Hard Wired

by C. Ryan Bymaster

  Three cups had tea, one, on the far side of the table, had milk. Three plates had slivers of cake on them that appeared to have been nibbled at with the forks sitting next to or on top of the plates. The fourth plate, next to the milk, hadn’t been touched, the fork next to it gleaming in all its silver beauty.

  Three assailants, not one. And one of the three unknowns didn’t like tea or chocolate, it seemed.

  Bobseyn ran through the scenario that best fit the visual evidence.

  Doorbell rings, Becky gets up from checking her mail, greets three people. Friends or strangers? She welcomes them in, closes the door behind them, and seats them in the living room. Tea and cake? Milk for me, one says. The three sit, Becky comes back, serves them, sits in the seat closest to the door, close to where Bobseyn presently stood, surveying her last moments.

  Now he looked down at the body. Becky had fallen face up, angle and position suggested that she had been sitting on the couch when it happened. There was blood pooled around her from two puncture wounds likely caused by the knife that was still gripped in her hand. He didn’t need a crack forensics team to determine that the black smears under the coating of blood on the blade would be chocolate. The knife was the same one that she had used to slice the cake for her guests.

  Two wounds, fifty-fifty on which one was the fatal one — though it mattered not which — inflicted by the cake knife clutched in her hand, in her death grip. Positioning of the body, location of the knife, suggested the wounds were self-inflicted.

  First glance said Becky had killed herself.

  But Rick Bobseyn knew how far-fetched that could be. A person wishing to kill themselves by blade was not that … determined. He knew, as he had the scar on his left wrist to attest to that fact. Suicide was easy on paper, but once that sharp edge actually hit skin, something primal kicked in and the pain stayed your hand from moving the blade any more. It happened to him when he was a teenager. He’d gotten a quarter of an inch in when his body wouldn’t let him go any further.

  That’s why he doubted the scene before him played out like it wanted him to think it did. Maybe, maybe, Becky could have plunged the knife into her own chest the first time. But to pull it out, ignore the pain and wash of blood everywhere, and plunge it in again? No. No way. Someone had to have done it, staged it to look like she had done it herself.

  But the blood pool and spray across the coffee table looked uninterrupted. Maybe if the assailant was behind her … No, the couch was up tight against the wall. No chance on that. And after she had bled out, the assailants left, having to walk over the body and pool of blood. Except one wasn’t careful enough and planted a foot in the blood, leaving the memory of what had happened here all across the walkway, sidewalk, and street.

  Bobseyn was at a loss. This was becoming a problem. Four deaths, two of which were supposed suicides, in six months. Unheard of.

  He’d call in his deputies, have them contain the scene. He’d print the cups, the forks, the knife. He’d send the prints away to the closest forensics lab. No doubt the case would be put on the back-burner. Though it had been difficult for him to admit he needed help, he’d finally given in two months ago and asked for assistance from both state and federal levels. The responses were the same. If something pops up in the databases they’d call him. Until then, Graftsprings was on its own.

  He made a mental note to collect Becky’s laptop. She didn’t have family in Graftsprings, but if he checked her contact list he’d find her closest kin. He just didn’t know what to tell whoever that would be. Like the others that had died or been murdered recently, there was an obvious lack of close friends and family, but that did not make it any easier when relaying the terrible news.

  Bobseyn’s boots crunch-crunched as he backed out of the living room. He stood in the entryway, took one last metal picture, and then stepped out onto the porch, making sure to close the door to Becky’s house, the house that she was still in, yet was, for all accounts, now empty.

  VII

  Dent waited until the waitress refilled his coffee before motioning for Fifth to continue talking. She was throwing out wild speculations as to who Otto may be or why he was leading them to Utah in the first place.

  “He has to be some government spy,” she said, pointing her forkful of mashed potatoes at him.

  He knew better than to contradict her. He’d spent enough time with her to know what would likely happen if he did. Instead he sipped his hot coffee and said, “Eat.”

  She narrowed her right eye at him, but did as she was told and shoved the fork into her mouth. She made a show of chewing, though mashed potatoes hardly required that amount of chewing, and then made a loud swallowing noise as she swallowed it down.

  “I’m telling you, Otto is some underground freedom fighter, a man with the inside scoop on all the secret things the U.S. does behind closed doors.”

  “Maybe,” he said when she finished talking with a wave of her fork his way.

  “You’re just saying that so I’ll shut up about it.”

  “Maybe.”

  He may have been mistaken, but it definitely sounded like the girl hissed at him.

  He shrugged, not knowing what to say. He decided it best to just go along. “Why would a secret government agent contact me?”

  “Us.”

  “Okay. Us.”

  “Because he knows about you. Knows you can kick some ass.” She leaned in closer to the table, knocking into it and threatening to spill his coffee. He put his hand atop the mug, keeping the hot liquid contained. “You’re the perfect guy to cut through all the tape and bring the killers to justice.”

  “Except, I’m not the justice type of guy.”

  Leaning back and tapping her bottom lip with her fork, Fifth returned, “No, you’re not. You’re the kill-first, ask-questions-never type. Maybe that’s why I’m here. The sidekick to figure out the hard questions, find out the hidden answers.”

  “It took you ten minutes to decide between a cheeseburger and fried chicken,” he pointed out.

  “I wanted the mashed potatoes that came with the chicken but wanted the cheeseburger,” she stated.

  Dent looked at her plate with the half-eaten cheeseburger, pickle on the side, and mashed potatoes smothered in melted butter. “And I was the one to tell the waitress to get you the cheeseburger with the potatoes on the side. If it weren’t for me, you’d still be trying to decide.”

  She picked up the pickle and nibbled on it. “You did that just because you were impatient.”

  He drew from his reserve of the countless facial expressions Fifth used on him and raised his left eyebrow at her.

  She noticed and let out a light breath. “Yeah, yeah, you don’t get impatient.”

  “But going to dinner with you is teaching me exactly what it means get impatient.”

  She stared at him, picked up her cheeseburger and tore off a huge mouthful. She kept her eyes on him as she chewed, and he was unsure if she was going to throw the thing at him. Her shoulders finally relaxed and she put her burger down, on her plate and not his face, then wiped her hands on her napkin.

  Reaching over to grab his coffee mug she told him, “I’m serious, Dent.” She took a sip and then leaned forward to hand the mug to him. “Otto knows about you and if he is reaching out to you, a guy who has a bad reputation with the government, then he must be desperate.”

  After taking a sip of his own and placing the mug back on the table, he told her, “That’s why we’re going. But we’re only going to check things out. If I think that this is all an elaborate scheme to get you out in the open then we turn around and make a hasty retreat.”

  Unexpectedly, he had grown attached to the girl over the past few months, something that he couldn’t readily explain. He had given up all he had back in California to keep her safe, and he’d be damned if he let that investment get ruined by some mystery hacker who wanted to get to Fifth by using him.

  She clasped her hands together and put them
to her cheek as she tilted her head to side. “Aww, I knew you cared for me.” He voice was higher pitched than normal, and he got the heavy impression that this would be exactly how she would talk to a newborn puppy.

  Her mood infected him, that was the only excuse he had as he curled his lips in a smile. Sometimes she managed to affect even him.

  Before she could puppy-talk to him again he said, “I just don’t want to have to find someone else to teach me how to be impatient.”

  “And you wonder why you never got married. With a golden tongue like that, I figure all the ladies would be lining up for you.”

  This tone, her favorite tone, was sweet and not-so-sweet at the same time. This he knew was sarcasm. And he knew not to respond lest it give her more fuel for the fire.

  “You done?” he asked after a minute, gesturing to her almost empty plate.

  She pushed her plate back with two hands. “Yep.”

  He turned, intending to get the waitress’s attention when Fifth leaned over to grab his arm, bumping hard into the table again as she did. He turned back, on high alert. But when she leaned back and gave him one of her looks he settled back.

  “What?” he asked.

  “I’ll get her attention, Dent.”

  “Why?”

  “Because, people don’t like being snapped at from across a room. It’s rude.”

  “I snap at you to get your attention.”

  She raised both eyebrows. “Exactly.”

  So he left her to it.

  Fifth waited until the waitress and she caught eyes and then did something with her face — pursed her lips slightly and raised both brows — and the waitress understood whatever secret code was given and sauntered over a minute later, placing the check on the table with a “Here ya go, sweetie.”

  Fifth smiled up at the woman as Dent leaned to the side to grab his wallet. Then he leaned to the other side, checked the other pocket. Only the car keys. He’d forgotten his wallet in the car. He opened his mouth to say he would be back when Fifth spoke up, realizing that he didn’t have his wallet on him.

  She looked up to the waitress, and Dent watched as she spoke in that puppy dog way to the woman. “It seems he forgot his wallet ….”

  If Dent didn’t know any better, he would think Fifth was up to something. She was acting overly … nice.

  The waitress looked down at her, her eyes crinkling with a slight smile. “That’s not good,” she said, but her voice was soft.

  Fifth scooted over on the bench seat, closer to the waitress. “If you could just let us have this one on the house, it would be greatly appreciated.”

  Dent realized what Fifth was doing. It looked like the waitress did as well, but didn’t truly understand what was really happening. Fifth was trying to manipulate the woman’s emotions, trying to get the woman to be nice and let them skip out on the bill.

  For a brief moment, he thought Fifth had succeeded, but then the woman shook her head softly and said, “I wish I could, sweetie. But then, I’d be out the cost of your meal. I got bills of my own and a family to feed at home.”

  It didn’t work.

  Dent saw Fifth’s shoulders slump and she sat heavily back into the seat as she said, “Fine.” She held her hand out to Dent. “Give me the keys, I’ll go grab your stupid wallet.”

  He offered the keys up and she snagged them out of his hand.

  “Thanks, sweetie,” the waitress said as Fifth walked away to the front entrance. Then she looked at Dent and offered, “Cute kid.”

  He didn’t know what to say so he nodded and blurted out, “Yeah. She’s adopted.”

  The waitress’s brows came together at the same time her eyes widened just a bit. “I’ll just leave this here for you,” she finally said, tapping the bill. “You guys have a good one.”

  He watched her walk away and made a mental note to never forget his wallet again.

  VIII

  Three days into their drive, they had stopped at a small motel just off the freeway. Like he usually did, Dent rented two adjacent rooms with a connecting door between them. Kasumi was in Dent’s room, and she and he were pigging out on their dinners. Well, she was, at least. Dent, as normal, ate like a boring person, taking his time, probably not even tasting his food. He’d probably tell her he ate because it was what his body required.

  Boooooring.

  She, on the other hand, was enjoying her double cheeseburger, gravy fries, and soda. Diet soda, actually. Dent argued, actually argued with her, about her getting a diet soda. She was just over five feet and weighed a hundred and ten in cold-weather clothes, not exactly someone who needed to watch her weight. She figured Dent made her get the diet soda because that’s what a normal parent or legal guardian would have done. He was neither, but he still tried. She sighed, and hid a smile behind a mouthful of cheeseburger.

  He had the best intentions in mind. So he had argued, and she had argued back, of course, but eventually she gave in and agreed to order a diet. She even threw in a few colorful words just to keep up her side of the argument. It wouldn’t do to go easy on the big guy. Had to make him think he’d barely won this small battle.

  So far, the only other message Otto sent them was for them to hurry. That was it. Dent was worried — well maybe not really worried, but worried in his own weird way — that Otto was tracking them across the country. He believed that if Otto could, then maybe others could as well.

  She had to agree with Dent. No argument there.

  She mentioned that maybe they should get rid of their phones, make it so Otto couldn’t track them through their GPS settings. But Dent had said no, that it would be a waste.

  “If he wants to track us,” he had told her, “he’ll find a way to track us. We’ll keep our phones, for now.”

  She put the burger down, wiped her hands, and shoved a forkful of gravy-and-fries goodness in her mouth. As she chewed, she reached over to where her phone sat near the middle of the table. Thoughts of phones brought her to the same sad fact that she rarely used hers. Since going on the run with Dent and then hiding out in the middle of nowhere on the east coast, she really hadn’t had the chance to build up a normal social life. She had turned fourteen two months ago and didn’t even have a party, though Dent did buy her a cake. She knew it was for the best, at least for the time being, but still ….

  She missed her friends back home in Japan. She even missed Professor Fischer. Thoughts of the super-nice techie dampened her mood even more. He’d been taken and no doubt murdered by Mr. Chisholme, and it was because he had been hiding her from Mr. Chisholme at the time. That was why she couldn’t have friends. If anyone bad linked her to a friend then that friend would be in danger.

  She spun her phone around and around.

  At least she had Dent. He was a friend. He’d risked his life to save hers. He promised he would make things right, make it so she could live a normal life. And she believed him.

  She shoveled another bite into her mouth, contemplating whether she wanted finish the rest of the cheeseburger or not, and all the while her phone spun around and around on the table.

  ---

  She was playing with her phone again, Dent noted. That had to mean something. She did it a lot lately. He watched her take a sip of her diet soda while she stared at her half-eaten cheeseburger.

  He had told her she had to get diet soda instead of regular. When he was a kid, before all the doctors and psychologists, his mother always made him get diet sodas. She said diet was better for kids. So it was only logical that he made Fifth get diet sodas as well. Except he never made such a big deal over it like Fifth did. Were all children like that? Or was it just girls who argued so much? Or was it both? Either way, Dent concluded that Fifth was likely an extreme example of both cases. But where emotions were concerned, Dent was at a loss. Assuming all children or women were like Fifth was like assuming all men were like himself.

  Not a chance on that particular scale of probabilities.

  She spu
n her phone again, and he noted that her eyebrows were pulled in tight above the bridge of her nose. That indicated something. But what?

  “Have you talked to any of your friends?” he asked, thinking perhaps that was the problem, the correct question to ask.

  She snapped her head up, brows furrowing even more, and opened her mouth to reply. But whatever she was about to say, she stopped herself. Her mouth closed and her brows went back to their normal locations.

  He waited.

  It proved the correct action as she finally spoke, but with a light voice, not her usual energetic one. “I know it’s for my safety, but still ….” She let out a breath.

  Dent thought to the diet coke, to what normal kids are supposed to do, and then he drew a conclusion. “You need to go to school.”

  “What?” she asked, laughing at him.

  “School. Kids. Friends.”

  She gave him another laugh. Apparently he was funny.

  “Until I figure out how to control,” she pointed at her head, “this, how to be less of a freak, I’m stuck with you.”

  She had a point, and he inclined his head at her. She had told him she was constantly trying to learn to keep her emotions from bubbling out of her, but he was unsure of how successful she was.

  “Sorry,” she said suddenly, softly. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

  She thought she’d insulted him somehow. “Oh,” he said, catching on. “Well if it makes you feel better, until I figure how to make sure people won’t try to use you for testing, I’m stuck with you as well.”

  She cocked her head at him and smiled. “You are going to make some lucky woman go grey early someday.”

  “If women are anything like you, I’ll pass.”

  “Dent, you would have trouble dating a girl in a coma. And she’d be the life of the relationship!”

  Dent tried reading her face, her tone. “There was a joke in there, right?”