Betrayed

by Karen E. Olson

  I was so desperate for him.

  My father saw that, which is how he was able to manipulate him into manipulating me. Did my father know how good I was? Did he know that I’d be able to actually do it? Was he surprised when I did?

  I left so soon afterward that I never had the chance to ask him about it. I never had the chance to confront him.

  He died before I could talk to him again.

  A pang of regret hits me, and my foot slips off the pedal a little, the bike tips to the left, and I struggle to right myself.

  It’s then that I see it. Straight ahead. The house looms large beyond the gates that are securely shut, keeping strangers like me at a safe distance. The lush greenery is a contradiction, feeling welcoming despite the property’s standoffishness.

  A ‘For Sale’ sign hangs from the gate; the realtor’s name and phone number prominent. I don’t need her, though, to know what lies beyond.

  I stand with the bike between my legs and close my eyes. Instead of a sad fountain with dead fish as at Zeke’s apartment building, the fountain here, in front of the mansion’s entrance, is made of sleek Italian stone, its water clear and cold as it rises and splashes against the sides.

  Inside, the chandelier studded with real diamonds hovers over the foyer, a spectacular welcome. An ornate gold mirror hangs over the marble table that was always adorned with a huge spray of orchids, my mother’s favorite. Walk down the hallway and it opens up into a gigantic great room with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the infinity pool and, just beyond it, the ocean. The Oriental rugs, plush sofas and chairs, teak coffee tables, and Tiffany lamps lend a homier feel than expected.

  A sudden rush of emotion overwhelms me. I should never have come here. It serves no purpose except to bring back all the pain I’ve fought so hard to forget. This house that is so beautiful on the outside hid the ugliness inside. My mother’s mental illness. My father’s criminal activity. A lonely girl who became a criminal herself.

  I turn my bike around and brush the back of my hand against my cheek, wiping away the tears. I take a few deep breaths and adjust the helmet, tightening the strap under my chin. I glance up the street and decide in a split second what is best for me mentally right now. I map out the island in my head just as I used to map out Block Island for my bike tours: Crandon Park on one end, Bill Baggs Cape State Park on the other. I can go down Harbor Drive and around to the lighthouse. From there, I’ll figure out what I want to do.

  I climb on to the bike, but as I begin to take off, a sleek black BMW screams past me, nearly knocking me down. I stare at it as it moves further away from me. I know who lives up ahead. It’s part of the reason I’m here, although not the entire reason. I was going to save the visit for later, after I’d confronted the demons of my past and made more peace with them. But the black car has piqued my curiosity. So I follow it.

  I pedal fast, fast enough so that when I arrive in front of this house, I am just in time to see him getting out of the car.

  Ian Cartwright.

  SEVENTEEN

  I duck behind the fronds of a small palm tree, pulling my bike back with me. I peer around and am relieved that he has not noticed me. He flips his keys around in his hand as he saunters toward the front door, leaving the car out front. As he approaches, the door opens, but I cannot see who opened it for him.

  I watch until he is inside the house, and I let out my breath. I didn’t even realize I was holding it.

  I never expected Ian Cartwright to show up at Tony DeMarco’s house. Although, the more I think about it, I wonder why I wouldn’t. He works for Tony; he’s indebted to him. Miami was his home as much as it was mine, way back when.

  Tony’s house isn’t at all like my old house in that it’s far more modern, looking somehow like an office building, all glass and concrete. It is on a long, narrow lot and fills it completely. There is no high gate here, just a semi-circle driveway, although I am sure that one step in the wrong place will alert a sophisticated security system and staff that an intruder is on the property.

  I can’t stay here, watching the house. Someone might see me lurking and call the police. I don’t want Ian to know I’m here. It’s bad enough he drove right past me a few minutes ago. I touch the edge of my bike helmet, as though it has protected me from something worse than a fall. Ian knows that I bike, but I’m out of context here. He doesn’t expect to see me, so he doesn’t. I’m invisible. At least for the time being.

  I start to leave when movement catches my eye. The door opens, and Ian comes back out, but this time he’s with a woman. I go deeper behind the palms. The woman is tall, blonde, wearing a white sundress that accentuates her perfect tan. She is beautiful. I recognize her as Amelie. Amelie Renaud, Ian’s wife.

  Ian opens the passenger door for her. Before she climbs in, he brushes her cheek with his lips, and she lifts her face and smiles at him, running her fingers along his jaw. Then she disappears into the car. As he walks around the front of the car to the driver’s side, I study him. He is a little leaner since I saw him last on Block Island; he’s lost some weight and his hair is grayer. He is nattily dressed in a pair of khaki slacks and a short-sleeved linen shirt that’s untucked.

  He is no longer the man I fell in love with, but I can see the shadow of that man in his face. The way he smiles at his wife is the way he used to smile at me, but I know now that it can be a lie. He used her as much as he used me, but she didn’t leave him.

  They have two children. I saw them online. Two little boys. A family portrait. Could that family have been mine?

  An unexpected pang of jealousy ripples through me. He was involved with Amelie before he met me; he went back to her and she gave him the account numbers that allowed me to steal for him. When I left him in Paris, he married her. My only consolation is that he never got the money.

  The black car begins to move. I have to get out of here.

  He is going to see me – a woman on a bike – but my back is to him; he won’t see my face. I pump the pedals as hard as I can so I can feel it in my calves; I am hunched over the handlebars. I look to my left, toward the ocean.

  I am like this as the car passes me, its exhaust fumes mixing with the heat and filling my lungs. I cough a little, but I dare not look up. He might see me in the rear-view.

  I have rented the bike for the whole day, but instead of the ride I anticipated, I merely head back to the motel. I leave the bike outside the room, leaning against the side of the building, under the window. Once inside, I pull off the helmet and toss it on the small counter in the kitchenette on my way to the safe, where I retrieve the laptop. I leave the cash inside.

  I resist the urge to do a search on Ian – or, rather, Roger Parker, the name he is using now. I push thoughts about him aside and concentrate on the reason I’m here: Tony DeMarco. My focus has been on myself and how I can clear my name, but it might help if I look into what exactly happened in New York outside his daughter’s apartment. I don’t want to rely only on the information Zeke gave me.

  The New York newspapers have the story, which relates how the gunman had taken the shot when Tony emerged from his car just outside his daughter’s apartment building. No one saw anyone with a gun; no one saw anything at all – not even someone fleeing. They just heard the shot, saw Tony fall. I picture the outside of the building, the long awning, the doorman, just as it was last summer when I was there.

  The doorman.

  I frown to myself. There is no mention of a doorman in the story, and my imagination takes over. Perhaps the doorman was in on it. Perhaps he alerted the gunman when Tony’s car arrived.

  No one else was injured, the story reports, and the gunman fled quickly; he is in the wind. Tony DeMarco is in the hospital in stable condition. His daughter will not comment.

  I think that the story must be finished, but no. It goes on to say that this was a hit ordered through a dark web Internet site and traced to a small town on Cape Cod. It talks of persons of interest being questio
ned, but no one has been arrested.

  A person of interest? That must be me. Or maybe it’s Jerry, the guy who set up the laptop’s wireless connection. Either way, the story ends in Falmouth, and it’s quite possible that the media is camped out at the bike shop. I got out of town just in time.

  I lean back on the bed and rest my head against the headboard, looking up toward the ceiling. I don’t know how long it will be before Zeke shows up here. I may have disconnected the GPS, but he is tenacious. He found me in Paris, and he found me in Quebec; he will find me here.

  He’s been here before, too.

  I take a quick trip to a small sandwich shop, buy a salad for lunch, and bring it back to the room. I absently pick out the red onions. Although it makes sense to go back online and try to find out who is setting me up, there might be another way. Granted, Zeke had the laptop before I did and probably already has done what I’m about to do, but on the off chance that he missed something, it’s worth another try.

  If a remote access Trojan was used to install the messages that incriminate me, then it’s possible the shadow’s IP address is still floating around somewhere inside the laptop.

  I got rid of my laptop over a month ago, but there is one thing I did not get rid of. I push aside the salad, grab my backpack, and rummage around in the front pocket until my fingers find it: a flash drive. Zeke doesn’t need to know I have a program on it that might possibly track the IP addresses that have connected to the laptop.

  I stick the USB into the port and run the program when it’s done downloading. As the display pops up on the screen, there are several established connections. I want to see which ones have connected to this laptop from another computer.

  I am disappointed that I find nothing. It doesn’t prove anything, though, one way or another. What I check now is where the computer that wants to install something sends the data through other devices.

  Again, I find nothing.

  My head is spinning with ideas, but I am sure that Tracker has tried all of them. Is there anything he wouldn’t think of?

  I eat some more salad and wish I had gotten something a little more substantial. I don’t want to go out again, though, because I don’t want to risk running into Ian. It’s possible that he and Amelie are far away from here, but I have no idea where they might have been going. They were dressed casually but elegantly; in Miami, that could mean lunch or a party or an afternoon on a yacht.

  I wonder where their children are, but imagine them with their own friends. They might even be teenagers now; the website with the family portrait was ages old.

  Out of habit, I find myself navigating to the chat room. I am a little surprised to see Tracker. Although he’d been in the chat room with me earlier, he’d made it pretty clear that he wasn’t making a habit of that, that he hadn’t been online as Tracker for a while. At least not since his team had been looking for him.

  I can’t help but want to know what he’s up to.

  I have come here via Tor and my VPN, so I feel fairly confident that he won’t be able to trace me even if he discovers I am lurking. The last thing I want is for him to find me before I’m ready to be found.

  I am so busy making sure I’m shrouded that I almost miss it.

  Tracker and p4r4d0x disappearing into a private chat room.

  EIGHTEEN

  It’s disconcerting, seeing my own screen name and knowing that it isn’t me. I wonder if this is the way Zeke felt about discovering the other Tracker online.

  I have the strongest urge to snoop, as though I’m in a stranger’s house and want to peer inside cupboards and peek into drawers. I’ve gotten into the private chat rooms before, and Zeke knows about that. I do have the thought that this might be his imposter, who might not be aware of this. If it really is Zeke, I’m sure that he’s got a handle on it and is dealing with p4r4d0x the way he wants to, but my curiosity is too strong. Within minutes, I am eavesdropping – so to speak – on Tracker and p4r4d0x.

  Tracker: She’s back in town.

  p4r4d0x: What are you going to do?

  Tracker: Once I get the money, she won’t even know what hit her.

  p4r4d0x: So she does have it.

  Tracker: She says she doesn’t, but I found the account. I just can’t get into it.

  p4r4d0x: What makes you think she’ll get you in?

  Tracker: She trusts me.

  p4r4d0x: You fucked with her. She doesn’t trust anyone, much less you.

  Tracker: It’s different now.

  p4r4d0x: Keep your eye on the prize and don’t let your feelings for her get in the way.

  Tracker: She fucked with me, too. She’s going to get what’s coming to her.

  p4r4d0x: Look what happened in New York. You didn’t finish the job.

  Tracker: I’ll finish this one. I’ll finish them both.

  Suddenly, they are gone. They have both left the chat room at the same time, and I am here, all alone. I stare at the screen, their words jumping out at me, taunting me.

  I reach over and close the laptop, not turning it off, just putting it to sleep. Their conversation replays itself in my head; it doesn’t matter that I’m not reading it anymore. It’s as though I have suddenly gained a photographic memory and I can’t shake it off.

  I get up and go to the glass doors, sliding them open and stepping outside. The warm breeze slips through the palms overhead and gently touches my skin. I shiver, despite the heat.

  Suddenly, I am shaking, and I drop down on my knees, unable to hold myself up any longer. The fear rushes through me. My head is telling me that this must be Zeke’s imposter, whoever it is who set us up, because p4r4d0x is definitely not me. But the rest of me wonders if it’s not real, if it’s really Tracker – no, Zeke – and he’s lured me to Miami for a reason, to keep me close, to get his hands on the money in that account, and then he’ll do to me what he’s already tried to do to Tony DeMarco. Tracker’s part of the conversation could easily be Zeke.

  Zeke hates DeMarco. He is desperate to catch him at something illegal. But would he really try to kill him?

  He also has reason to hate me. I rejected him after using him; I shot him and left him for dead. And then I disappeared for sixteen years before he finally found me.

  Tony DeMarco is not personal. I am.

  I consider p4r4d0x. There are two people involved in this conspiracy, and I suddenly remember the sloppy lines of code. Zeke had seemed surprised about that, so maybe this is his imposter, but then again, I don’t know Zeke well enough to know how good a liar he is.

  I sit cross-legged on the deck, staring out at the ocean, willing it to work its magic, to calm me down. I take some deep breaths and try to empty my head, but it’s spinning and I can’t focus on anything. I rock back and forth, my heart pounding.

  Why can’t I give Zeke the benefit of the doubt? If it was Zeke and not his imposter, then the conversation could have been his way of luring p4r4d0x to reveal his identity. It’s possible he was trying to trace p4r4d0x’s IP address.

  I try to convince myself that Zeke is setting up his imposter and p4r4d0x and does not actually want to kill me himself, although the conversation feels all too real.

  Maybe there’s a way to trace both Tracker and p4r4d0x, find out at least where they are. I get the laptop, pulling it into my lap again, and go back inside the chat room. But neither Tracker nor p4r4d0x are anywhere to be seen.

  I’m kicking myself now that I let my emotions get the better of me and I didn’t try to track both of them when I had the chance. They were right here on the screen, within my reach. And I blew it.

  I go inside and start pacing, circling the room. I do my best thinking on my bike, and the bicycle is just outside on the deck. I still can’t chance it, though, that Ian and Amelie will drive by and I go unrecognized a second time. So I sit again and pull the laptop closer, peering at the screen for a few seconds.

  The French phrase pops up in the chat. But it’s not Tracker. It’s Angel. Looking fo
r me.

  My fingers freeze on the keys. How would Angel know the French phrase? Do I answer? Do I reveal myself? What if he is my shadow?

  I yank my hands back, away from the keyboard. I am filled with dread. If he traces me back here, if he can somehow get through the firewall I’ve created, the VPN, Tor, I may not be able to escape again.

  But then I come to my senses. I am well protected. So before I can stop myself again, I respond with my own French phrase and a link to a private chat room.

  ‘Where the hell are you, Tina?’ he asks when we are both there.

  It’s Zeke. It takes me a second to digest that. He’s hiding behind Angel’s screen name. Maybe his team saw the previous conversation we had and are on high alert.

  ‘Tina?’

  I’ve used a different screen name, but the French phrase clearly told him who I really am. So much for anonymity. ‘No names, remember?’ I shouldn’t have to tell him that. I wonder for a second how he’d react if I used his real name here.

  ‘You were here one minute and gone the next. Heather said you just took off.’

  Again with the real names, but I have no doubt that this is really Zeke. ‘I couldn’t stay. It’s not my thing.’

  ‘It’s for your own safety.’

  ‘So you say.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  I take too long thinking about how to respond when he continues.

  ‘I can find you, you know.’

  I don’t doubt it for a second. He could have already found my IP address, regardless of my safeguards. He’s found me when no one else could.

  I still don’t respond.

  ‘Tina, you’re in a lot of danger. Please come back. I found the imposter, and he’s here. In Miami. He’s got a hit out on you. He wants you dead.’