by JL Mac
“So that’s it?” I ask, looking at Hack for a little elaboration.
“Yes. Fully encrypted with the best of the best. It’s my own stuff and I can assure you, no one hacks Hack.” There goes that socially awkward, goofy, mustache smile again and he twitches his head to the side flicking his mousy brown hair out of his eyes.
“So what happens if someone tries to tamper with it?”
“Your files will corrupt. All of them. Total Kamikaze death-dive,” he says with added sound effects. “The laptop will basically be a paperweight afterwards.”
“Good. So it’s like a booby trap?”
“Of sorts,” he shrugs and thumbs his glasses higher up the bridge of his slender nose. I have to fight the urge to snag them from his thin face and clean the dirty lenses. “Whatever you plan on putting on there should be backed up externally as often as you can if you think someone could trigger the self destruct code. What’s with the secrecy? Why do you need all this?”
I stare at Hack and a slow, insincere smile spreads across my face. I won’t involve him or anyone else in what I have planned. It’s dangerous and the last thing I need is an even bigger guilty conscience.
“Okay. Okay.” He lifts his hands in mock surrender.
“What about my password to login? The same?”
“Oh! No. That’s the best part.” Hack claps his hands, shoves his glasses up his nose again and shuffles over to one of his many computers. I follow behind him hoping I don’t get lost in computer software lingo. “So, I installed some new software. This is mine too. It works like biometric scanners. Some cell phones use similar security software with fingerprints. This one,” he says as he scoots forward to the computer in front of him, “… activates the webcam when you boot up. The software works through the camera to make a facial recognition scan. That’s your password.” Another awkward smile and his dark blue eyes dance with pride behind his filmy glasses.
“Can’t someone just hold up a picture of me or something?”
Hack nearly chokes or scoffs or whatever like I’ve just insulted him. “Um. No,” he says dryly as he waves his index finger at me. “First of all, it’s a ghost application that gives no indication of even being present. The indication light for the webcam has even been disabled. Only I can get in and out. Well, you and me.”
I set my newly enhanced laptop down on the desk beside Hack and flip it open making sure to keep my head above the view of the camera. I press the power button and note that the screen flickers but remains black.
“Now try it again with your face in view.” I crouch down a little and press the power button one more time and the laptop makes a subtle humming sound and the home screen pops up.
“Wow,” I smile at Hack and nod my approval. “You’re good Hack. Real good.” Hack’s pale, gaunt cheeks tinge pink and he smiles again.
I pull cash from my pocket. I slide the bills across Hack’s cluttered desk, shoving a discarded paper cup, a foil food wrapper, and a mound of plastic candy wrappers out of my way. I pat him on the shoulder before turning to leave. Who knows if I’ll ever see him again?
The bell above the door going into the diner rings weakly, a sad sound unique to this place. I think I will miss coming here when I’m gone. As of tomorrow, I too will be missing in a way. The difference between my brand of missing and my sister’s is that my disappearance will be my own handy work cloaked in a string of lies I am banking on keeping track of. As soon as I’m through the door of the diner, I spot Joe and his caregiver, Renee in their normal booth just across from mine. I find my way to the booth I have called mine for years now, waving at Joe and Renee as I go.
“Hey Renee. Hey Joe,” I smile at them.
“Heeey Joe,” he parrots, singing the Jimmy Hendrix song like he always does when I greet him. He’s rocking forward and back, forward and back as he always does but today his countenance is peaceful despite his disability. I’m not entirely sure what’s wrong with him and have always figured it would be rude to ask so I haven’t. It’s nice to know he’s in what looks like a calm mood today seeing as how Jeanie told me Joe has been struggling to adjust to his new caregiver. She seems nice but Joe is a creature of habit and doesn’t do change well.
The waitress, Jeanie makes her way over with my coffee. She knows my order but she asks me everyday if I still want my two pieces of bacon and two pieces of wheat toast.
“The usual?”
“Yep.”
“Okay, be right back.”
I dig out my laptop. I prop it open and wait for it to power up. The minute I have connected to the Internet I open my browser. Leaning back, I casually scan my surroundings making sure no one is openly watching me. Other customers are talking quietly at the counter. There’s a guy reading a book at a table at the other end of the diner. Renee is busy coercing Joe, a man probably close to twice her age, to eat more of his pancakes. I take a sip of my coffee, put in one ear bud and get to it. My web search produces multiple videos of fights, promotional pictures and the like.
“The Beast of Boston,” I whisper to myself as I click on the first video. The video comes to life showing him tapping gloves with his opponent to kick off the first round of a fight. The men back away from each other a few feet and begin bouncing around and prowling after each other in a tight circle. He’s lean and big, corded and rippling, with more muscle than any one man should have. Beast ducks and dodges and dances to and fro and hasn’t bothered throwing a real punch yet. His opponent tries his luck with multiple combinations landing only a glancing jab against Beast’s left shoulder. He’s completely unaffected by it. The next two rounds are a repeat of the same. The man seems like he could go on like this for days. The bell rings, signaling the start of round four and Beast’s opponent lunges forward, clearly eager to save face and reputation. He comes at Beast more aggressively, forcing him to move quickly. God, his body is a machine. The other boxer throws a right hook and Beast ducks low, moving in a circle, as he comes back up he lands a punishing blow against his opponent’s ribs. The man recoils and struggles to gather himself. Beast could have pounced. He had the opportunity to jump in and pummel the guy while he fought to breathe again but he doesn’t. I cock my head and rewind the video a little watching that part again. He could have ended the fight right then, I’m sure but he chose not to. He chose to let it continue. He seems to enjoy the fight. He’s savoring it. The bell sounds and he turns in the direction of his corner just as his furious opponent rights himself and launches a dirty swing in Beast’s direction. It lands right in the kidney. Beast flinches the tiniest bit then turns back to face the other boxer. The crowd roars with disgust and demands for penalty to be dolled out. The referee is waving and pointing like a wild man. The other boxer is getting penalized for that stunt but I have a feeling the real penalty is about to be handed down by Beast himself. His dark eyes never leave the other contender and he looks eerily calm. The trainers attend to both men, wiping them down, looking over their faces and squirting water in their mouths. The bell sounds signaling the fifth round and Beast gets to his feet like he’s going to take a casual stroll. The other man is jumping around and shaking his arms out at his sides.
If Dad were alive to watch this fight with me, he’d tell me that Beast’s opponent is doing all that because he’s tired and his muscles are cramping. Beast takes long strides right across the ring and the other boxer never has a chance. He throws himself into a series of punches. Beast slips out of everything the other man is launching at him and rears back, his left arm taut like a slingshot and unleashes a ruthless hook right to the man’s cheek. He falls to the floor and Beast kneels down and proceeds to beating him without mercy. His arms look like twin windmills in a hurricane. I cover my mouth and my eyes bulge.
“Holy shit,” I whisper. By the time to bell rings and the referee peels The Beast of Boston off the other boxer, he’s limp and his face is a bloody wreck. Beast stands above his felled opponent and he says something to the twitching man at his
feet. It’s impossible to tell what he said with the bulky mouth guard in place but I don’t imagine he praised his opponent for a good fight.
“A real friggin’ monster, that guy,” comes a gravelly voice.
I jerk my head up to see a little old man with a slight frame and a hunched posture staring over my shoulder at the laptop screen. I nod wordlessly do my best to ignore the fact that I am suddenly extremely intimidated—and mystified—by the boxing legend turned mob boss.
Chapter Three
Ena
Rule number one of basic deception is to adhere as closely to the truth as possible. I hadn’t lied entirely when I told Mom I was leaving. Concern and confusion marred her face but I quickly reassured her that I just wanted to do some travelling and “finding myself” while I reconsider my decision to join the Boston Police Department. That was—is true. I am reconsidering my career choice thanks to what happened to Dad and now to Lan. Too many tragedies too close together is enough to have anyone reevaluating their life choices. So I am leaving, however, I’m not travelling anywhere. In fact, I’m still right here in Boston. She’ll never know, and I’ll only ever confess if Alana is by my side when I come home.
When Alana is by my side. Not if.
Mom likely won’t miss me much. The funny thing about tragedy is that more often than not, the vacant space left by a loved one usually creates a vacuum for other things to take root and flourish. Sometimes that vacuum becomes occupied by love, and a closeness that is only borne from deep grief. But most of the time, at least for a while, that vacuum fills with estrangement, isolation, and the need to be alone. I don’t think it’s because heartbroken friends and family members suddenly hate each other after loss. I think it’s probably more accurate to say that they hate the look of mourning on their loved one’s faces because it mirrors the ache in their own heart. Needless to say, text messaging has become our primary method of communication over the last several months.
While holed up in my room searching for leads that actually lead to Lan, I’ve been putting forth great effort into training my expression. I don’t want to give myself away when I’m amongst criminals who are practiced in spotting traitors. They don’t even have to try. An accomplished criminal sniffs out betrayal like overdone plastic dolls sniff out a Sugar Daddy to fund her next set of tits and lips.
I only hope that while I’m gone, Mom’s friends will keep visiting and working to keep her distracted. She’s been too preoccupied with sitting by the phone, hoping that Alana will surface with some wild story full of youthful rebellion and fool-hearted ideas about the world. You’d expect that from a college freshmen but I know Lan. She isn’t road tripping because she’s in the middle of some hippie phase. Mom has hope though, and I can’t fault her for that. You’d think she’d be scared to let her other daughter go anywhere when her younger daughter is missing.
I swipe the screen of my cell phone and peer into my sister’s bright blue gaze in the photo that is set as my wallpaper. It kills me to think of the possibilities. Morbid, uninvited visions of those blue eyes glassed over and unmoving flit through my mind causing me to flinch away. I stuff my phone down into my bag where the prepaid phone I bought yesterday is tucked away.
If you had asked me months ago to describe my sister, I would have responded with naïveté to the point of endearment. If you asked me now? I would say naïve to the point of endangerment. Dumb girl. But if Lan is a dumb girl then I’m completely insane.
Mom is guilty of coddling my little sister and that scares me. She’s been sheltered. She doesn’t know the first thing about surviving anything more taxing than a hangnail. She doesn’t know things I know. She was never exposed to the things I was before I came home with dad that day so many years ago.
12 years earlier…
Officer Perryman’s car is nice. It smells good. I don’t think he smokes. I hope not. I can’t stand smelling like smoke all the time.
“Ever been over to this neighborhood, Ena?” Officer Perryman asks as I look out the window at all the houses.
“This isn’t Southie,” I whisper.
“No, we don’t live in Southie.”
All the houses are nice and look kind of… normal. We pull into a driveway and I look up at the pale blue house in front of me. The windows have white edges and the porch is painted white too. There are pink curtains in the window upstairs and I kind of hope that’s where I will get to sleep until they send me to my new foster home.
“Ena, I want you to know that you’re going to be okay. My wife and daughter are great girls and they are going to be good to you and if you want I will do my best to make sure you get to stay as long as you want. Do you understand?” He has that authority in his voice that all cops have. I nod and look back to his house, taking it all in. I hope I can remember it real good when I go to the next foster home. I can pretend I’m here instead of whatever place they put me.
“What are their names?”
“My daughter is Alana. She’s not too much younger than you. She’s six years old. I think you’ll like her. My wife’s name is Beth and she makes the best spaghetti in the world.”
“I like spaghetti.”
“Well, come on and we can help her make some for dinner.” Officer Perryman smiles nicely at me and I feel a little less scared.
If he’s right, and I get to stay here for a while, and they are nice to me, I’ll do anything to keep them. I’ll be really good. I won’t try to run away. I won’t steal their food. Maybe I can convince them to keep me. I’ll protect them and do my best to make them proud. I’ve never been a part of a real family before so if this one can be mine, I’ll do anything to stay with them.
Officer Perryman shows me to the kitchen where a woman with a blue dress is setting plastic grocery bags up on the counter. I can’t believe how much food they have!
“Beth, this is Ena. Ena, this is my wife, Beth. Alana will be home from her friend’s sleepover in just a little while then you’ll have the chance to meet her too.”
“Hello, Ena. I’m so glad you’re here. Come in,” the woman with blue eyes and light brown hair waves her hand telling me to come to the table inside their kitchen. It’s a real table with matching chairs and all. Rob and Viv had a piece of plywood propped on two stacks of cinderblocks.
I sit down at their dining table and pick at my own fingernails because I don’t know what they want me to do or say right now. Viv and Rob liked me to be quiet and I discovered that disappearing helped me avoid trouble, big time!
“I’ll give you a minute to talk while I get your bag, okay?” Officer Perryman lifts his sandy blonde eyebrows and I nod telling him I’m okay. For now.
“Do you want to tell me a little about yourself”? She glances over at me with a small smile and soft eyes. She seems nice and I kind of want to be nice back but I’m scared. It’s hard to not keep looking around. I feel like something might jump out and get me. “You know when our daughter Lan was a toddler she sometimes struggled with what she wanted to say so she would get frustrated and just wouldn’t say anything at all. But as luck would have it, I’m a teacher, an English teacher, so words are my favorite thing in the whole wide world.” She gets closer to me and it makes me a little more scared but her eyes are still soft and friendly. “I used to ask Lan for just three words. Just three words every day then we’d share a treat. It could be how you’re feeling or how your day has been, what you’d like or what you need or just some new words you’ve learned at school—anything. Would you like to try that? I could go first if you’d like.” She sits down across from me at her dining table and I nod.
“Okay,” she says slowly, her eyes looking upward in thought. “Grateful. Peaceful. Home.” She smiles at me and my heart feels all weird and shaky. Not the same shaky like when Viv makes me stay in her apartment alone with her guy friends but shaky in a different way. I look around, trying to think of some words but the weird shakiness inside me is making it hard to think.
“Cookies
. Bread. Bananas,” I whisper feeling just as dumb as Viv and Rob said I am.
She glances over to the groceries she has just unpacked from their clingy, thin plastic bags and looks back at me with the same smile in place, but her eyes seem sadder now. I feel bad for making her sad with the stupid words I picked. I should have picked better ones.
“You are a clever girl, Ena. I should have said cookies too then we’d have an excuse to eat the whole box ourselves,” she sits down beside me, leans close, whispering as she bumps my shoulder with hers. She rips open the whole thing and slides it in front of me then goes for the milk in the refrigerator. I stare at the chocolate sandwich cookies, my mouth watering, but I don’t believe she just handed me a whole box of cookies just for saying three dumb words. They weren’t even good ones like hers. I look at her, not sure what to do, but she hands me a glass of milk and turns the cookies on their side so they spill out in front of me like a treasure box.
“Eat up!” she says, smiling.
I’m not sure why, but my heart kind of hurts and I already know my three words for tomorrow.
Can.
I.
Stay.
Chapter Four
Ena
When officer Perryman found me and took me home to my new mom and little sister, I’d been about as civilized as a stray dog. Twelve years hasn’t changed too much. I’m a typical twenty-two year old on the outside, but on the inside, I’m just as feral as the day dad responded to the 9-1-1 call that resulted in him finding, and subsequently keeping, me.
My perpetual skepticism and last name are the only vestiges from those days before dad found me. I had the option to be a Perryman like Alana and part of me wanted that, but another part of me wanted to keep my given name. It was all I’d ever owned and I was naïve enough to hope that if my birth mom were looking for me, she’d have my given name to start a search. As far as my tendency to be the skeptic in the room, harboring suspicion of everyone and everything, there’s no choice in that. It’s so deeply ingrained, I could not erase it with a lobotomy.