Wreckage: An Addictive Psychological Thriller Packed with Twists, page 27
“Holy crap, I’ve read about this one,” he says, duly gobsmacked. “High-level, pro-grade stuff. Illegal as hell. It’s not just spyware, it’s a full phone hijacker. There’s a tiny chip that goes into the phone when you install it. The hardware/software combo enables you to remotely turn the person’s phone on and off, track their location even when the phone’s off, listen in on phone conversations, read their texts and emails, send texts and emails, delete files, track their online activity, even turn the mic and camera on and off.”
Translation: someone’s been tracking my every move, my every word—probably since I left the hospital. Manipulating my calls and files too. Like that recording from the ferry that suddenly vanished. I tell Enzo about the “ghost” texts I’m getting from Jeannie’s phone, and he concludes her phone may be infected too.
“You’re being seriously watched, my friend, by some serious people.”
Not good news but good to know.
At this point, my spies don’t know I’ve discovered their spyware, so I may be able to use that to my advantage. But from now on I will have to censor everything I say and do. Obviously, I should have been doing that all along.
“You’ll need a burner phone,” says Enzo, “in case you want to talk confidentially.” He digs in a drawer where he has several old phones. He finds a wiped smartphone, a few years out of date, with a new phone number assigned to it. Thank you, Enzo’s paranoia.
He quickly figures out how to import my Contacts list from the Cloud onto the burner so I’ll have all my important numbers, including his, then hands me the burner.
“Let me look for a charger for that.”
“No time.” I’m already out the door.
“Go find her, man,” Enzo shouts after me. “I’ll do what I can from my end.”
I retrieve my regular phone from the flowerpot outside—no new texts from “Jeannie” yet—and then I’m off in Miles’s speedmobile.
39
Idrive a frantic circuit around Greyhook, asking everyone I know, friend or frenemy, if they’ve seen Jeannie. Along the way, I send several texts to fake Jeannie, such as: “Where r u?” “Are u safe?” “I’m worried!” I know she’s not really seeing my texts and that if a response comes back, it will be from her captors, not her. But I need to play dumb. Not a stretch for me.
I run into The Rusty Anchor. The fishermen stop talking at once and stare at me, but when I shout, “Jeannie’s gone missing!” they jump out of their seats, buzzing with questions, their drinks forgotten. As I’m heading back out the door, a sign on the wall hooks my attention—“Be 21 or Be Gone.”
My unconscious mind starts sending up flares again. That’s why my first encounter with the three young beer hunters has continued to needle me. The eldest of the trio claimed to be 21: the age one would be today if one had been three years old in 1999—as the Abelsens’ surviving child was. From the get-go, Miles and I have been asking, Why would someone wait eighteen years to seek payback? Could the answer be as simple as because he needed to grow up first?
As I jog toward Miles’s cart, I replay the meeting with the wannabe beer-buyers. The name of the oldest one—the toothy smile guy—was spoken aloud by his wheeler-dealer friend. What was it? I’m trying to drag the name from memory when a text comes in from “Jeannie.”
Instantly I forget about the beer boys. The first text bubble reads, In cave at robs head; the second, No come 2 dangerous. Then nothing.
Rob’s Head. I know where that is. Okay, so by telling me, as Jeannie, No come 2 dangerous, her captors are obviously baiting me to come. They know I won’t be able to resist. And, of course, they’re right. They probably have a host of fun surprises in store for me when I arrive. And it’s doubtful Jeannie is even in this “cave”—they just want to lure me there.
.....
Rob’s Head is a protruding cliff face on the north side of the island. Through past explorations, I know of several small caves where gulls nest but not a cave large enough to house adult humans. It’s possible such a cave exists, though, in an area I never explored.
Now... if I were possessed of intelligence, which clearly I am not, what I would do at this juncture is throw together a posse and march en masse to Rob’s Head.
What I do instead is run off into the woods, alone, armed only with the fish-skinning knife still strapped to my shin. The quickest route to the north side is via the inland trails.
I know I can’t storm the enemy’s lair single-handed—I’m not quite that stupid—but I’m hoping maybe I can get close enough to the cave in question to assess the threat level, then call in reinforcements, as needed, on the burner.
I make good time crossing the island’s central wilds. By the time I reach the trailhead to Rob’s Head Trail, though, my lungs are stinging. I stop and take a breather, hands on knees.
“Old dudes, so pathetic,” comes a voice to my right. Leah steps out of the woods with a lopsided grin and a pair of binoculars. The Beans of Maine, it seems, are birdwatchers. Reading my anxiety level, she looks sharply into my eyes. “What’s going on, Finn?”
For some crazy reason, I trust Leah, though she’s practically a stranger. “Someone I care about is in trouble with some very scary people.”
“Would this be the love interest you passed up a roll in the hay with a gorgeous twenty-three-year-old for?”
“It would.”
“How can I help?”
It’s an earnest offer, and I’m in no position to refuse it. “I’m looking for a cave at Rob’s Head, one big enough for people to hide out in.”
“I think I might know of one.” Without ado, she dashes off down Rob’s Head Trail. My breath restored, I run after her.
Within a few minutes, we’re drawing near the head. Leah slows her pace and starts down a muddy trail that leads around to the cliff-face and the water’s edge. “The cave I’m thinking of is around this way. Hope you brought your climbing shoes, ‘cause it’s about twenty feet up the cliff-face.”
“The people we’re talking about are dangerous, Leah. We can’t just stroll into their hideout holding a three-bean salad.”
She stalks ahead undaunted. I hesitate a moment, then step forward to follow her.
A cloth sack comes down over my head.
I feel the same rock-muscled arm around my neck that held me in its pipe-like embrace nine days ago. The voice of Chokehold says, “Miss me, Finnian?”
.....
After a short jaunt across choppy waters in what feels like a skiff, and then a blind ascent up a tall boat ladder, my feet land on a building-solid deck. My hands are bound in front of me with nylon cuffs. Chokehold marches me along a carpeted corridor, then down a set of stairs into a lower room. He shoves me onto a padded bench where I land awkwardly, my skull smashing into a wooden wall.
T-Bone! The name pops into my mind as if jarred loose by the blow. That was the name of the eldest beer-buying kid, the one with the creepy smile. T-Bone, T for short. T as in Theo? Theo Abelsen, heir to the Abelsen estate?
The bag/blindfold is yanked from my head. I’m in a sparsely appointed, sunken room with slatted wood walls and a series of portholes looking out to sea. The only furnishings are a couple of bolted-down table-and-chair units and the wall bench I’m sitting on. Still, it’s clear that the vessel I’m on is a luxury yacht, a massive one. Are the Abelsens yacht-wealthy?
When I see the trio sitting around the table in front of me, my brain seizes up in incomprehension: the entire L.L.Bean family—Mr., Mrs., and daughter Leah.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Carroll,” says Mrs. Bean with her mouthful of small, even teeth. The tone and cadence are instantly familiar. Trooper Dan. That voice, which was in the high-talker range for a man, and which I thought sounded a tad prissy, is completely normal for a woman, turns out. Strange I didn’t pick up on that. The fake beard she apparently wore that day at my parent’s house—and yes, her violent cruelty—flipped my mental switch to assuming she was a man. I think they call it premature cognitive commitment.
“Our instructions are to treat you civilly,” she says. “So, we will remove the handcuffs... If you can assure us there won’t be any idiocy.” I nod. Chokehold, aka Mister Bean, cuts the polymer restraints with a razor tool.
“Take a moment to get your bearings,” says the missus.
Looking left and right, I see that someone’s sitting on the bench beside me.
Jeannie. Arms folded, wearing an inscrutable expression.
A sickening realization dawns. Both Cliff and Jeannie herself have tried to warn me that Jeannie is involved in something that will hurt me. Till now I’ve taken that to mean emotional hurt, but evidently the meaning was more literal. There are no “captors” in this drama after all. Jeannie is in cahoots with these guys.
Oddly enough, I feel a rush of relief—at least her life’s not in danger.
Relief vaporizes when I notice the animal terror in her eyes. No, she’s not in with them. She’s a prisoner too. She and I exchange a silent, guarded look. Chit-chat isn’t exactly appropriate, given the circumstances, but I try to project calmness toward her.
An urgent thought stabs at me, one that might make the difference between life and death. The captors are most certainly going to body-search me. I’m surprised they haven’t done so already. When they do, they will find my knife and my burner phone. I must not allow that to happen. Those items might be Jeannie’s and my only hope. These wankers are well aware of my regular phone—they’ve been using it to spy on me for days—but the burner must be kept from their knowledge. The knife too.
I survey the room and once again call on my gamer mind. Another puzzle to be solved, Game Boy. Solve it. Fast.
The room is bare; few objects for me to employ.
Shifting my butt, I notice the bench padding slides a bit on the wood surface. It is not glued down to the bench but is attached in sections by ties.
A rough idea hatches in my skull, and a plan begins to assemble itself. Well, “plan” is an ambitious word. But three distinct steps must occur in sequence. If I can pull off those three steps, I will gain a potentially critical edge. Easier thought than done.
I’ll need Jeannie’s help. Working in our favor is the fact that Jeannie and I can communicate complex messages nonverbally. I meet her gaze and, with a nano-shift of my irises, signal her to get up and walk to the nearest porthole. Amazingly, she picks up on my cue. She stands, stretches, and strolls toward the window. The three captors’ heads turn and goggle at her; she’s clearly not supposed to be wandering around freestyle.
I seize the distraction to slip the knife out of its shin-strap and slide it under the seat cushion of the bench, below my rear.
Mrs. Bean clears her throat at Jeannie, who turns with a Who, me? look.
“You didn’t tie us up,” says Jeannie, “so I assumed we were free to move about the cabin.”
“You assumed incorrectly.” Mrs. B. juts her jaw toward the bench.
Jeannie returns to her seat, but her brief exchange with Mrs. B. has bought me enough time to slip the burner phone, too, under the seat cushion. Both items are thin. I pray they won’t make a telltale lump in the cushion when it’s time to stand.
Step One complete. Objects hidden. Now for Step Two.
I want them to search me. I want them to find my main phone, my wallet, and the Velcro strap on my shin, and conclude I am carrying nothing of threat or consequence. Once they’ve searched me, I see no reason they’ll want to do so a second time. That is my hope.
The Beans are in no hurry to do anything. They seem to be awaiting word from someone.
I need to engage them, get them talking. Try to make something happen.
I address the trio. “So, did you bring your lopper along today or will you be resorting to the fine selection of nautical torture devices available to today’s enterprising and psychologically disturbed hit-person?”
Does Mrs. Bean crack a tiny smile? “I guess that’s for us to know and you to find out, Mr. Carroll,” she replies in a not-unfriendly tone.
“I hear three-hooked fishing lures can be used in a number of inventive ways.”
“Is that so?”
She seems to have let her guard down a bit. Good. I’ll press on.
“I hate to admit it,” I say, “but I bought your dude impersonation. The beard worked. Was it super-realistic or was I just too dense to notice it came from Halloween City?”
“The mind believes what it is cued and predisposed to believe. Gender stereotypes tend to work in my favor.”
“Yeah, most chicks wouldn’t lay into the lopper work the way you do.” I’m deliberately being dickish, just to ignite some sparks. “Anyway, the beard sure fooled me.”
“It wasn’t designed to fool you, Mr. Carroll. It was a simple precautionary measure necessitated by the risks of my trade.”
“Which is what, exactly?”
No answer.
“So let me guess the pecking order here,” I say to Mrs. Bean. “You’re the crew foreman and chief enforcer.” I project my voice toward Mr. Bean: “You’re the muscle and mop-up guy, right? Do you get paid for the hours you spend on the Bowflex?”
Jeannie shoots me a warning look. Why are you antagonizing these people?
“Which one of you is the computer hacker-slash-‘literary forger’?” Trotting out the term Enzo used doesn’t trigger any overt reactions. “I'm guessing that's you, Leah, or whatever your name is. Kudos on that suicide note. That was some top-notch writing work. Natural talent alone or did you have some software help?”
At this, “Leah” does look a bit surprised. “You’re not quite as dumb as you let on.”
“Close but not quaahhht,” I reply in a cartoon hillbilly voice. “But I thaink I done figgered out what all-y’all been up to since the day you like-to kilt me.” I drop the shtick, disappointing no one. “Once you realized you’d messed up and I was in the hospital, not the morgue, you came back to my house. You deleted the suicide note from my computer, tidied up the mess. Things were more complicated now, though. You didn’t know whether I’d seen the note or talked to anyone about it. So, you couldn’t just try to kill me again. You needed to find out what I knew, who I might be talking to, what I was planning to do.”
Trooper Danielle raises her brow in a show of amused tolerance. I go on. I’m piecing this together as I go, but it feels right. “You went to work on my phone. You planted a file called K20 and a microchip on it.” Both women’s eyes flash surprise at this. “I know you’ve been tracking my location since I left my house in Wentworth, listening to my conversations, reading my texts and emails, deleting files, blocking phone calls. You obviously sent those fake texts from Jeannie.”
They’re letting me ramble; they must want to know how much I’ve figured out. As for me, I hope I’m not getting too cute for my own good when I say, “Here’s the thing, though. You don’t know how long I’ve been aware my phone was hijacked. You don’t know how long I’ve just been feeding you what I want you to hear, while conducting my real business—like talking to the police—on a burner phone.”
Trooper Danielle sighs through her teeth. It’s an annoyed sigh that says, You’re bluffing but, fine, you’ve forced my hand. She catches Choke’s eye and head-nods toward me.
Choke approaches me. “You, up,” he orders.
I obey. He starts the pat-down I’ve been angling for. He finds my regular phone immediately and tosses it to Leah, who starts examining it. “Oh, and here’s hers,” he says, taking Jeannie’s phone from his pocket and lobbing it, too, to Leah. “I went back to the bar and got it.”
The accent: Brooklyn definitely, not Boston.
Continuing his body-search of me, Choke finds my wallet and takes it. Patting down my leg, he finds the Velcro strap around my shin. “What’s this?”
“I had a knife. ...Past tense.”
He removes the strap from my leg.
“Or maybe,” I tease, “that was where I hid my burner.”
“Okay, asshole, you asked for it.” He commences another pat-down of my body, only this time it’s more of a smack-down. Each slap is designed to inflict pain. He takes special relish in slamming my gonads with the heel of his hand.
“Easy,” warns Mrs. B.—a reminder that, for some reason, I’m not to be treated too roughly.
He shoves me into my seat and pulls off my shoes, searching them as well.
Good. This is precisely the kind of body search I was hoping for. Minus the gonad-slamming thing. I want them to believe I’m cleaner than a Mormon sit-com. I don’t want them to have any reason to check me again.
Step Two down. Search complete.
Now, for Step Three. Can I somehow sneak the items back into my clothing?
A text message comes through on Mrs. Bean’s phone. “All right, time to move you two lovebirds upstairs,” she says.
Shit.
40
Troop and company rise and gather their things. They look expectantly at Jeannie and me, waiting for us to stand and accompany them out of the room. It appears I have no choice but to leave the knife and burner phone behind.
Jeannie seems to intuit my predicament. She stares at Troop, wide-eyed, and says, “Are you going to kill us now?”
Choke gestures impatiently, come on, stand up, let’s go.
Jeannie repeats, “Are you going to kill us? ...That’s what’s happening, isn’t it? You’re taking us somewhere to kill us! WHY? What have I done? Why am I even here?”
“Enough of the theatrics, Ms. Gallagher,” says Madam Troop. “Let’s move it along.”
“No!” Jeannie shouts, a quaver of panic in her voice. “I don’t want to die!” I think she’s creating a distraction for my benefit, but I’m not positive she isn’t freaking out for real. Maybe it’s some of both. “Please, no! I’m not ready to die! I have a daughter. She needs me. Please!”
Choke grabs her by the shirtsleeve, yanks her to her feet. “Come on, lady, let’s go.”
