“Yeah.”
“Include some instructions, telling me how to do that. Make ’em clear. I don’t wanna blow myself up in the process.”
“It’s impossible. You’ll be fine. Will be simple for someone as smart as you.”
“Watch that flattery, Thor. You’ve been around those yuppies too long. I’ve got to go. Get it there tomorrow.”
“Will do. I’ve missed you, man. Welcome back.”
Handing back the receiver, he watches the attendant hang it up, then looks for the bathroom. His hands are in desperate need of a washing.
He returns to the interstate, his foot heavy on the gas. 23 Prestwick Place. He’s never killed a man. Is a little concerned with the size of Jeremy Pacer. But Thorat’s injections should take care of that. Marcus had seen them take down a grown elephant, the demonstration very convincing in its proof. Plus, he has the element of surprise. But not a lot in the way of time. Eventually, someone will discover the crippled hacker. And, depending on the shape the man is in, if he is alive or dead, coherent or insane, there is a chance he’ll talk. Might call her. And she’ll run. So time management is important.
He drives into the dark night, the roads empty, him and tow trucks sharing the lonely lanes. He drives and thinks. Empty time. His reward so close. He smiles in anticipation.
CHAPTER 73
I WAKE WITH thoughts of Mike. I have so few friends, Mike being at the top of the list. It’s sad that someone I have never even seen, know so little about, holds the top spot on my list. But he is my enabler, my protector, my partner in crime, the one who helped in the events that led to Ralph’s death. I feel, or felt, in some way, like that kill solidified our relationship. Took us to a level beyond cybersex and Internet crime. It is sobering to realize that I may have thought wrong. May have been just a mark, a pretty girl to steal a million bucks from. I roll out of bed and reach for my phone, placing an international call to my Cayman Islands bank.
It takes me five minutes to verify that my funds are secured, untouched. For some reason or another, Mike hasn’t touched a penny in their vaults. I ask to change the security passwords, and get passed to three or four different representatives before I get the right department. Twenty minutes later, I breathe a sigh of relief and hang up the phone. My money is safe. He left that alone.
Something is not right, the idea of Mike taking my money off in so many ways. I work through other possibilities. Who else would have had access? No one. Who’d know about all of my US accounts? Him. Who hasn’t, for the first time in three years, answered his phone? Him. Who’d put a cryptic message in the memo line, one that was either a helpful message or ominous threat? Him? But again, there is no other option. It had to be him. Thinking otherwise is naïve.
I dial his number, lifting the phone to my ear and sorting out my words. Again, I get his voice mail, and again, I hang up without leaving a message. I think last night was the first time I’ve ever even heard his voice mail. He always answers. Doesn’t have any reason not to be available. His nondescript voice mail speaks louder than words ever could. He is, for a reason unbeknownst to me, gone. With my money. And any friendship we may or may not have shared.
I lean back and scream in frustration, a long howl of crazy that somehow, in its aggression, makes me feel a little better. My anger at the situation mounts, mixing with the clusterfuck cocktail of unknowns. I cannot remember the last time something important has been out of my control. Cannot remember the last time I had so many questions with no clear way to get answers.
Half of me hates him, wants to tear out his heart and stuff it down his mouth. Wants to torture him for making me value and care and then disappearing without explanation. That half of me envisions him spending my money with a bleach-blond bimbo, laughing at me and my naïveté as he fucks his way to happiness and guzzles champagne.
The other half of me knows that that cannot be true, trusts the man that I’ve known for three years. That half of me stares at the word RUN and understands that this has a purpose. Half of me worries that Mike is in danger and I cannot save him because I know absolutely-fucking-nothing about the man. Half of me wants to crawl into a ball and cry over what could have happened to my friend.
Neither of those halves are interested in running. For one, I don’t have anywhere to run to. For two, I’m a fight over flight girl. I see RUN and I think WAR.
Maybe I should be preparing.
But how do you prepare for the unknown?
CHAPTER 74
IF YOU WERE to walk into Dunbar Diagnostics, crawl up a hot flight of stairs into their attic, and troll around long enough, you’d eventually stumble on a file. It states that Mike’s trip to the fair netted thirteen broken bones. Only one mattered. A vertebra in his lower spine, one whose crack caused a rupture of the spinal cord. A very important vertebra, one that secures the framework of guardrails and caution tape that protect the life-giving bundle of nerves we all take for granted. Vertebrae are weak, not strong enough to stop the steel of a ride from snapping your lower body movement into oblivion. Hello paraplegia.