Vanished

by Karen E. Olson

  ‘Do you think this is what happened to Ryan Whittier? A terrorist got to him?’ I ask.

  ‘We’re not even sure that Ryan Whittier exists,’ Spencer reminds me.

  I know that, but I play devil’s advocate. He used the ATM and vanished. Zeke’s face is in that photograph. He can be identified. By terrorists.

  But then I remember Adriana DeMarco. She’s involved in this somehow.

  I don’t realize I’m thinking out loud until I notice Spencer watching me closely.

  ‘What?’ I ask.

  He shakes his head. ‘Nothing.’ He turns back to the laptop.

  Why isn’t he more curious about this? He doesn’t seem concerned at all.

  ‘You didn’t know about this, did you?’ I ask, insinuating that maybe he did, in fact, know.

  ‘Come on, Tina,’ he says, although it’s not really an answer.

  ‘What if d4rkn!te is FBI, like Zeke? Do you think that he could be? We’ve thought Zeke could be a double agent, but maybe it’s really d4rkn!te,’ I speculate. The more I think about it, the more I wonder. Terrorists can play both sides of the fence.

  Spencer doesn’t say anything. He’s got the chat room on one screen, d4rkn!te’s screen on the other. But he doesn’t really need both right now. D4rkn!te is in the chat, although there isn’t a lot of action on his part.

  I can’t stand it. I have to move around a little, get rid of my nervous energy. Being cooped up in this room with someone who’s ignoring me is getting to me.

  Even though d4rkn!te might be a terrorist, if he’s lurking in a chat room he’s not outside the door, lying in wait for me. Anyway, we got rid of the phone with the GPS. I have to get out of here, get some fresh air, even if it’s just in the little courtyard outside. I tell Spencer where I’m going, and he barely looks up from his screens. I snatch the phone on my way out, in case I need to call for help. I don’t think he even notices.

  I let myself out and go down the stairs. The courtyard is lush with flowering plants and tall, willowy trees whose branches cast shade over a few small tables on a patio. I slide into one of the seats and begin to fiddle with the phone. There are several text messages now that indicate people have been taking money out of the ATM at the corner of rue Meslay and rue du Temple. I scan the information but don’t see any names I recognize.

  I open the app’s source code – a relatively easy thing to do with only a few steps on the phone – and scan it. I have no idea what I’m looking for, and it looks like pretty standard code. Until I spot it. The exact same back door that I found in the hotel reservation site for the Hotel Adele. I stare at it for a few seconds. I’ve assumed that Zeke developed this app, so he is presumably the one who installed this back door. Did he also put the back door in the reservation site?

  I try to think like Zeke. Piece together anything I can from the last six months to try to pinpoint where he might be right now, what might have happened to him. He left me in Miami to go to work. Two months later, he’s putting a skimmer on an ATM. Spencer stops hearing from him. Someone starts following me, taking pictures of me, and then I have to leave because Madeline Whittier discovers that I’m Daniel Adler’s daughter, the woman who stole her money.

  Whittier. The simple online search for her also brought up the article about the missing Ryan, who allegedly hails from Charleston, where Madeline lives.

  I didn’t have time to ask Madeline if she has a relative named Ryan and I’ve been so distracted by everything else that’s been going on that I let it slide. But maybe it’s time to be a little more proactive.

  I may not have my laptop, but I’ve got a phone. I bypass the general and news searches this time and opt for the images.

  The first picture that comes up is the one that was in the article online, the one that shows the baby-faced Ryan Whittier. There are other Ryan Whittiers, too, of all shapes and sizes that don’t resemble the one I’m familiar with. It’s like that old TV show To Tell the Truth: which one is the real Ryan Whittier – or at least the one I’m looking for?

  This is a futile exercise, until a familiar face jumps out at me. I’ve scrolled almost to the bottom, so it’s not a surprise I haven’t seen it until now.

  A picture of Madeline Whittier – and Ryan Whittier.

  FORTY-FOUR

  It’s as though my worlds are colliding. I touch the image and it fills the screen. Madeline is wearing a long evening gown and Ryan is sporting a tuxedo. She has her hand on his arm, her diamonds glittering. She’s smiling at him, but he isn’t looking at her. Rather, he’s looking directly into the camera. His gaze is unsettling, half bored and half something that I can’t put my finger on. I find a link that goes to a story about a black tie charity affair in Charleston. But other than the photograph caption, which describes Madeline as a major donor and her grand-nephew Ryan, there is no mention of either in the actual story, leaving me with yet another dead end.

  Or is it?

  I realize what is nagging at me about this picture. I call up the article about Ryan’s disappearance, the one with his photograph. It’s the same image, but this one is a close-up of his face. I toggle back and forth between the two to make sure, but I don’t really have to, it’s merely for my own validation.

  If Madeline hadn’t recognized me, I could have called her now and asked about her grand-nephew. But I do know someone who might have some information.

  I check the time and wonder if it’s too early back in the States to call Randy. If anyone knows anything, he would. Is it a good idea to contact him, though? Madeline has probably told him all about me by now. Yet I can’t help but wonder if she would keep it a secret. She wouldn’t want it to get out all over Charleston that she was taken in by a con man, that she bought a painting by said con man’s daughter who hacked into her bank account and stole from her. Madeline Whittier seemed to be all about her status, and that would definitely change things for her in Charleston society.

  I have to take the chance. It is a little early, but Randy is an early riser and goes running in the mornings. I hope I’ll be able to catch him before he goes out.

  I punch in the familiar number, embedded in my memory over the last months. I get a sudden rush of homesickness – not that I spent a lot of time in Charleston, but for my simpler life there, the beach, my watercolors.

  ‘Hello?’ His voice is tentative; he doesn’t know this number. I’m not even sure what it is.

  ‘Randy? It’s Tina.’ I hope he doesn’t hang up.

  A long pause, then, ‘Where are you?’

  ‘I’m sorry I had to leave so quickly, but I had a family emergency’ – this sounds like the best excuse – ‘and had to rush off.’

  ‘Is everything OK?’

  ‘Still touch and go.’ I let him think it’s something medical. ‘I have a question, though, that maybe you can answer.’

  ‘OK.’ His tone is still hesitant, but the fact that he’s still on the phone means Madeline hasn’t gotten to him.

  ‘I had tea with Madeline the other day.’

  ‘I know. She said you rushed off.’

  I wait a few seconds to see if he says anything more, but he doesn’t, so I continue. ‘Yeah. I had to go, but before I left, we were talking about her grand-nephew Ryan.’ I hate lying, but it’s the only way.

  Silence, then, ‘What do you know about him?’

  ‘Not much, except he went missing a few months ago. I wanted to know if they ever found him.’

  ‘Why?’

  That’s a good question. I think quickly. ‘I thought I saw him. Before I left.’

  He snorts. ‘Tina, you didn’t see him.’

  ‘You know what happened to him?’

  ‘I’m a little surprised Madeline talked to you about this. She never talks about Ryan.’

  ‘She had a couple of mint juleps before tea.’

  He laughs, and I realize how much I’ve missed him and am sorry that I’m lying to him like this. ‘I suppose that’s one way to get her to talk. She did
n’t say much except that you rushed off, and she wanted to know if I knew where you were. I told her I didn’t.’ He pauses. ‘She left town, too. The next day.’

  Curious. I’ll have to get back to that. But right now: ‘What happened with Ryan? Did her trip out of town have anything to do with him?’

  ‘No.’ Randy sighs. ‘Listen, she’d be pissed if she found out I’m telling you anything, so I didn’t say a word, OK?’

  ‘Mum’s the word.’

  ‘Ryan didn’t go missing. He went into hiding. The FBI is looking for him.’

  I tighten my grip on the phone. ‘The FBI?’

  ‘He got into something, some sort of computer hacking.’

  My throat has gone dry, and I cannot speak. I close my eyes and picture the ATM, Zeke’s picture snapped just before Ryan Whittier used the machine. What was the real purpose of that article? Was it to locate Zeke or Ryan Whittier? Or both?

  ‘Tina?’

  ‘I’m here,’ I finally say. ‘Do you know who he’s hacking for? I mean, is he working for anyone or hacking for himself?’

  ‘You won’t believe this,’ Randy says with a chuckle.

  ‘Try me.’ I might believe almost anything now. But what he says next is something I truly do not expect.

  ‘Remember the guy who was the whistleblower against the government? The guy who showed that we weren’t vetting the refugees like they said they were and then there was that terrorist attack?’

  Now I really cannot breathe. I’m still holding the phone against my ear, but I lean over and put my head between my knees. I know who he’s talking about.

  ‘Spencer Cross, that was his name. Remember him?’ Randy is asking. ‘That’s who Ryan was working for. Spencer Cross.’

  FORTY-FIVE

  Instinctively, I glance up at our hotel room window. Spencer is in there, trying to find d4rkn!te’s identity to keep me safe. I have spent the last days with him. He is my friend, and I trust him.

  And yet.

  No. I can’t question him. There is something larger at play here. It’s too much of a coincidence that Madeline Whittier happens to be Ryan Whittier’s grand-aunt.

  But still. Spencer has a house in Charleston. How do I know that he doesn’t know Madeline Whittier? That he doesn’t know her grand-nephew Ryan? He was the one who subliminally suggested that Charleston might be a good place for me to go. It was remarkably easy to escape the city, too. He knew exactly how to do it.

  Spencer managed to put a RAT in d4rkn!te’s computer – something Zeke was even impressed with. What if it was easy because he had access all the time?

  How easy would it be for Spencer to lie to me?

  I shake off the thought. He can’t possibly be involved in this. Can he?

  This is crazy. Until I know something definite, I have to trust Spencer. Being on the run for so long has made me too cynical, too suspicious. Spencer has been by my side for the last few days; he would never betray Zeke – Tracker – like this.

  ‘Tina?’

  I realize I’m still holding the phone and Randy’s on the other end. ‘Sorry, I got distracted. I really appreciate you telling me this.’

  ‘What’s going on? Are you OK?’ Worry laces his voice.

  ‘I’m OK,’ I assure him, although I’m not a hundred percent sure of that right now.

  ‘When will you be back? I’ve sold a couple more of your watercolors.’

  ‘I’m not sure. I’ll be in touch. But one thing, Randy: please don’t tell Madeline that you spoke to me.’

  He laughs. ‘I’m not going to say a word. She’d kill me if she knew I told you about Ryan. She’s got an image to uphold. And you have to promise you won’t tell her I told you.’

  ‘No worries there,’ I say, sure that I’ll be able to keep that promise since I won’t be returning to Charleston. ‘Take care, and thanks again.’ I end the call after saying goodbye and remain sitting, staring up at the hotel room window again.

  Spencer’s name has been linked to all of this from the start because of the hotel reservation. But if he were really involved, he wouldn’t be so obvious about it and use his own name. He’s not stupid.

  Thinking this through makes me breathe a little easier, and I’m embarrassed that I even suspected him of anything at all. I study the phone in my hand, then open the browser app. The photograph of Madeline and Ryan Whittier pops back up on the screen. I go back to the search engine and click on images again. I see the picture, and I swipe the screen, scrolling through photographs of Madeline at various events in Charleston. I am about to stop, but see the same picture again with Madeline and Ryan. This time it’s on a different site. I tap it and another article about the event fills the screen. There are more photographs here from what seems to be the same event.

  One of them makes me catch my breath.

  It’s Madeline and Ryan again, but they’re standing with someone else. Someone I recognize.

  Adriana DeMarco.

  She is laughing at something Madeline has said, her hand caressing Ryan Whittier’s shoulder. He is watching her with a contemplative expression.

  My suspicions about Madeline knowing Tony DeMarco are confirmed. The pieces are starting to fall into place, but there are still a few missing.

  I am so deep in thought that I don’t notice him coming up the cobblestoned driveway until he’s right in front of me.

  ‘Miss Adler?’

  I squint up against the sunlight, shielding my eyes with my hand. When I recognize him, I freeze.

  FBI Agent Tilman.

  I don’t know what confuses me more: his actual presence or the fact that he knows my name. My real name. It throws me off a little, and every muscle in my body is taut. I’m trapped. Ready to run.

  I force myself not to look up at our room’s window. Agent Tilman can’t know that Spencer’s here. Although it seems that he’s here for me, and his next words verify it.

  ‘Please come with me.’

  This is it. It’s over. Seventeen years of being on the run, and finally the FBI has caught me. I’m not sure what they’ll charge me with; the statute of limitations on the bank job passed years ago, but putting skimmers on ATMs is still a crime. I wonder how many years I’ll get. Maybe I can find a lawyer who will argue that I was only helping a friend, an FBI agent who’s undercover. Maybe I could get points for that.

  Agent Tilman is looking at me expectantly. And then I wonder just what he’s doing here. How did he know where I was?

  ‘Did Zeke call you?’ I ask. That doesn’t make sense, though. Zeke doesn’t know where I am. At least, I don’t think so.

  ‘I did get a call,’ he says. ‘But maybe we should wait to talk until we get there.’

  ‘Get where?’

  ‘The embassy.’ He pauses. ‘You should get your things.’

  A panic rises in my chest as I think about Spencer in the room. ‘I don’t have anything.’

  He cocks his head as his eyebrows rise into his forehead. ‘Of course you do. Let’s go to your room and get your things.’

  I stand up slowly, biting my lip as I try to think of a way out of this. But I can’t. He follows me closely into the building and up the stairs. As we approach the room, I say loudly, ‘I don’t know what you want, Agent Tilman.’

  ‘Just open the door, Miss Adler.’

  I turn the knob, but it’s locked. I pull out my room key and open the door. The room is empty; the beds are made. My backpack is perched against the wall underneath the window, which is open.

  Agent Tilman steps around me and goes to the bathroom, checks inside and then swiftly pulls open the closet door.

  But Spencer’s not here. There is only the faintest scent of weed in the air that indicates he was here at all. I’m glad he managed to escape; it’s clear Agent Tilman didn’t think I was alone.

  I lift up my backpack and shift it onto my shoulder. It’s lighter than it should be. My laptop isn’t inside. I’m almost certain why Spencer took it with him. There wasn’t e
nough time to clear it.

  Agent Tilman gestures that I should walk with him. My legs feel unsteady, as though I’m being led to the guillotine. In a way, I am. My heart is pounding so hard I’m sure Agent Tilman can hear it.

  A car is waiting at the curb, and he opens the door. I climb in. They’ll deport me and then put me in prison back in the States. I wonder if I’ll have to go back to Florida, to Miami. I sit back further in my seat and turn to the window, watching the landscape go by and wondering how long it will be before I have my freedom again.

  FORTY-SIX

  Agent Tilman hands me a cup of coffee, and I don’t know what to do but take it. I’m seated in a plush chair in a fairly comfortable office, so unlike the interrogation room where we last met on Cape Cod. He is seated across from me, sipping his own coffee. I’m on edge, uncertain what this is all about. This isn’t how I thought it would be once we got here.

  ‘Are you OK?’ he asks me. He actually seems like he wants to know. Like he cares.

  I shrug. He smiles at me and takes another sip from his cup. He’s around my age, maybe a little older, with some gray around his temples. He’s dressed in a suit with a blue tie loosened a little around his neck.

  I notice the laptop now. The one on the desk behind him. I shift a little, folding my hands in my lap to keep them still.

  ‘You want to see it?’

  I didn’t realize I was that obvious, but Agent Tilman reaches over and picks up the laptop, handing it to me. I take it, awkwardly, uncertain. ‘Open it,’ he says.

  ‘I’d rather not,’ I say, putting it on the table between us but keeping an eye on it.

  ‘Can you do that? Not go online?’ he asks, although not unkindly. In fact, he seems more curious than anything else.

  I nod and smile despite myself. ‘Yes. I’ve done it before.’