She parked the RYNO at the country club between a yellow Ferrari and the tennis pro’s beleaguered Jetta. She unscrewed her head from the helmet and shook her honey locks free. The curve of the candy cane rested snug against her cheek. She produced the red-and-white-striped length from her throat and got back to sucking.
The towel boy did a double take, his jaw open in mid-chew, the dot of his gum glowing against perfect molars. An elderly foursome paused on the facing tennis court, the ball bouncing untouched between two of the partners. A trio of wattle-necked women sipping iced tea tsk-tsked to one another as Candy blew past.
Three seconds, eight eyewitness.
Not bad.
Candy entered the club, breezing by reception, and walked down a rubber-matted hall into the eucalyptus-scented women’s locker room. She locked herself in the spacious handicapped toilet stall.
A toilet stall that happened to have a window overlooking the back of the golf course’s little-used eighteenth hole.
She squirmed out the window, hit the grass silently. Moved twenty yards behind the building to a familiar white picket fence.
She hurdled it.
She walked up to the rear sliding door, her luscious lips making an O around the stalk of the candy cane.
Her target sat at a sun-drenched workstation off the kitchen. He was shirtless, horizontal parentheses of untanned skin delineating the paunch of his hairy belly.
She leaned toward the glass. “Knock-knock.”
She didn’t want to touch the pane and leave prints.
He caught sight of her and found his feet in a hurry, fumbling at the lock.
“Hi, hello, welcome,” he said. “Wow.”
She floated inside. “Wow yourself.”
She glanced at his workstation, where two monitors ran stock-price tickers, an endless stream of industry. A financial titan like him would have so, so many enemies, which meant so, so many convenient investigative trails.
“You’re renting the house on Black Mangrove Street,” he told her.
She leaned close. “You’ve been keeping tabs on me?”
He was sweating. She had that effect on men.
“Why are you in my backyard? I mean—don’t get me wrong—I’m delighted, but…” He lost the thread of the sentence.
She had that effect, too.
She slid the candy cane out of her mouth. “It’s more private,” she said, shaping her lips around the word, making it something dirty.
He blinked several times rapidly. His own meaty lips twitched. He scratched at a shoulder. “Okay. Um. That’s nice. Private’s nice.”
A billion-dollar hedge-funder reduced to a teenager at a school mixer.
She placed a hand on his cheek, which was sticky with sweat. A breath shuddered out of him. He closed his eyes. She moved her hand up to his hair, grabbed his thinning curls, and tugged back his head.
He gave a little groan of pleasure.
Then she rammed the sharpened candy cane into his jugular.
The first gush painted the monitors. Arterial spurts were always mesmerizing. He went down fast, hand clamped to his neck, legs cycling on the cool tile floor. Then they stopped cycling.
She stared down at him. Dead people looked so common.
She removed her flask, poured hydrofluoric acid into the wound, the familiar scent rising as it ate through flesh. That would take care of any DNA from her saliva. She crossed to the kitchen sink, dropped the candy cane down the disposal, and ran it, pouring in a dose of hydrofluoric acid for good measure.
She picked up the cordless phone, called 911, wiped the buttons clean with a wet dish rag, and set it on the counter. The coroner would reach a precise time of death eventually, but why not help him out?
She walked out the open back door, hopped the white picket fence, and jogged along the rear of the clubhouse, breathing in the fresh-cut grass of the golf course. She’d miss it, being here, being normal. Her vacation had come to an end, but she had another “gift to herself” in mind.
Catching Orphan X and making him feel every ounce of pain that she lived with day and night.
She crawled through the window back into the toilet stall, walked out of the bathroom, turned left into the crowded gym, and mounted the StairMaster.
Beneath her shirt her ruined skin itched and burned, but she blocked out the pain. She’d keep at it for two hours, time enough for the cops to arrive and find Mr. Super PAC back-floating in a pool of his own blood.
So many residents could say precisely where the fetching divorcée had been since the moment she stepped out of her rented house this morning.
The gym was mirrored from wall to wall, and in the countless reflections, she could see every eye on her.
After all, Candy could work a StairMaster.
29
End-Stopped
As they barreled along the freeway, Joey reached into the backseat to retrieve the laptop that Evan had taken from the headquarters in Portland. She fired it up, then flexed her fingers like a gymnast about to tackle the uneven bars.
Evan glanced over from the driver’s seat. “Careful you don’t trip an autoerase—”
“Yeah,” she said. “I got it.”
He drove for a while as she clicked around. The late-morning sun beat down on the windshield, cooking the cracked dashboard. A pine-tree air freshener long past expiration spun in circles from the rearview. Above the speedometer a hula girl bobbed epileptically on a bent spring.
“Finding anything?”
Joey held up a wait-a-sec finger. “This is some heavy-ass encryption.”
“Can you break it?”
“I don’t know.”
“‘I don’t know’ isn’t an answer.”
“Thanks, Jack.” Her fingers skittered across the keyboard. It was like watching someone play an instrument. “I’ll tell you this, you certainly couldn’t.”
“Yes or no, Joey.”
“There are maybe a handful of people in the world who could hack this,” she finally said, “’n’ I’m one of them. But it’ll take some time. And a fast Internet connection.”
“Van Sciver knows you’re with me. So we have to assume he knows you can get to whatever information’s guarded in there. He trained you.”
“Please. I was better than him to begin with. It’s the only thing I had, growing up. We’re talking sixteen, eighteen hours a day online, checking out 2600, using the darknet and stuff. I put in lots of private IRC hacker chat-room time, too, like, browsing the chans, vulns, and sploit databases, fooling around with Scapy, Metasploit, all that. It was one of my selling points. Back when I was, you know, a wanted commodity. Before I was useless.” She grinned and closed the lid. “He knows I’m good but has no idea how good.”
“Once we hit L.A., I’ll set you up in a safe house. I want what’s in that laptop as quickly as possible.”
“I’m gonna require a crate of Red Bull and a Costco tub of Twizzlers.”
“You’ll have what you need.”
“And Zac Efron. I want Zac Efron.”
“Who’s Zac Efron?”
“God, you’re old.” She smiled, and it was like turning on a light, her face luminous. She observed him observing her. “What?”
“I haven’t seen you smile.”
She looked back at the road. “Don’t get used to it.”
*
As the Civic filled with gas, Evan scanned the parking lot and the freeway. Joey climbed out and stretched like a cat, slow and luxurious.
“Want any road food?” she asked.
“Road food?”
“Corn nuts, Slim Jims, Mountain Dew?”
“I’m good.”
She brushed past him, heading inside. “Don’t leave me here.”
He looked at her. “Why would I leave you here?”
She shrugged, not breaking stride.
They were heading south on the I-15, Idaho ten exits away. Borders were always tricky—choke points, easy to surveil. So far it had been smooth sailing, but so far hadn’t been long.
The gas pump clicked off, and Evan got back into the car to wait for Joey. Her rucksack tilted in the passenger-side foot well. Another greeting card had fallen out.
Evan leaned over and picked it up.
A cartoon of a nervous-looking turkey against a backdrop of orange and yellow leaves. Fresh concern pulled at Evan. He opened the card.
Sweet Girl,
I hope you have lots to be thankful for this Thanksgiving of your 16th year! Know that even though we’re apart, I miss you and hold you in my heart.
Xoxo, M.
Again it seemed that Joey had read the card many times. Creases, wrinkled corners, a patch of ink worn off where she’d held it.
Thanksgiving. Your 16th year.