Betrayed

by Karen E. Olson

  ‘Not smarter than us.’

  I give him a wan smile. ‘Maybe. Maybe not.’

  ‘Speak for yourself. I’ve got a reputation to uphold.’

  ‘I don’t have a reputation. I don’t even exist.’ As I say it, a wave of sadness overwhelms me, and I turn away, leaning against the railing that overlooks the courtyard.

  His hand tucks itself around my waist. ‘I’m not sure I can do this.’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘I told you I was Tracker for a reason. And not for the reason you think.’

  I twist around to look at him; his hand remains on my waist. ‘So it’s not because you want my help?’

  ‘No. It was purely selfish. I could have done it alone.’ He leans closer, his breath hot against my neck. ‘I don’t know how to do this,’ he whispers. ‘I thought I had it under control, that we could work together like we’ve done before, but it’s not the same. I’m not Tracker. I mean, I am, but he’s not me. He’s not really me.’

  He doesn’t think I understand, but I do. ‘What we do online isn’t who we are, I know that. And I know you aren’t really Tracker, but Tracker is who I know. He’s the one I’ve trusted all these years. I don’t know how to meld you into one person.’ A flashback assaults my memory. Zeke, in my bedroom, looking at my laptop. He didn’t realize I’d seen him, and I didn’t let on. Again I wonder: Did I know then? No. I couldn’t possibly. I never knew.

  He steps away, and I shiver even though the air is damp and warm. I study his face as he watches me. Tracker and I are always so in sync – even only a little while ago when we were online – but Zeke and I are struggling. I have no idea how to have a relationship with him.

  ‘We have to find a way to do this. Together,’ I say slowly. ‘Because whoever did this seems to be after both of us for some reason.’

  He clears his throat and nods, shoving his hands in his pockets. ‘Yeah, you’re right. I’m sorry. I’m being unprofessional. It won’t happen again.’

  ‘OK,’ I say, but I don’t know if it really is.

  Zeke starts walking in the opposite direction of the apartment.

  ‘Where are you going?’ I ask his back.

  ‘You go on. You can get started. I need to clear my head a little. I’ll be back in a few.’

  I watch him disappear around the corner. We’re going to need to get answers soon, because I’m not sure either of us is going to survive this if we don’t.

  Heather is coming out of the shower when I let myself into the apartment.

  ‘Oh! You startled me,’ she scolds, standing in the hallway, wearing only a towel.

  ‘Sorry.’ I wonder again if she knows about the cameras, if I should tell her.

  As I’m debating this with myself, though, she comes out into the living room instead of going into the bedroom to change. ‘So what’s your story? Zeke thinks you’re the second coming or something.’ She frowns, studying my face as though looking for my lies.

  I don’t owe her anything. ‘Don’t worry about me,’ I tell her. ‘I’m no threat.’

  ‘Oh, I didn’t think you were a threat.’ It is the way she says it that convinces me that’s exactly what I am to her. Which concerns me. Even though I am no longer – or ever was, apparently – a fugitive, I am still very protective of my identity. ‘I was just wondering what’s between you and Zeke. It’s pretty clear that it’s something.’

  I consider how to respond. ‘I’m an old friend of his.’ For the first time in a long time, I am not lying about something. ‘That’s about it. Nothing more.’

  ‘Doesn’t seem like it’s nothing,’ she says, her eyes narrowing as she studies my expression, which I struggle to keep neutral.

  ‘We knew each other a long time ago.’ I don’t want to say any more than this, but I can tell she’s not going to stop.

  ‘Were you involved?’

  I debate how to answer her and finally decide on the truth. ‘Yes. But it was a long time ago.’ I feel compelled to emphasize this for some reason. ‘He thinks I can help.’

  ‘Why?’ The hard look in her eyes tells me she’s not going to let this go.

  ‘Why what?’

  ‘Why would he want you to help find out about Tony DeMarco?’

  I consider what to say and finally settle on the truth. ‘Tony DeMarco and my family have a history. It’s personal.’

  Heather’s eyes narrow as she decides whether to believe me. Finally, she nods. ‘OK.’ She turns and heads back into the bathroom, leaving me alone.

  I can tell that she’s a bit of a pit bull, and it is not going to be as easy as that, but I am happy to have the reprieve. I am also feeling claustrophobic. She is no longer in the room, but she is still in the apartment. She and I are sharing a room. Zeke is always going to be just a few steps away.

  After being alone for so long, this is too much togetherness.

  I hear the blow-dryer in the bathroom. It’s time to move. I move quickly into the bedroom, grab my backpack, which is still mostly packed, and go back into the living room.

  I scoop the laptop up off the coffee table where I’d left it earlier and let myself out of the apartment.

  FIFTEEN

  I start toward the other apartment, then stop. The idea of going back there, of working in a room with five other people on top of each other, makes my heart beat faster. I told Zeke I’m not a team player. He’s the only one I’ve ever worked with, and we were not in the same room. I like being alone; I like my own space. I couldn’t stay there before, and I doubt I’ll be able to last more than ten minutes there now. Zeke – Tracker – will understand.

  I’ve made my decision, so I turn around and swiftly go down the stairs. I pass the fountain, and instead of going out the way we came in yesterday, I end up on a sidewalk in the front of the building. Another stucco apartment building is across the street, although this one is lime green. I’d forgotten that about Miami, about Florida, how everything is in pastels. Maybe that’s why I was so drawn to Block Island, where the houses are white or gray clapboard, classic, not looking as though they’ve jumped out of a child’s chalk drawing on the pavement.

  I hesitate, glancing behind me for a second in the direction of the parking lot. I wish I’d paid attention to where Zeke had left the car keys, but it’s probably better that I don’t have the car. It would be too easy to track, even though it’s just a rental.

  But it leaves me with a dilemma. Even though I’m in a city, it’s not the kind of city, like New York, where you can hail a cab on every corner. Miami is spread out, and even though I haven’t been here in a long time, that hasn’t changed. I do have some cash in the backpack, but I don’t have a cell phone. I wonder if pay phones still exist.

  I also anticipate another problem.

  I am still holding the laptop, so I open it, booting it up. I don’t need Internet to find the GPS tracker that Zeke has installed. He knows better than this. It’s easy enough to disconnect, and I do that before I continue on my way.

  As I walk along Sunset, the backpack heavy against my back, I begin to feel a little overheated. I’m wearing jeans and a T-shirt – it’s too much clothing. On the Cape, I was wearing fleece and even gloves while I rode my bike; it’s hot here in South Florida. The brightness of the stucco and concrete blinds me, and I wish I had sunglasses, but I’ll need a prescription, or at least another pair of contacts. I didn’t remember to bring my prescription with me; Zeke pushed me out too fast.

  I spot a small coffee shop up ahead. I duck inside and order an iced coffee. I know where I want to go, but I can’t possibly walk the whole way. I consider public transportation, but I don’t want to navigate. I sidle up to the counter and ask about how I could go about calling a taxi.

  ‘Don’t you have a cell? You could Uber.’ The young barista is trying to be helpful, but she doesn’t know who she’s talking to.

  ‘I just want to call a cab.’

  ‘Uber will be here faster, but you need the app.’

 
; ‘I don’t have a phone that has an app.’

  She eyes me curiously, then says, ‘Hold on.’ She goes over to another barista, whispers something, and then slips around the counter and comes out next to me. ‘Come on.’

  I follow her outside, where she pulls a phone out of her pocket. ‘I’m not supposed to do this, but it’s my good deed of the day.’

  While she orders the ride, I glance around at the patrons sitting at the tables outside: two moms with kids in strollers, a young man on a laptop, and a girl texting.

  The barista is talking. ‘It’s all set, but you have to pay me. It’s going on my account.’

  ‘No problem.’ I take some cash out of the backpack pocket and make sure that she gets a very nice bonus for helping me out. She frowns when she sees how much I’ve given her.

  ‘That’s too much,’ she tries, but I put my hand up.

  ‘No, it’s not. I really appreciate this.’ I pause. ‘You might want to be a little careful, though, with using the Internet here.’

  She frowns.

  ‘Can I see your phone for a second?’

  She looks dubious, but hands it to me. I check the wireless settings. Just as I suspected. ‘You’re not on the store’s Wifi,’ I tell her, cocking my head toward the young man using the laptop. ‘You’re on his Wifi.’ I switch networks on the phone after showing her.

  She doesn’t understand.

  ‘He’s got a device under that newspaper next to him. It creates a wireless hotspot and it’s probably stronger than the store’s Wifi – that’s why you’re hooked up to it automatically, and so is everyone else, most likely. He can get all your information.’ He hasn’t done a very good job hiding the device, but it’s small and most people won’t know what it is.

  She finally understands. ‘You mean, he’s stealing my passwords and shit?’

  ‘Yeah. Listen, you did me a favor, so I’ll do you one.’ I go over to the young man. He’s maybe in his early twenties, with bedhead and a spray of acne across his forehead. He’s wearing cutoff jeans and a white T-shirt that’s a little too large. He could be one of Zeke’s team.

  ‘Hi,’ I say, sliding into the chair across from him. ‘You know, I could have you arrested right now for what you’re doing.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ He’s trying to act nonchalant, but I can see the worry in his eyes.

  I reach over and take the router out from underneath the newspaper. ‘I’m with the FBI. Cybercrime unit.’ I never thought I’d rely on Zeke’s team like this, but it’s worth the look on his face. ‘I’m going to take this now, if that’s OK with you. Or, if you’d rather, I’ll make a call and you won’t see the light of day for a few years.’

  ‘Um, your ride is here.’ The barista is standing next to me, staring at the small square device that fits neatly in the palm of my hand. She indicates a blue Toyota waiting at the curb.

  I give her a smile as I slip the router into my backpack. ‘Thanks.’ I give the young man a quick glare. ‘I know you’ll get another one, but I’d be careful if I were you. We’re everywhere.’ As I get up and turn to walk away, I say to the barista, ‘Make sure he doesn’t pull that again. And keep an eye out. Those things are legal, even though what they do with them isn’t.’

  ‘Thanks so much, Miss …’

  I hesitate only a second before I say, ‘Jones.’

  ‘I’m Sadie. If you need anything else, let me know.’

  ‘You’ve done more than enough. Thanks a lot.’ I go over to the Toyota. I’m not sure about protocol, so I open the front passenger door and climb in.

  The driver is older than me, maybe around Steve’s age – sixty-five or so. That’s where the resemblance ends, though. This man is bald, and he’s clearly spent a lot of time in the sun. He wears a bright blue Hawaiian shirt with palm trees all over it that barely covers his potbelly, a tuft of white chest hair visible above the top button. He gives me a smile. ‘Where to, Miss?’

  Without thinking about it, I tell him.

  I don’t know if what I’m doing is the right thing, but I have to go. It’s as though I’m being drawn there.

  ‘From out of town?’ the driver asks.

  ‘Pretty obvious, is it?’

  ‘Up north?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He chuckles. ‘You might want to get a pair of shorts. It’s a scorcher today.’

  ‘I’m OK,’ I say, and I am – for the moment. The car is comfortably air-conditioned, and I settle back in the seat. The passing landscape is as familiar to me as the stonewalls and bluffs on Block Island, yet at the same time it’s been so long since I’ve been here that I feel more like a tourist.

  We pass the entrance to Vizcaya, and I close my eyes for a moment and picture the Italian villa and gardens that spread as far as the eye can see. But then the memory of Ian’s hand in mine as we watched the flamingos shakes me out of my reverie.

  Soon the water spreads out in front of us, on either side, as we enter the Rickenbacker Causeway. I am thankful that the driver hasn’t continued conversation. I worried that he might feel obligated to befriend me, and I’m not in the mood.

  I twist around and look behind us. The Brickell Avenue skyline stirs up even more memories. After I got kicked out of university my father got me a job at an advertising agency as a receptionist. I lasted three weeks. Nothing could hold my interest except my computers.

  I twist back and watch as we cross on to Key Biscayne. I remember how it felt the first time I set foot on Block Island: as though all my troubles had disappeared. But now my shoulders are tense, and I’m afraid I’m going to be sick.

  I’m really home.

  SIXTEEN

  The driver drops me off at the Palm Court Resort. I give him a generous tip before waving him off.

  He is right about the heat – and about the fact that I am going to need a change of clothes soon. I can already feel the sweat drip between my breasts and down the back of my neck. I’d forgotten how oppressive the heat can be here.

  First, though, I have to get a room.

  The Palm Court Resort is little more than a motel, but its sign advertises ‘Cottages with an Ocean View.’ The lobby is cool, with a white tile floor and bright white walls accented by two orange-and-red-striped plush sofas across from the desk, where a woman about my age stands and smiles at me.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘I’d like a room.’ I pause. ‘I should tell you that I don’t have a credit card, only cash.’

  ‘That’s fine.’ She says it so quickly that I wonder about the other guests here. Are they all escaping their lives in some way?

  We exchange the cash for a key, and she directs me outside and down a path to a small cottage that does overlook the water. It’s not as pricey as I thought it might be, and for that reason I am surprised that it actually offers what it claims it does. But I’m not going to complain. Just having the ocean in sight is therapeutic.

  The room is also a surprise. It’s larger than I expected, with a small kitchenette. Sliding glass doors lead out to a wooden deck with a couple of plastic chairs and small table. I drop the backpack on the bed and pull open the door and step outside. A small path leads toward the water. I forget about everything as I walk. I pull off my sneakers and my toes sink into the soft sand. The beaches on Block Island were rocky, with pebbled sand – not like this.

  I finally reach the water and put my feet in. I almost expect the frigid chill of the northern Atlantic, but instead it’s warm, like a bath. I want to shed my clothes and immerse myself, but although I don’t see anyone nearby, someone could come around the corner at any moment. I make a mental list in my head: shorts, another T-shirt, a bathing suit, flip-flops. The uniform I wore for years here.

  I sit just beyond the water’s edge and draw a palm tree in the sand next to me. The turquoise and cobalt colors of the sea meet and mix, and I wish I had my paints to capture the essence of it. When I lived here, I had no idea what I could do with a paintbrush and an ease
l. If I’d known, would I have ever left? Maybe I would have studied art, become an artist, had a gallery of my own. My mother would still have died, my father would still have gone to prison, but I would have been OK. I would have had a life I didn’t have to run away from.

  I take a few deep breaths, drawing in the scent of the salt water. The ocean has healing powers for me, and when I finally begin to head back to my room, I am much more relaxed.

  I close the glass door to keep the cool air inside and take the laptop out of the backpack. I open it and reach to turn it on, then stop myself. I’m not ready yet. I’m not in that much of a hurry. Before I begin, I have to do what I came here to do.

  There is a small safe in the room, and it’s large enough to fit the laptop and most of my cash. I put it all inside and set the code. I unpack the backpack so it’s nearly empty and swing it over my shoulder as I head back out.

  I feel as though I haven’t been on a bike in months, even though it’s only been two days. I push the pedals harder than I need to; I’m not in a race, but I like the way it makes my legs, my calves, feel. It’s a pretty good bike for a rental. The guy at the shop gave me a map of the island and told me to check out Crandon Park. He mistook me for a tourist.

  I bought some bike shorts and a tank top, as well as a helmet, so I’m a little less overheated. A bottle of water fits in a holder. I’m feeling a lot more like myself – at least the person I’ve been in the last sixteen years. It keeps me a bit disconnected from the person I was when I lived here.

  Harbor Point is on the other side of the island from where I’m staying. As I ride, my senses are assaulted by the scents and sights of my past. Palm trees line the roads; flowers reach toward the sun, which is high in the bright blue sky. Colors are more vivid here than anywhere I’ve ever been.

  I pass a couple of houses that weren’t here when I was growing up, but their ostentatiousness matches the lifestyle I was accustomed to – a lifestyle I am now ashamed of. There was too much money, too many possessions. No wonder I turned out the way I did: a girl who hid behind a computer screen name in order to make friends. A girl who was talked into committing a crime by a man I would have done anything for just because he said he loved me.