicion and tell myself I’m being silly and paranoid. But when I peer around the corner again, my instincts are confirmed.

  Standing in the light from the streetlamp, I recognize him.

  FBI Agent Tilman.

  THIRTY-SIX

  I met Agent Tilman last summer in Cape Cod when he questioned me about a hit ordered on Tony DeMarco. He worked with Zeke, and I went to work for Zeke in Miami to try to find out about the hit.

  I tell Spencer about him.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes.’ I have no doubt who he is. While my time with him was relatively short, it was an intense interrogation that’s etched into my memory.

  ‘This is so not good,’ Spencer says in a low voice.

  ‘Understatement,’ I say.

  Neither Spencer nor I can get that up close and personal with federal agents – with the sole exception of Zeke.

  ‘I don’t understand what’s going on,’ I say, turning to him, but he’s already started off, and I catch up. ‘Where are you going?’ I ask.

  He shakes his head. ‘No clue. This is your city. Where should we go?’

  It hasn’t been ‘my’ city in years, but I don’t remind him of that small fact. He’s right that we need to find somewhere safe. There’s just one small problem.

  ‘If they’re at the hotel, they have to know about Elizabeth and Max,’ I say, referring to our aliases. ‘We can’t use those passports or credit cards now.’ I’ve got the cash in my backpack, but it’s mostly American dollars, not euros. I was going to get more euros, but in order to do that, I’ll need identification.

  ‘Don’t worry about that,’ Spencer says casually, indicating that I really may not have to worry about it. He’s got connections everywhere. ‘Where should we go?’ he asks.

  I’m having a hard time focusing. Something tugs at my memory: the police showing up at Spencer’s house in Charleston. I’d been convinced that Madeline had sicced Tony’s people on me. But having the police show up makes me think twice about that. Tony – or Adriana – wouldn’t involve the police. There’s a hit out on me. Tony would just have me killed. Did Madeline call the police? The FBI? But if that’s the case, then how did they track us to Paris?

  The only FBI agent I trust is Zeke.

  We need to talk to him. He’s the only one who can answer our questions. But we need a place to go to get online and hope that he is waiting for us. I’m regretting not putting a RAT in a link for him, so we could get into his computer instead of the other way around.

  I try to be optimistic. He could be anxious, wanting to hear how the ATM skimmer installation went, hoping that we’ll go back online soon so he can communicate with us. Too bad that Chinese restaurant owner had a no-laptop policy. We could find another restaurant, a table in the back, and try it that way, but it still seems too public, too risky. Until we know what’s going on, we can’t make it easy for Tilman to find us.

  And then I remember.

  I tug on Spencer’s sleeve. ‘The houseboat.’

  He frowns.

  ‘That woman on the houseboat,’ I remind him. ‘Zeke left the skimmer and cellphone with her. She knew about us, about him. That’s where we need to go. We need to find out who she is, if she can help us. Zeke trusted her. Maybe we can, too.’

  He’s dubious. ‘What if these guys are the ones who showed up at the houseboat while we were there? I mean, the FBI. Maybe it’s not so much that they’re tracking us, but they’re after Zeke.’

  I consider this for a moment. If Zeke is undercover and running that carding forum, then there wouldn’t be a reason for the FBI to come looking for him. Unless something went wrong with the operation. Unless Adriana DeMarco wasn’t part of the original plan.

  ‘But why would they show up at the Hotel Adele? Do they think he’s there?’ I begin to wish that we hadn’t left so quickly. ‘What if he came there looking for us?’ I hate the idea that if he did come, we weren’t there. But then something else strikes me. ‘How would he know where we’re staying?’

  Spencer shakes his head and sighs. ‘Tina, he’s the one who set up the passports and credit cards.’

  He knows our aliases. It probably didn’t take him too long to find out, either, since he’s got our card information. And I know how easy it is to get inside the Hotel Adele’s reservation system.

  ‘If the FBI is looking for him, then it must be bad.’ I’m thinking out loud now.

  ‘Unless it’s part of it.’

  I’m not sure what he’s getting at, and he sees my confusion.

  ‘What if he’s got to make it look good for Adriana? He can tell her that the FBI is looking for him, and she’ll trust him more.’

  It makes sense, but it’s all speculation. Neither of us has a clue what’s really going on. This doesn’t jibe with our theory about why d4rkn!te is sending pictures of me to Zeke, either – how we’ve thought Zeke is being held hostage by those photos of me.

  ‘Do you think there’s a way to talk to them? The FBI, I mean. Maybe we could do a little social engineering, see if we can’t get out of them what’s going on with Zeke.’

  Spencer is staring at me as though I’ve grown another head. ‘You’re out of your mind, Tina. There is no way I’m going to the FBI.’

  I roll my eyes. ‘Neither of us have to actually physically go to the FBI,’ I say. ‘There’s a thing called the Internet, remember? We can email or message them anonymously.’

  ‘Come on, Tina. How anonymous are we really? If we can get information, so can they. You do know that the feds set up Tor, so they know the ins and outs of it.’

  He’s right. The government created Tor for intelligence gathering and everyone else who wanted more privacy and security jumped on board, too. But it doesn’t mean it can’t be cracked.

  We’ve been walking, and we’re at Place de Concorde. We can get the metro here. ‘I still think we should go back to the houseboat,’ I say.

  Spencer is chewing on his lip, distracted by the thought of the FBI agents who are so close. He’s on the fence about the idea.

  ‘He trusted that woman,’ I remind him again. ‘Maybe we can trust her, too.’

  ‘OK, sure, if you think so.’ Although he’s not entirely convinced.

  I’m not a hundred percent certain this is what we should do, either, but I don’t have any other ideas.

  As we approach the houseboat, we see lights illuminating the windows, but they’re covered by curtains so we can only see shadows inside. Again, I’m assaulted by memories and I force them aside, telling myself that Zeke is still alive. At least, last we knew.

  ‘Do we just knock on the door?’ Spencer asks.

  Now that we’re here, I’m even less certain about this, but since I convinced Spencer to come, I have to follow through. I boldly go up the plank to the door and knock loudly.

  When I hear footsteps on the other side, I almost bolt, but the door swings open while I’m trying to decide. The older woman stands there, frowning at me. She peers around and spots Spencer.

  Before I can say anything, she grabs my arm and pulls me inside, Spencer close on my heels. The door shuts firmly behind us. Without a word, she circles the room, dimming the lights or shutting them out altogether. She indicates that we’re to sit on the couch, so we do, but I’m merely perching on the edge, my backpack between my legs, ready to flee again. She pulls over a wooden rocking chair and sits facing us, her eyes darting around behind us, checking out the
windows as though expecting the boogeyman to jump out at any moment.

  ‘Were you followed?’ she asks in French, looking at me for an answer as though she knows Spencer doesn’t speak the language.

  ‘I don’t think so. No.’

  She doesn’t believe me. Her doubt is palpable. ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘We have to find Zeke,’ I say outright. ‘Someone’s after us.’

  ‘Someone’s after him, too,’ she says, not bothering to deny that she knows whom I’m talking about.

  ‘Where is he?’

  She shakes her head. ‘I don’t know. I was hoping that you were him.’ The disappointment is clear in her expression, and the worry has set in around her mouth, around her eyes. If I hadn’t been worried myself before, I definitely am now.

  Spencer leans forward, his elbows on his knees. ‘Who are you?’ he asks her in English. ‘How do you know Tracker?’

  I begin to translate, but she holds her hand up and looks Spencer straight in the eye.

  ‘I’m Ellen Chapman.’

  It takes a few moments for her name to sink in, but she doesn’t wait for my reaction.

  ‘Zeke is my son.’

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  I forget to breathe for a moment as this sinks in. This woman is Zeke’s mother? I study her face and then I can see it. He shares her eyes, the slope of the nose. But I wouldn’t have noticed if she hadn’t told me.

  ‘You’re surprised?’ she asks in English. She’s not French, but her French is perfect. Like my own. I try to trace an accent in her English, but come up with nothing. ‘Did you think he didn’t have a mother?’ she asks. A smile defies the worry, playing at the corner of her mouth, teasing us.

  Honestly, I’d never really thought about it. About Zeke having a family. Spencer had mentioned Zeke’s father once, an FBI agent who was able to get his son a shorter jail term when he got caught hacking as a teenager. But I’d never talked to Zeke about his family, not about his father or his mother. I know very little about Zeke’s life outside of Tracker, outside of his obsession with Tony DeMarco, outside of how he feels about me.