Zeke nods. ‘Yeah, he disappeared a little while ago. But he’ll be back.’
‘This is why we should have stayed at Spencer’s. We could have used his set-up.’
‘Spencer’s got his own shit going on. You can’t be involved in that.’ The way he says it makes me hesitate.
‘What else is he up to?’
Zeke turns his head to look at me. We are so close that our noses touch, and then he’s kissing me, his arms around me; we’re lying on the bed, the laptop has been shoved to the side. I think about stopping him, and for a second I try to pull away, but his lips are against my neck, his hand is on my breast, and he whispers, ‘Tiny.’ I close my eyes and he’s Tracker, and I kiss him back.
Afterward, we lay naked on the bed, staring at the ceiling, his arm underneath my head. The only sound is the soft whir of the air-conditioning unit. I’m trying to decide if I regret what I’ve done and am only mildly surprised to find out that I don’t.
‘You OK?’ he asks.
‘Yeah. You?’
‘I’m a little tired,’ he admits.
‘You were up all night.’
He doesn’t respond, and after a few seconds, I hear his soft snores. I try not to jostle him as I climb out of bed, but from the look of it, I don’t think a bomb would wake him. I stare at him for a few seconds. This is a man I thought just a day ago was going to try to kill me. As I watch him sleep, I realize that fear was unwarranted. His touch was so tender, and I shiver a little with the memory of it. I’m struck by the familiarity of him, but at the same time it’s as though we’ve never been together before. It felt so right. Maybe because I’ve always been more than a little in love with Tracker.
The thought confuses me as I’m still trying to come to grips with Zeke being Tracker. Does this mean that I’m really in love with Zeke? Or am I just in love with the idea of Tracker?
I spot the bag of bagels on the dresser next to the TV. I grab his shirt and pull it over my head and reach for the bag, but I trip over the power cord for the laptop, which is on its side on the floor. I reach down and pick it up, and the screen lights up.
I see now what Zeke was waiting for.
THIRTY-FOUR
He is in the chat room. It must be the shadow. I wonder what he’d do if I showed myself, if I sent him a message saying that I know where the money is; that if I give it to him, will he leave me alone and let me get on with my life? Or maybe it’s not about the money. Maybe it’s about me, about revenge, getting back at me, and the money is an afterthought, something that would be nice, convenient, but not the ultimate goal.
I glance over at Zeke, who is still asleep. The sight of him distracts me again. I slept with Ian on Block Island, even when I knew he was no good for me, even though I knew he was using me. He awoke an old passion in me, a passion for him that I didn’t think I had anymore. In retrospect, I knew he wasn’t good for me even when I first met him, but there was a carnal need for him that I couldn’t shake.
Am I merely chasing after the past, first with Ian and now with Zeke? Am I trying to reclaim all those lost years when I was living alone on Block Island, hiding from everyone, especially myself?
I shake off the thoughts as I turn back to the laptop.
The shadow is using a screen name I’m not familiar with: Betr@yD. Betrayed. A sudden affinity with the shadow rushes through me. I can relate. I want to have a conversation with Betr@yD, see if I can get any information out of him about himself. I go through the VPN and open the Tor software application. I find my way to the chat room site where I sign in as 4rt!sT, a screen name I’ve never used before. When I get inside, I see that Betr@yD has posed a question about back doors.
4rt!sT: What do you need to know?
Betr@yD: It might be a little too personal. Can you chat privately?
I’m not sure exactly why, and I’m uncertain about clicking on any link he’ll give me, so I say: Sure. I’ll get a link.
He doesn’t seem to mind, and when I send him the link, he clicks through and we meet in the private room.
4rt!sT: What do you need to know about back doors?
Betr@yD: I already know about back doors. What do you know about the people in this chat room?
I am not here to gossip, but I admit I’m intrigued by the change of subject.
4rt!sT: Not very much. Are you talking about anyone in particular?
Betr@yD: p4r4d0x.
My heart begins to pound as I stare at the screen. I did not expect this. But I have to answer; I need to know what Betr@yD is looking for.
4rt!sT: I don’t know who that is. I haven’t been here that much to know everyone. What is your interest?
Betr@yD: What about Tracker? Everyone seems to know who he is.
My heart skips a beat. I am glad Betr@yD can’t see me, to see my expression, because I’m certain that he would see right through me.
4rt!sT: I don’t.
Betr@yD: He’s FBI.
My fingers freeze above the keyboard. How does he know that?
4rt!sT: How do you know?
Betr@yD: I’ve been shadowing him.
I glance over at the bed and watch Zeke sleep. Does he know? I want to wake him, but I’m afraid if I wait too long to respond, Betr@yD will go away.
4rt!sT: How long?
Betr@yD: Long enough. And he’s not the only one. Watch yourself.
And then he is gone.
I switch back into the public chat room, but Betr@yD is nowhere to be seen. I switch screens again so I can see into his computer, but it’s dark now.
Who is Betr@yD? Is he really shadowing Tracker – Zeke? He’s right that he’s FBI, but how would he know that? The only ones who know Zeke’s online identity are me – and Spencer. For a second, I consider him, but his Coral Gables home is too far away to be connecting to the router. If Betr@yD is in the vicinity of Tony DeMarco’s house or even in Tony’s house, he might actually be Ian. It’s possible that Ian – through Daniel – may have discovered Zeke’s online identity.
I am concentrating so much on how Betr@yD knows about Tracker that I almost forget his last words. How Tracker’s not the only one he’s shadowing. He told me to watch myself. But there’s no way he could know who I am; I’ve never been in the chat room with that screen name before. I’ve never been anywhere with that screen name. Is it just a general warning, that someone could shadow me, too?
I am trying to think logically about this when Zeke’s cell phone begins to chirp, startling me. It’s on the table next to the bed. I put the laptop down and start to go toward the phone when Zeke rolls over and snatches it up, answering it with a sharp ‘What?’
It’s as though I’m not even in the room as he listens intently, then says ‘OK’ before ending the call. He jumps up and pulls on his pants, then looks around for something. He finally notices me, and the all-business expression fades as he gives me a shy smile. ‘I need my shirt.’ He comes over and unbuttons the top two buttons, his fingertips tickling my skin. He doesn’t seem to notice that I’ve tensed up, my head still online, in that chat room with Betr@yD. He leans in and kisses me. That’s when he finally does notice, when I don’t respond.
‘What’s going on?’ he asks.
I gather up my clothes, pull on the bike shorts, and tug a T-shirt over my head, finger-combing my hair and adjusting my glasses on my nose. The laptop is still open on the bed, and I pick it up. ‘I had a conversation with the shadow,’ I say, telling him about Betr@yD.
Zeke’s jaw tightens. ‘He said Tracker’s FBI?’
I nod. ‘He left the chat room, and when I looked back at his screen, it was dark.’ To show him what I’m talking about, I pull the laptop toward us.
But instead of a dark screen, Betr@yD is in the deep web, checking out the Waste Land site. Zeke pulls the laptop into his lap, settling on the corner of the bed, and I look over his shoulder as we watch Betr@yD click on a link to a site called Unicorn. I’m not sure what I expect, but what pops up is not it. It’s a k
iddie porn site, photographs of naked children filling the screen. ‘This is new,’ Zeke mumbles.
I lean in to see that whoever is looking at the site is taking screen shots and putting them in a folder on the desktop.
‘I haven’t seen this site before,’ Zeke says. He peers at it a little more closely. I have to look away; the images are too disturbing.
Suddenly, the screen goes entirely black. I think I know what’s happened. ‘The router. It’s out of juice.’ I pause. ‘He’s connected to the router, so he’s near Tony’s house. Or in Tony’s house.’
Zeke understands what I’m saying. ‘It could be Ian.’
‘He might know who Tracker is, who you are. Through Daniel.’
He doesn’t want to believe that Daniel’s been able to find out; I can see the denial in his eyes. ‘See what you can find out,’ he says again. ‘I have to go.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘That call? I have to go.’
‘What about me?’
‘You stay here. I don’t want you to go anywhere.’
He’s reminding me of last night, of the BMW, of Ian.
If Betr@yD really is Ian and he’s telling me to watch myself, I don’t want to be alone.
Zeke knows what I’m thinking. He wraps his arms around me. ‘He doesn’t know who you are, even if he thinks he knows who Tracker is.’
‘But he said to watch myself. It was like he knew exactly who I was.’
‘There’s no way he could have. I think he was messing around with you.’
I’m not so sure.
‘You’ll be fine here, safe here. Even if by some remote chance he knows who you are, he doesn’t know where you are,’ he says confidently, and he kisses me. When he finally pulls away, I feel dizzy and can’t remember what I’d been thinking. He smiles, but then it fades. ‘Don’t let anyone in.’ He pauses. ‘See if you can find out anything about that kiddie porn site, too. It might be something.’
Or it might not, I think. But he’s distracted, and I don’t know what’s going on.
‘When will you be back?’
He shrugs and grabs the keys to the rental car off the bedside table. ‘I’ll call you,’ he says, leaning over and brushing my cheek with his lips.
And then he’s gone, the door closing behind him, and I’m alone.
For a moment, I consider following him, but there’s no way he wouldn’t see me. Absently, I pick up the TV remote and turn it on. I click through the hotel channels and find local morning news. I really just want it as white noise, but the scene on the screen catches my eye. It’s familiar, the street that’s filled with TV vans and reporters. I don’t need to see the house to know exactly what’s happening.
Tony DeMarco is coming home.
THIRTY-FIVE
I sit on the bed and stare at the TV. I find it more than a little fascinating that the local news has nothing else to feature, but Tony DeMarco has never been convicted of any crimes and has been a mover and shaker in the local political scene for years, so I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised at the attention he’s getting. Especially since someone tried to kill him, and that’s no secret.
The camera is trained on the front of the house, and the door opens. Ian Cartwright, aka Roger Parker, saunters out as though this is the most natural thing in the world for him to be doing. I wonder exactly what his role is in Tony’s world. Is it this? Is it warding off the media? Is it deflecting the bad and trying to point out the good?
I’ve missed the lead-in by the station’s reporter, but the others are shouting questions. ‘Have they arrested anyone yet?’
Ian turns at that and says loudly, ‘No arrests. And you should ask the police why not.’
‘Do you think they’re holding back on the investigation?’ The question comes from somewhere in the crowd; I can’t see who asks it.
‘There has been no word from the police about the investigation,’ Ian says. ‘You should go stand on their doorstep and ask what they’re doing to find out who tried to kill Mr DeMarco.’
I mute the TV, wanting to concentrate on the scene, not the questions. Ian is a natural at this, and I watch him working the crowd. Again I wonder if he is Betr@yD and whether the real reason the screen went dark has more to do with this than the router running out of juice.
My attention goes back to the TV when the cameras swing suddenly, and I watch the arrival of a long, sleek black car that pulls up into the driveway. Ian is at the car’s back door, opening it. A pair of long legs appears, and then Ian takes her hand and gently guides Adriana DeMarco out of the car. He leans down and gives her a quick kiss on her cheek, and she smiles up at him. I try to see if there’s anything in that smile, but I am distracted by Tony DeMarco being brought out of the other side of the car. Adriana moves quickly around the back of the car so she is now at her father’s side, taking his arm while a nurse has the other. Two bodyguards follow closely, their arms hanging stiffly, their heads swiveling to make sure no one is going to sneak up on Tony and try to kill him again. Ian waits at the door as Tony is helped up the steps.
Tony DeMarco is a far cry from the larger-than-life, boisterous man I remember from my youth. He has lost a lot of weight, which could be due to him being shot, or maybe he is sick, as I’d thought when I saw him last summer in New York. What had once been a full head of hair is now merely a few strands of white combed over his mostly bald pate. He is hunched over and has a visible tremor in one of his arms.
The camera is trained on the reporter now, whose mouth is moving, telling viewers what’s going on. I don’t need to hear her. Instead, I focus on what’s happening behind her. Tony DeMarco disappears inside; Adriana pauses in the doorway, glances back, but then follows her father into the house. Ian is the last to go inside, leaving pandemonium behind.
I pick up the remote and hit the button, turning off the TV. I toss the remote on the bed, and it lands next to the laptop.
A nervous claustrophobia overcomes me. I jump off the bed and go to the sliding door, stepping out on to the balcony. The room is on a floor high enough that Biscayne Bay spreads out in front of me like a blanket, dotted with small islands. I remember a long time ago when the artist Christo surrounded them with floating pink fabric. My father hired a helicopter to fly us over the islands, giving us a bird’s-eye view. It was the first and only time I’ve ever flown in a helicopter; the ear protectors were a little too large for my small head, and the vibration shook my entire body. But I wasn’t afraid because my father put his arm around me as we leaned over to see the assault of colors: the dark green islands against the bright pink and cobalt water. I couldn’t figure out how the artist did it, and in my head I imagined him a magician with a wand that cast out fabric like a spider produces a web.
I am struck by my childhood memory, and when I close my eyes, I can see it so clearly. I wish desperately that I had a canvas and my paints, because I could paint it, bring it back to life.
I’m not quite sure what to do now, except I have an overpowering need to escape this place. In my head, I know that Zeke left me here to keep me safe, but I am not comfortable being sequestered here any more than I was in the apartment in South Miami. My mind wanders as I go over my online conversation with Betr@yD.
The laptop is taunting me. I open it and hit a key, the screen springing to life.
But what I see is not what I expect.
It’s a slideshow, with pictures popping up one after the other across the screen.
Pictures of kids. But these are not snapshots of children taken at the beach, on a swing set, in front of a Christmas tree. These are the photographs that the shadow – Betr@yD – was downloading from the kiddie porn site.
I force myself to concentrate on what’s happened rather than the content of the pictures. We had managed to sneak inside a port to spy on him, but somehow he’s turned it around on us. While I was having my conversation with him in the chat room, it’s obvious he managed to find his way unseen back into this laptop a
nd infect it with the kiddie porn.
I quickly power down the laptop, staring at it for a few seconds, my heart pounding, before I shove it into the backpack that’s on the floor next to the bed. Even though we’ve got a VPN and the IP address has been rerouted, how do I know that the hacker hasn’t managed to compromise that, too?
Zeke was wrong. Betr@yD could know exactly where I am.
I have to get out of here.
I sling the backpack over my shoulder and look around for the room card key. There. I left it on the bedside table when I went over to see what Zeke was looking at on the laptop.
But that’s not the only thing there.
Zeke left his gun.
Did he leave it on purpose? Did he know I might need something to protect myself? Not that I’m good with a gun, but I don’t have to actually shoot it. It could scare someone, if necessary.
I tuck it inside the front pocket of the backpack, then realize how noticeable it is. I don’t want anyone to stop me because I’ve got a gun. I put it into the next pocket, hoping that if I need it quickly, I’ll be able to get it easily. I’m not so sure. All I know is that I am not going to put it in the waistband of my bike shorts and risk shooting myself.
As I let myself out of the room, I am struck by the sense that even though I have no idea what I’m doing or where I’m going, it’s as if a weight has been lifted off my chest.
I ride down the elevator, leaning against the back wall. There is only one place to go.
Since I still don’t have a phone that has an Uber app, I go the old-fashioned way and have the concierge call me a cab. He tells me to go outside and wait.
I’m standing in front of the hotel when I see her. Amelie. She is coming out of the coffee shop next door. She’s holding a coffee in one hand, a briefcase in the other, a Louis Vuitton bag over her shoulder. Suddenly, she turns and faces me.
I freeze. She gives me a small, tight smile, but I can’t read it. Is it a smile for a stranger who she’s discovered is watching her? Or does she recognize me?
Betrayed Page 15