Charlie knew his credit card number as well as the CVV from memory, but he wasn’t about to use them here. If the police were smart, they would flag his accounts.
Charlie feigned entering the information into the log-on screen. The computer station he’d selected faced the café’s service counter. Only people using the bathroom would be able to get a good look at what he was doing. He could keep an eye out for that and could hide his activity if needed.
Step one in his plan was to build a duplicate Web form—identical to the form the café required customers to complete for Internet access. He was thankful they hadn’t converted to free Wi-Fi yet. Charlie saved the graphics in a folder on the C drive on the computer. He then opened a notepad document and started to code.
Thirty minutes later Charlie had re-created the Web form, only he wasn’t going through a Web server to display the Web page. The page, in fact, was local to the computer, and the Web form would be programmed to capture any information customers entered into the fields and to output that data to another file on the same computer. Any user, familiar or not with this particular Internet café, would have a difficult time detecting that the form they were entering their most personal information into was actually a forgery.
He made the credit card information fields encrypted for added authenticity. That way when a user typed in those boxes, they would see asterisks in place of numbers. Those sorts of simple security measures were an industry standard now. When a user saw that type of encryption on a site, they understood it meant that their information was protected. Of course, that couldn’t be further from the truth.
Next, Charlie wrote a simple program in less time than it had taken him to create the forged Web page. There were only fifteen lines of code in his program. If he were a more practiced software engineer, he could probably have done it in five. But his chops had rusted long ago. It was hard enough to dig through his mental archives and remember the basics.
His program was a relatively simple one: take the values that a user entered into the text boxes on his dummy log-on page, and then write that data to a text file stored in a hidden location that Charlie had specified on the café’s computer.
Charlie’s dummy home page was not connected to the Internet. That meant it couldn’t process any credit card information. To keep suspicion of his handiwork to a minimum, Charlie added to his program a simple browser redirect. Right after a user clicked the submit button on his forged log-on page, Charlie’s program would not only write the data to a text file, but it would also redirect the user to the real log-on page. That way users would think their information didn’t process and they’d simply enter it again, but this time on the form that would grant them access to the Internet at three dollars per hour.
It took only a simple modification to the Web browser’s preferences to make it load Charlie’s forged form instead of the real Cyber Café log-on page. A technologically savvy ownership would have security in place to prevent customers from changing configuration settings. But most of these mom-and-pop cafés had no idea of their vulnerabilities to hackers.
When it was done and tested, Charlie got up and exited the café. It was the cyber equivalent of lobster fishing. Set the trap; the store itself was the bait. An unsuspecting user would walk into the café. They would open the Web browser, needing to check an e-mail or whatever. They would get Charlie’s dummy log-on page, looking just like the real deal. They’d pull out their wallet, enter in their credit card information, and click SUBMIT. The page would reload. They’d see the log-on page again. All the security information fields would be blank. Perhaps they would sigh aloud, blaming a faulty Internet connection, suspecting nothing. They’d enter their credit card information again, and voilà, they’d be on the Internet, surfing away and paying by the hour. Meanwhile, their precious credit card information would now exist in a text file on that computer’s hard drive—a file that Charlie could retrieve at any time.
Maxim showed up outside the café as scheduled.
“Are you ready to do this?” Charlie asked.
“I need the cash. At least so I can get away from my old lady, who got me locked up in that hellhole in the first place.”
Charlie hesitated. Everything depended on this. If they failed, he might as well go back to Walderman and forget about the truth. Regardless, he could forget about his life.
“Listen carefully, then,” Charlie said. “You walk into the café. Smile at the counter person. Sit at the computer closest to the bathroom. Do you have anything to write with?”
Maxim nodded. “I have a notebook. I write poetry sometimes.”
“Poetry?”
“Yeah. Want to hear some?”
Charlie smiled. “I don’t think I’m really in the mood for a poem.”
Charlie finished with his instructions, and Maxim nodded his head, comprehending every one. Ten minutes later he walked out of the café and up Prospect Street to where Charlie was waiting.
“Somebody used the computer?” Charlie asked.
Maxim nodded.
“Did you delete all the files?”
“I did,” Maxim said.
“And the home page?”
“I set it back to the regular log-on page as the default, just like you said.”
“Most important, the card?”
Maxim handed him a piece of paper with all the information sniffed from his program. Charlie felt in his pockets for a quarter and blushed. He had forgotten for a moment that he was broke and didn’t even have a quarter for a call.
Maxim reached into his pockets and dug out a quarter. “You sure this is going to work, man?”
“Yes.”
“What if I get caught?”
“Your ID is bogus.” Charlie didn’t mention the security cameras that would capture Maxim’s picture as he took the money. “If for some reason you do get caught, all you have to say is that you were scammed. You were trying to help out a guy who needed some cash. You got the money for him. You gave him all of it, except for a hundred bucks, which you kept as a thank-you.”
“But you said you’d give me five hundred.”
Charlie shook his head. “Anything under two-fifty is a misdemeanor if we get caught. You get five but say you took no more than a hundred. Got it?”
Charlie used the word we, knowing full well that Maxim was the most at risk. It would be easier for the police to get to him. But it would be impossible for them to get to Charlie. He had no address. He was already on the run. Maxim hadn’t put that together yet. Probably he was too caught up in getting the fast cash and escaping from a difficult home life for a while. Charlie felt terrible taking advantage of the kid but didn’t see another way. The Seacoast Motel and getting to Revere from Boston took money. Maxim would survive.
Charlie walked over to a pay phone and dialed the number for Western Union, using a business card he’d taken from one of the outlets near the Fresh Pond Mall. He gave them the name and number from the stolen credit card.
“The money is going to a Jeffrey Carmichael,” Charlie said, holding up Maxim’s bogus ID for reference. Then he paused. “Yes, he has ID. Thirty minutes. Thank you.”
Charlie hung up the phone. The two walked in silence to the Western Union. Thirty minutes later Maxim emerged from the store with two thousand dollars in cash. At Charlie’s suggestion, he’d bought a baseball hat and sunglasses on the way to the store, and he took them off as he stepped outside. He handed Charlie fifteen hundred dollars and pocketed the rest. Charlie gave him a twenty for the outfit.
“Will I get caught?” Maxim asked again.
Charlie shook his head. “I doubt it. Cameras won’t tell them much. If you get on the news for the scam, will your friends rat you out?”
“My friends are loyal, dude, no matter what,” Maxim said.
Charlie thought of Eddie. He thought of how furious he had been at Eddie’s deception and how committed it had made him to destroying Eddie’s career. He had shown Eddie no forgive
ness. No loyalty. And yet somehow, Eddie was reaching out to him—even from the grave, Eddie Prescott was trying to be his friend.
Shaking Maxim’s hand, Charlie said, “You take care of yourself.” “Thanks. I will.” Maxim turned and headed back toward his crew,
still hanging out in the mall parking lot.
Charlie made his way to the Red Line at Alewife Station. Soon he’d be in Revere, at the Seacoast Motel, where the answers to all his questions were waiting.
Chapter 45
Charlie had to accept Maxim’s word that the boy had no plans for future use of the stolen credit card information. Such abuse, Charlie assured him, would undoubtedly come to the attention of the authorities. If that were to happen, Maxim’s role in the theft would be exposed.
Charlie tore up the stolen credit card information and tossed the confetti-sized pieces into an overflowing trash barrel. He took some comfort in knowing that the cardholder would not incur a personal loss from the theft; the credit card company’s theft protection plan would cover the loss.
Yet, as incomprehensible to him as it was, a mountain of evidence suggested that this wasn’t Charlie’s first criminal act. It was torturous to have no memory of his other transgressions. He would pay back the money he’d stolen—provided the memory of this particular crime didn’t recede into the blackness of his subconscious.
Before Maxim had left, he’d used part of Charlie’s share of the take to buy Charlie a large Red Sox T-shirt, a gray-and-blue sport Windbreaker, a plain blue baseball hat without any identifying logo, and sunglasses. Cocooned within a fresh change of clothes, Charlie felt more comfortable exposing himself to the impressive array of security cameras that kept watchful eyes over the city’s many streets and stores.
Charlie and Maxim had shaken hands and parted ways. Nothing in their good-bye had suggested they would ever see each other again. Transaction complete, the job done, have a nice life.
He marched down Alewife Brook Parkway, his old clothes bunched tightly inside a plastic Olympia Sports shopping bag. Purchasing a single token, Charlie boarded the Red Line and set off for Revere Beach. He would need to transfer at Park Street, where he could take the Green Line to Government Center. He’d transfer again to the Blue Line and take that train all the way to the Wonderland Station, across from the Wonderland dog track in Revere. Once in Revere, he figured he’d find a gas station and get directions to the Seacoast Motel. Although he assumed, as the name implied, that it would be located on or at least near the water, he had no map or address to go by.
Charlie shook his head at the thought. A ghost guided me out of a mental hospital, and I’m irritated that he didn’t give me the exact address, he thought. I truly have gone mad.
During the forty-five-minute ride, the absence of Eddie’s voice brought with it contradictory emotions. Eddie’s voice gave Charlie renewed purpose and meaning but also confused him. Reflecting on Eddie’s words felt like the fuzzy outline of a distant memory. It opened up possibilities that Charlie preferred not to embrace.
What if I’m simply delusional?
As the train barreled along and the passengers changed at each stop, Charlie managed to suppress those thoughts. Eddie’s voice had come to him as clear as any voice he’d heard before. It was impossible for something that real to have been imagined. He didn’t know whether others who claimed similar experiences were equally convinced about the voices they heard in their heads. He knew only of his own experience.
Charlie exited at Wonderland, mindful to keep his hat and glasses on at all times. Without access to the Internet, he couldn’t know whether his escape had been publicized. Until he knew the extent to which people would be looking for him, everyone posed a risk.
Charlie hadn’t been to Revere in years but remembered that the waterfront area had little to offer in terms of seaside attractions. It was mostly housing developments that ran the length of the shore. Several of the buildings were high-rise condos, some for the rich, some for the poor, and a bunch for the retired.
The most popular Revere attraction by far, aside from the dog track, was Kelly’s Roast Beef. Kelly’s was a restaurant, a shack really, that stood directly across from the ocean. A staple of Revere Beach, Kelly’s was best known for serving heaping portions of prime-cut roast beef and fries in a comforting seaside setting.
A yellow flyer taped to one of the station stanchions at Wonderland advertised a weekend special at the Seacoast Motel. The Sea-coast Motel was located on the same small strip of beach as Kelly’s Roast Beef. The motel, with an Ocean Avenue address, was just across from Revere Beach Boulevard and a short walk from Butler Circle and Wonderland Greyhound Park, where he had exited the train. It was a relief to not have to stop and ask for directions.
Revere Beach was no more three miles from Logan Airport. The few people—mostly elderly, but some younger—who strolled peacefully along the cool sandy beach seemed undisturbed by the approach and departure of the large jet airplanes passing overhead. Charlie couldn’t ignore the roar of the engines as easily. Perhaps his nerves were still frayed from the escape.
When he finally arrived at the Seacoast Motel, Charlie found its appearance as unpleasant as the noise above. The motel suffered from neglect and stood out like a relic of a bygone era. It was reminiscent of the mom-and-pop businesses that had once provided much of the region’s character but were now rapidly being replaced by the larger chains. As further proof, a newly constructed Comfort Inn loomed high above the Seacoast Motel on an adjacent lot and seemed to foretell the motel’s bleak future. It wouldn’t be long before this decaying relic was acquired and torn down.
The differing styles of motel architecture were in stark contrast to each other. Whereas the Comfort Inn went eight stories high and seemed replete with all the modern amenities, the Seacoast Motel was a single-level structure fronted by blue wooden doors adorned with gold-plated room numbers, which were visible from the street. The outside walls of the Seacoast Motel were spotted with large swaths of peeling white paint. The few black shutters still in place hung in varying degrees of looseness and framed room windows that blocked out the sun with thick floral curtains.
How this decaying excuse for a building was connected to him was a question he prayed would soon be answered. Charlie stood outside the motel and stared at it for several minutes. He wondered if Eddie might speak to him again. All was silent. After five long minutes Charlie walked to the motel office.
Room two-twenty-four, Charlie thought. What waits for me behind that door?
Charlie stood alone inside the wood-paneled office of the Sea-coast Motel. Having grown accustomed to the cold sterility of Wal-derman and now enjoying the gift of freedom, Charlie took in his surroundings with a keener awareness and appreciation. Nothing special about the office caught his attention. A wood-paneled counter, just a shade lighter than the paneling on the walls, separated the waiting area from the back office. Aside from a couple of bridge chairs for seating and a table displaying yesterday’s Herald along with a few ancient magazines, the office was empty. Behind the counter were pigeon holes that held room keys. Atop a bedroom dresser next to the pigeon holes was a fax machine. A photocopier rested on the floor, adjacent to the dresser. Nothing here offered any clue as to why this motel was where Eddie wanted him to go. On the counter Charlie saw the bell, with a few spots of rust on it. He hit it twice, each time barely making a sound.
“Coming! I’m coming!” a voice called out from the back. Charlie heard the flush of a toilet and watched as a door, concealed to seem like part of the paneled wall, swung open.
The man who emerged from the bathroom was in no better shape than the motel. Portly, reeking of cigar smoke, he wore a green-and-black plaid shirt, which he proceeded to tuck inside his grimy chino pants. His belly stood out a heart attack’s distance from the buckle of his belt. What he had left for hair had been slicked with oil and loosely covered the top of his head in tight gray-and-black clumps. The sea and salt air, rejuvenating f
or many, had weathered his face leathery, leaving it pockmarked and full of crevices that mimicked erosion.
“Yeah? What can I do for you?” His voice was hoarse, perhaps from cigar smoke. He spoke with a low, guttural growl. His thick Boston accent, distinguished by its proclivity to drop consonants, made it difficult to tell whether he was pleased to receive a new customer or not.
“I need a room,” Charlie said.
“Okay. ID?”
“Well, that’s a bit of a problem. You see, I don’t have one,” Charlie explained.
The man leaned forward, resting his full weight on the counter. “How long you gonna be here?”
Eddie hadn’t provided any details on that. How long was he here? No more than a few days, he supposed. No matter what Eddie had in store, Charlie couldn’t risk staying in one place for too long.
“Two nights to start,” Charlie said. He pulled out the sizable wad of cash so that the man could see that he was good for the money. If the guy was as desperate as he looked, he’d figure Charlie might be worth even more than a two-night stay. Charlie noted there were far more pigeon holes with keys than without.
“So you’re paying cash? Up front?” The man’s eyes narrowed.
“Yeah, cash,” Charlie said.
“Okay. Fill this out.”
He pushed a clipboard toward Charlie. Clipped to the board was a card to fill in personal information, such as address and phone number.
“Is there really a need for this if I pay you up front?” Charlie asked.
The man eyed him again.
Charlie set a few hundred dollars down on the counter. “Plus deposit,” Charlie added.
“Well, I guess not,” the man said. Reaching behind him, he fished out a key from the nearest pigeon hole. “Room two-sixteen,” he said. “It’s in the back.”
“Actually,” Charlie said, “I was wondering if I could get room two-twenty-four. I saw it on my way in, and I liked the view.”
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