“Why didn’t she go to the police?” he asked finally.
“She . . . had a bit of a sexual history,” I said. “She thought no one would believe her.”
“Hmmm.”
I rubbed my forehead. “No one knows about that except for you.”
“She never told her parents?”
“You think that jackass would still be in school if she had?”
“So why do you need my help?” Terry asked.
“I want you to hack into one of their computers. I want to know about this club. I want to find out if more of these guys are forcing girls to have sex with them,” I said. “Who knows? It may only be Cal, but this Parker dude I met really rubs me the wrong way. I think he’s a predator, too.”
“You think they’re gonna keep a list of girls they’ve raped on their computers? Get real, Wright,” Terry said.
“No, but they email each other those score sheets. I know that much. Maybe the score sheet will tell me something.”
Terry shook his head. “You out for revenge?”
“You bet I am,” I said.
Terry breathed deeply. “Well, I’ll need some more information before we break the law.”
Ten
Obtaining Parker Duncan’s email address was easy. It was right on his Facebook page. Once I sent it off to Terry, the real fun began. Terry explained his plan. He would email Parker and make it look like a message from Cal. Within the email would be an image for Parker to click on. Terry asked me what the image should be, and I offered the idea of some nude chick. “Fun for me,” Terry had said, and I gagged. Unbeknownst to Parker would be a “Trojan,” a type of computer virus, hidden within the picture. Once Parker clicked on the image, he would enable the Trojan, thus allowing Terry unlimited access to Parker’s every move: sites he visited, passwords he typed into his various online accounts, ability to view his files and folders. Terry was confident he’d have news for me the following day.
He pulled me aside at work that evening.
“I’ve got a bunch of shit for you,” he said.
“Yeah?”
“Come to my house after work,” Terry said.
“You’re out of your mind,” I replied.
“Get over yourself, Wright,” Terry said. “You wanna know what I’ve found or what?”
I grunted. “Fine. But if you try anything on me, I’ll mess you up.”
“Please. I’m so over you,” Terry said, and I laughed.
I was shocked when I entered Terry’s apartment. I assumed it would look like a frat house: mismatched furniture with rips and beer stains, old food cartons and pizza boxes littering the surfaces of tables, the smell of something stale and sour. Terry didn’t strike me as the kind of guy who had his shit together. I should have known better once he told me he was going to school for computer programming. I should have known to expect a clean, orderly house. Programmers. Total nerds.
His brown leather furniture matched. He had end tables with lamps on them. Nice lamps that matched and balanced the space. The kitchen was spotless. There were freaking tea towels hanging on the oven and dishwasher handles. I burst out laughing at the magazines fanned out on the coffee table, lying next to scented candles.
“Who are you?” I asked, walking about the living room.
“I’m many things, Wright,” Terry said.
I rolled my eyes. “May I use your bathroom before we get started?”
“Right down the hall.”
I sauntered down the hallway in no rush. I was more intrigued with the pictures hanging on the walls. They looked like Terry’s family, and I suspected the kid who sported the same nose and mouth as my hacker friend was his brother. I discovered in one picture that Terry surfed, and thought I should try something new: not stereotyping people the second I met them.
I really just asked to use the restroom so that I could investigate. I wanted to see if it was as clean as the rest of Terry’s house. He had some scented plug-in going on. It was vanilla mixed with lavender, I think. I gingerly lifted the toilet seat, expecting to see pee stains and God knows what else, but it was clean. Remarkably clean. I couldn’t figure this guy out. He was such an asshole at work—gruff and loud and full of curse words. I figured he owned a Harley on the side and hung out at dive bars on the weekends.
“No, I hang out in the labs on the weekends, you brat,” he said when I came back into the living room and asked. “You’re too young to be so judgmental.”
He was lying on his couch flipping through television channels.
“Actually, teenagers are the most close-minded. Don’t let all our talk about acceptance fool you,” I said.
“Oh, I’m not fooled. I’ve worked with enough of you people to know how you act. It’s pathetic,” Terry replied, landing on Comedy Central. “The hostesses are the worst. I keep telling Francis to stop hiring 16-year-olds.”
“How many have you made cry?” I asked, grinning.
“Three.”
“Did you get in trouble for it?”
“What do you think?”
I giggled. “You’re such a jerk.”