I’d never been to the southwest before, not counting Vegas a few times, which I didn’t. I was surprised at all the green: trees of all varieties, even orchards at the edges of town, cacti and succulents and other plants as well. It wasn’t the lush, dense green of the forests south of my home, or the rolling brown-green brushland and foothills near Uncle Joe’s, nor were the trees half the size of valley oaks or redwoods, but they were still trees. Tucson is high desert, more than two thousand miles above sea level, on a plain centered between five small mountain ranges. I noticed the mountains almost as soon as I noticed the green—starkly purple against the sky, they ring the city in almost all directions, some nearer and some farther.
I would definitely need to buy some cooler clothing. My jeans and short-sleeved shirts had been bearable in New York, but already made me feel like I was zipped into ski gear. I could feel sweat pooling and trickling under my clothes on the short walk to the nearest rental car office—followed by the instant and glorious bliss of cold air when we walked inside. We didn’t have a reservation, but Peter seemed sure that there would be cars available, and he was right. Twenty minutes and two hundred dollars later, we accepted the keys to a small red Nissan, put our bags in the trunk and climbed inside.
“Ugh,” I said, sweltering even as Peter switched on the ignition and turned the A/C on high. The air helped, even if it was unpleasantly warm at first. “I need to pick up some shorts or something.” My feet felt like small ovens in my sneakers and socks. I resisted the temptation to tear them off and set my fiery toes free.
“That can be our first stop,” he said. “After that, I know of a couple of good hotels we can try close to the center of town.”
“Perfect,” I agreed, relaxing into my seat.
As a recent former resident, Peter easily navigated to a nearby big box store. Bringing only my purse—and in it, the precious card—inside with us, we split up in the clothing departments and spent about fifteen minutes grabbing whatever we could find. I didn’t want to bother trying anything on, so picked a pair of classic white denim shorts in my size, a couple of light, loose tank tops in the same style but different colors, and—at the last minute—a long, soft, belted sundress in a summery floral pattern. It would be cool in the heat and, I told myself, would be a nice change from the shorts. Not to mention I could wear it when I met Kathe for an extra boost of confidence.
Peter, a bundle of clothing under one arm, found me in a women’s shoe aisle, awkwardly pulling off a sandal I’d just tried on. He went to see about flip-flops, and I ended up getting a pair as well. In less than half an hour we were checking out—using some of the remaining cash, as we had for all our meals—and climbing back into the already baking car.
Do people actually get used to this? I wondered. LA was warmer than the Bay Area, but only rarely did we get temperatures much above ninety. The car thermometer told us it was one hundred and one degrees outside, at barely three in the afternoon.
“You’re a fast shopper,” he commented, pulling out of the parking lot.
“I’m not always that fast.”
“Still,” he said, and left it at that. I supposed some people would have been pickier about what they bought, given that we weren’t in a particular rush. It just didn’t seem like the moment to worry about building the best wardrobe possible.
“Nothing from Brendan?”
Last night, Peter had texted his hacker friend—whose name was, improbably, Brendan—and told him he’d be in town the following afternoon and would like to get together. So far there hadn’t been any response, which Peter didn’t seem too surprised about, but which made me antsy. We didn’t have time to waste—at least, I supposed I did, but Peter didn’t. I was increasingly conscious of every day that he spent away from the bar, Delia, Osiris, his responsibilities back home. It was already Thursday; how much longer could he justifiably stay away?
“Not yet. Don’t worry. I’ll call him once we get checked in. If he doesn’t pick up, we’ll track him down tonight—there’s only a few places he could be.”
This was encouraging, but until Brendan had agreed to help, until he had the instructions in hand, until our plan was in motion, it didn’t feel like we were making any progress at all.
■ ■ ■
We found Brendan at a pub in El Presidio, the oldest neighborhood in Tucson, according to my guide. Peter had chosen a well-kept economy hotel less than a mile north of the downtown area, with rooms for about sixty dollars a night. It was a lot cheaper than New York, but would add up fast the longer we stayed. In spite of the cash in my luggage and purse, I felt a twinge every time he handed his card over. It wasn’t that I had a lot of extra money in my accounts—I didn’t—but it bothered me not to be able to throw down my Visa or debit card, even just to reserve the room.
After we’d checked in, Peter had called his friend’s cell, then left a message on his office line, and finally sent another text that he wanted to meet up—tonight, if possible. While he waited for a response, we showered and changed into our desert-appropriate clothes. The hotel had a small but sparkling clean swimming pool, which looked so tempting that I wished I’d thought of buying a swimsuit as well.
We rested awhile in the cool of the room, not talking much. There were so many things I wanted to hear about in Peter’s life, to share about mine, but in spite of how pressured I felt about the situation we were in, I didn’t feel any particular rush to communicate everything about ourselves. I liked how organic and relaxing our conversations were. It wasn’t anything like the awkward process of getting to know a stranger on a series of gradually more intense dates.
It felt like hanging out with someone deeply valued and long missed—like seeing Marianne again. Or rather, like seeing her every time but this most recent one. This had the same qualities of familiarity and security mixed with pleasure to be with her and anticipation to catch up on how she was without any objectives. We never needed to dive right into all our news, but could talk about the past, or about nothing in particular, and then somehow it would remind me of something and I’d start telling her about my life.
Only now did I recognize just how little she’d had to say about herself the past five years. How dark and hidden and disturbing her unshared stories had been. Knowing that changed the flavor of the memories, but didn’t change the satisfaction and comfort seeing her had given me.
That was how it felt to be with Peter. Soon enough, I’d meet his ex-wife—we’d arranged to have breakfast with her the following day. I was here, in a town he’d lived in for most of his adult life, near his college, surrounded by familiar places and people he knew. Eventually, I’d hear his stories about living here.
Almost as if he’d read my thoughts, he spoke out of a long silence. He was lounging in the room’s sole armchair, his feet stretched out onto the bed, while I lay on my back across it diagonally with my paperback lying open next to me.
“We don’t have to see Kathe tomorrow,” he said.
“Why wouldn’t we?” I asked, turning my head to look at him with some surprise. He’d checked with me before he made the suggestion to her, saying of her response only, “She can’t wait.”
“It’s your birthday. I’d totally understand if you wanted to do something other than meet up with my ex.”
I rolled over and put my chin on my hands. My birthday.
There were several reasons why I’d avoided thinking about it, only some of them having to do with my flight from LA. I wasn’t sure I was ready to put them into words—hadn’t actually allowed myself to examine them, or how they made me feel.
“It’s not a big deal,” I said. “Honestly, please don’t think you have to make a thing out of it.”
“OK, I won’t,” he agreed evenly, “not if you don’t want me to.”
I shook my head. He was silent, but I could feel the waves of empathy coming from him. That, more than anything he could have said, was my undoing.
My throat closed up. Tears buil
t up behind my eyes and spilled out over my cheeks in un-dramatic little drips. Peter, without getting up, put his feet on the floor and leaned over to rest a soothing hand on my head.
“It’s just—it’s nothing,” I snuffled, wiping my nose on the back of one hand. “It’s just my first birthday since my dad… The first one I won’t talk to him on. I’m… it’s hard to think about it.” Peter hugged me for a little while, saying he understood completely. He didn’t ask me to explain any more than that, which is probably why I volunteered it. Reverse psychology, or something. “Even after my mom died, he always called on my birthday, you know? He wasn’t… I didn’t come up to visit much, he didn’t have room for me to stay and he always seemed distracted and… I don’t know—distant—when I did come up. But he always remembered—he always called at three twelve, the time I was born.”
“What would you have done if you were still in LA?” he asked, after a moment.
“In… Oh. Nothing, probably. Maybe gone out with one or two friends to a bar or something. Probably stayed home by myself and cried.”
“You’re welcome to cry all day, if you want.”
“Oh, sure. ‘Kathe, meet Lola, my sobbing drag of a girlfriend.’ I’m sure she’d be really impressed.”
“We can cancel, seriously.”
I sniffed a few times and wiped my cheeks with my hands, sitting up and facing him, one leg bent up on the bed.
“I know. I appreciate that. But I think it would be easier to just… just go on, you know? Pretend that it’s just one more day of this trip—a weird trip, but still. I don’t need it to be a special occasion—or an excuse to be depressed.”
“It’s good to feel your grief,” he said. I knew he wasn’t just saying that, he’d gone through deep loss himself. “Let it out when you need to.”
“It is good to let it out,” I agreed. “But it’s also good to move forward with things that make you happy.”
He looked searchingly at me for a few seconds, then nodded.
“OK. Getting hungry?”
I thought about it and realized that I was. The combination of candy and anxiety had kept me full for most of the afternoon, but it was after six, and we were definitely due for a solid meal.
“What did you have in mind?”
“Some of the best tacos in town, followed by drinks at Brendan’s favorite hangout. If he’s not there, we can start looking at his second and third favorites.”
We were in luck, or Peter just knew his friend well. We hadn’t been in the bar, a low adobe building like all of those around it, for more than three minutes when Peter said, “There he is.”
We’d parked the rental car around the corner; even though the place was walking distance from our hotel, it was still over ninety degrees at seven, the sunlight streaming hot and orange from the far west. The tacos had been as good as advertised, a small dingy stand at the edge of downtown, not far from campus. We’d eaten them standing up at an unsteady table outside, juices and sauces dripping down our hands onto the paper trays. Peter had six, I had four, along with a pile of barely-salted, thick tortilla chips dunked in dusky chipotle salsa. There was no shortage of fantastic and authentic Mexican food in California, along with the trendy Cal-Mex variety, but there was nothing quite like a corner taco stand in the southwest.
Pleasantly full, hair and skin damp from the heat of the day and the spicy food, it felt good to step into the cool, dim bar and contemplate a long, very cold drink. The warren of rooms was fairly crowded with people; more than half of them looked like tourists, while the rest had the relaxed proprietary air of regulars. You could just tell they felt they belonged there, suffering the tourists as a necessary and unavoidable evil.
The music was loud and old-school country, TVs showed the usual mix of sports. The walls were the most interesting part of the place, almost entirely covered with historical ephemera from the area—framed deeds, documents and photographs, wanted posters, beer logos, ranch signs, horse shoes, and, the unmistakable star attraction of the place, a large buffalo head wearing a cowboy hat on the wall opposite us. I knew without asking that the head was a “he” and had a name like “Butch.”
“That’s Brendan, sitting in the end seat,” Peter said.
At the far end of the bar in the second room we entered, separated from the first by a dangerously low, dark-beamed opening, sat a man with long light hair tied into a ponytail. Peter led the way over to him and tapped on his shoulder.
The man turned with a jerk, staring suspiciously at Peter over the rims of the John-Lennon-style sunglasses he wore, and then grinned.
“Figured you’d turn up,” he said.
Chapter 14
For whatever reason—maybe the fact that he didn’t seem to believe in using deodorant—the stool next to Brendan was open. After introductions, Peter insisted I sit down, leaning between us. The bartender, a platinum-haired, deeply tanned woman in her fifties, greeted him like an old friend.
“Where you been, Pete?” she asked, coming out to give him a motherly hug. “We missed you around here.”
“Peter’s gone California on us,” Brendan said dryly.
“That’s right—how’s the business going?”
“Not bad. The first couple of years were rough, but it’s going all right these days,” Peter said. “Val, I’d like you to meet Lola.” Val shook my hand warmly.
“Nice to meet you,” I said.
“You too, honey. What’s your poison?” She looked between the two of us.
“I’ll take a Stella,” Peter said.
“A gin and tonic, please,” I said. I knew they wouldn’t be anything like the ones we had in New York, but it still sounded good. Val returned to the bar and poured our drinks, ignoring the crowd of customers who’d been waiting before we arrived.
“I worked here for a couple of years in college,” Peter told me. It explained not only Val’s reaction, but the trickle of people who came up to greet him throughout the evening. Even as he shook hands and exchanged hugs and answered questions, Peter remained focused on the task at hand, always returning as quickly as possible to our low conversation with Brendan.
He was older than he looked at first, more light gray in his hair than the original pale blond. His face was lined and sallow, as if he didn’t spend much time outside of a computer lab, his body lean and slightly hunched. His drink appeared to be straight whisky with beer chasers, and though he consumed a number of these, didn’t seem to be affected by the alcohol.
“Why the sudden urge to get in touch?” Brendan asked, barely getting through a polite exchange of greetings.
Peter glanced at Val, busy at the end of the bar, which Brendan didn’t miss. His eyes moved restlessly at all times, darting to Peter, to me, to the people nearby, taking everything in.
“We have a situation that requires your skill set,” Peter told him in a low, casual voice.
“You do, do you,” Brendan said, eyes flickering between us over the sunglasses. “What kind of ‘situation?’”
“Information stored on the darknet that we need retrieved, copied and sent to someone.”
Brendan stared at his friend for a long moment.
“Interesting,” he said neutrally. “Is this information of value?”
“It is to us,” Peter said.
“Anyone else?”
“There’s a good chance that Interpol wouldn’t mind a look,” Peter admitted. “Among others.”
Brendan laughed and finished the last of his beer. Another round already stood ready for him.
“Damn. What did you get yourselves into?” He took a sip of fresh whisky. “Don’t answer that. It’s rhetorical. And you need someone to grab this—information—and put it in a safe place for you.”
“That’s right.”
“Urgently, I’m assuming. From the number of messages you left.”
“As quickly as possible. And thanks for not responding to any of them,” Peter told him.
“No problem.
Well, it’s an interesting request. What do you think?” His eyes swiveled suddenly to me, silently listening and slurping down my drink.
“What—um. Well, I hope you’ll help us,” I said awkwardly.
“Do you think it’s wise? Safe? No risk involved?” he persisted.
I looked at Peter, who looked back at me, raising one eyebrow in inquiry.
“No,” I said honestly. “It’s probably a huge mistake to get involved.”
“Excellent. When do I start?”
I choked on my drink, but Peter must have expected this response.
“As soon as possible. Everything you need should be on this card…” Peter pulled the business card from his pocket.
Brendan accepted it and looked at both sides, squinting at little at the scrawled information on the back.
“The phone number is short a digit. It’s a Mississippi area code,” Peter informed him. “There’s supposed to be a place to upload the information once we have it.”
“Not a phone number, an IP address,” Brendan said without hesitation. “Not a bad way to hide it. You can just make out the dots. That’d be the server address for uploading, yeah?”
Peter and I looked more closely, and saw what he meant. Very, very lightly, so that there almost wasn’t any ink at all, were marks between some of the numbers, which translated to: 60.116.79.43.
“I think that’s got to be it,” Peter agreed, handing the card back to Brendan. We were interrupted again by a couple of regulars greeting Peter, two old-school cowboy-types who had to be at least seventy. They weren’t satisfied with a passing exchange, reminding each other of old times and leaving Brendan and me to ourselves for a few minutes.
“Thanks for doing this,” I said.
Brendan’s gaze swung past me as he shrugged.
“Gambling keeps life interesting. I’m too cheap to play for money and too bored not to play at all. Have another drink. Val, another round,” he called, then turned back to me. “You don’t seem like the kind of person who’d be into anything nefarious.”
Spiders in a Dark Web Page 18