Watched (10 page)

The phone goes dead. What did I expect? Practically inviting myself into her home—and after everything she'd done for me, staying up all night, coming up with a new plan so I don't have to face King in person, teaching herself all that stegno stuff.

I'm turning into a creep, just like King's clients or my uncle. I bang the steering wheel in frustration and disgust. It was so nice, having someone to talk to, someone I could be myself with, without hiding or lying.

Not just someone. Miranda.

I keep driving, barely noticing the landscape as I speed down I-99 toward Altoona. I have to make it up to her, show her I'm not a creep.

The best way to do that is catch King. I imagine the look on her face when King is led away in handcuffs. I have no clue what Miranda looks like—her voice is warm yet tough, like she knows exactly what she wants and how to get it. Images of actresses and cover models fill my vision, but none of them is right.

Miranda is different than all those fake glamour girls. She has real strength—she must, to have survived everything King has done to her.

Not to mention being brave enough to stand up to him in the first place. And she was only a kid when she'd done that. Just thirteen.

“Idiot.” The word collides against the windshield, hurls itself back at me. Not only have I just met Miranda, not only am I exactly the kind of guy you wouldn't want to invite to meet your parents, but I'd forgotten she's younger than me.

Creep. Perv. Idiot.

No wonder she hung up on me.

I debate calling her back, to apologize, but have no idea what to say. So I finish the drive in silence.

The address she gave me isn't to a Radio Shack like I'd expected. It's to a small storefront labeled “The Spy Shop” with a cartoon image of Sherlock Holmes holding an oversized magnifying glass. Personally, I would have gone with James Bond, but whatever.

Miranda still hasn't called. I sit in the truck and debate going in alone. It's not quite ten o'clock, and I realize the store is dark, doesn't look open, despite the fact that the sign in the door says open.

Maybe it's a spy thing. I climb out of the truck and try the door. Locked.

Just as I'm turning around to head back to the truck, the putt-putt of a Vespa sounds from the parking lot. A guy drives in, parks beside me. His bike is lime green and his helmet is lemon yellow. He has reflective stripes and a flashing LED lights covering his Windbreaker.

He gets off, glances at my F-150 in disdain, and takes off his helmet. “You're Miranda's friend.”

It's not a question, but I nod anyway. “Hi. I'm Je—Griffin.” I stand up straighter, like a guy named Griffin would. I channel my uncle—he's the most confident person I know. Everyone likes him as soon as they meet him. I thrust my hand out like my uncle does when he's meeting new people. “How ya doing?”

He looks from my face to my hand and back again. “Yeah. This way.” He turns to the door, leaving my hand hanging. Guess I can't fake my uncle's charisma. No surprise there.

I follow him inside the small, cluttered shop. It's not exactly like Q's lab—definitely more like Sherlock Holmes's overcrowded apartment. And absolutely feels like something from a book or movie, not like reality.

Surveillance cameras stream my image onto screens lining the walls and part of the ceiling, following my progress as I move cautiously between two rows of display cases. The cases in the front are filled mostly with phones, walkie-talkies, and radios. But as I go farther into the store, the merchandise changes.

Instead of standard Bluetooth, there are tiny earbuds, surveillance equipment including cameras of every shape and size—including one in a tube of lipstick—GPS trackers, and then weapons. No guns, but Tasers, knives hidden in all sorts of objects, pepper spray, extendable batons, sword canes, even a walker that has something that looks like a potato gun built into its handle, designed to shoot a net over an intruder.

“We're strictly surveillance and nonlethal self-defense,” the man says, sounding defensive. “No wet work.”

I have no idea what he's talking about. The man—I still don't know his name, I realize—walks behind the rear counter and takes off his jacket. He's watching me as well. And not in a friendly shop owner–customer way. More like he thinks I'm here to steal something.

“How long have you've known Miranda?” he asks abruptly.

How much should I tell him? I pause at a display of bugs and cameras disguised as insects. They look really lifelike. Beside them, there's a microphone hidden in a wad of used chewing gum.

“Not long,” I finally answer. When I look back up at him, he's leaning over the counter, palms pressed on it, obviously not happy. I think he's trying to intimidate me—hard to do when I have twenty pounds and four inches on him.

“She's a very special person. I wouldn't want to see anything happen to her.”

I meet his gaze, not liking how possessive he sounds. “How long have you known her?”

“Going on two years. And this is the first time she's ever asked for my help.” His gaze narrowed, making his face look a bit like one of the bugs beside me. “What kind of trouble are you getting her into?”

“She called me, asked me to help her.”

He's not sure but relaxes a little. “Help her do what?”

“Find someone.”

He shakes his head. “Miranda doesn't need anyone's help with that. It's her gift.”

“Gift?”

“Some people are good with code, making machines do what they want. Others, like me, are good at hiding things. Miranda, she's a natural finder—especially people. No one can stay hidden from her, not for long.”

“Except one man. The Creep.” I use Miranda's nickname for King, figure I'm not giving away anything too sensitive.

His chin comes up and his shoulders relax. “You're helping her find the Creep?”

“Not just find him. Finish him.” I have no idea where the bravado comes from, but it feels good, saying the words out loud.

Finally he smiles. “Now that's something I'm happy to help with.” He brushes his hands together and pulls a bag out from behind the counter. “Let me show you how this all works.”

Half an hour later, I've mastered the art of slipping the pen recorder/camera into my pocket, positioning it at just the right angle, and turning it on without being too obvious. The damn thing looks like any other pen—even has teeth marks in the cap.

Clive, the shop owner, talks like he's the one on the run from bad guys, barely taking a breath as he also gives me a tutorial on lighting and acoustics.

My phone rings. Miranda. “How are you and Clive getting on?”

I'm relieved that she sounds like her normal self. “Just peachy.”

“Can I talk with him for a minute?”

I hand Clive the phone. He listens, holds a hand up to me to wait, and hurries into the back room. He returns a minute later holding a folded sheet of paper. He sets it and the phone on the counter then hands me an earpiece—small, unobtrusive.

“I've synched it with your phone. You can talk and call hands free.”

I realize the phone he's returned with is different than the old clunker Miranda sent me. This one is sleek, top of the line, a lot like the one King has me use. I take the phone from him, stare at it in distaste. I kind of liked the old one.

“Don't worry, I disabled the GPS. No one can track you.”

“Thanks,” I tell Clive, pocketing the phone. “What do I owe you?”

“Nothing. Miranda's helped me out too many times. This barely scratches the surface. Just”—he hesitates—“be careful. Watch out for our girl, will you?”

“Yes, sir.” I turn to leave and he calls me back.

“Wait. This is for you as well. Miranda said to find a quiet spot and open it.” He hands me the paper. “There's a Starbucks two doors down, if that helps.”

I nod my thanks, slide the folded paper in my pocket, and head over to the Starbucks. It's just after eleven, and my stomach reminds me that it's been a long time since I've eaten, so I grab a chicken salad sandwich and milk.

The counter girl doesn't even question that I'm not in school, instead seems most concerned that I don't drink coffee. But with my constant heartburn, the last thing I need is to add caffeine to the acid churning in my belly.

I sit down, take a few bites to quiet my stomach, and call Miranda, trying out the new earpiece.

“Hey again.” She sounds brighter, happy even. I'm glad my gaffe from this morning has been forgotten. I almost apologize for it but decide it's best just to leave things alone.

“Hey yourself. That Clive guy of yours is kinda weird.” Whoa, now who sounds possessive? I soften my tone. “In a nice way, I mean.”

“Yeah, he can be a bit intense, but his heart is in the right place. Did he give you the fax I sent?”

“Got it.” I wipe my hands clean and grab the piece of paper Clive gave me. “What is it?”

“Do you recognize any of those screen names?” she asks. Her voice sounds intimate, the way it's so clear, right in my ear, thanks to the earbud. “Has King ever used any of them?”

Her handwriting is so precise, in control, that it's easier to read than something printed by a computer. I love the way she draws a diagonal slash through the zeroes to separate them from the letter O—it's always so confusing when they look alike. And she uses tiny dashes through the leg of her sevens, makes them look old-fashioned and dignified. Her fours have triangles, not squares missing their tops. And her eights are perfectly symmetrical; you can imagine a figure skater gliding around their edges, effortlessly flowing into each curve, into infinity.

“Griffin?” She's waiting.

I blink and the numbers and letters go from being Miranda to just lines on a piece of paper. I scan the list.

My eyes trail down the list of names, snagging onto the last one. I jerk my gaze away, bile burning my throat. I gag; my stomach rebels; I think I might puke. I stagger away from the table and into the bathroom. Thankfully it's a single seater. I lock the door behind me. It takes two tries my hands are trembling so hard. Sweat and heat and cold flood my body inside and out. I lean against the tile wall, fight to breathe. That's all. Just one breath.

It takes all my strength. I slide to the floor. If the wall weren't there, I'd have fallen and never noticed.

“You still there?” Miranda's voice in my ear is the only thing that feels real.

I swallow hard. My mouth tastes like fire started with kerosene and Styrofoam—a scorched taste that won't go away.

“The last one.” My voice is small and trembly, a field mouse scrambling away from a firestorm.

“Phreak426?” Her voice is louder than ever, excited. “Really? Are you sure?”

Am I sure? I close my eyes, focus on her voice, trying to forget. It shouldn't be too hard—I've already blocked out most of that time. But the bits and pieces that remain, they're seared into my brain.

I used to think of him as the Phreak. I'd never seen it spelled that way before he used it, had no idea that it meant more than just being a pervert. Thinking of him as a freak, no matter how he spelled it, helped me feel like I wasn't the one who was screwed up; it gave me someone to blame other than myself.

Pathetic, I know. But this was in the beginning. I was only twelve, just a kid. And like any kid, I didn't have control. Instead of only thinking of him as the Phreak, one day I blurted it out when he was critiquing my performance. Called him “freak.”

The next weekend, my uncle took me on a surprise camping trip—at least that's the story he told my mom. Early thirteenth birthday present. She was so happy he was including me, taking an interest.

We ended up in a slimy motel, middle of nowhere. He brought with him a bunch of kinky stuff as per the Phreak's orders. And the things he did to me that night…Even now, three years later, my insides drop out of me just thinking of it.

Couldn't walk after. Spent the next day on the floor of the bathroom, naked except for a blanket, while my uncle watched football and fed me Gatorade. He knew enough about first aid and shit that there was no permanent damage—the Phreak wouldn't like that—and it was a long weekend. I can't remember, Veterans Day, Columbus Day…who knows? By the time school was back in session, I was pretty much okay.

When we got home, I unloaded the unused camping gear from the truck, moving slow because I was in so much pain. My uncle came out and cornered me against the side of the truck, out of sight from the house. I flattened against the door, scared, even made a whimpering noise as he raised his hand. I felt small and helpless—totally helpless.

My uncle didn't hit me. No. He smiled and ruffled my hair with his fingers, leaned down, and kissed the top of my head—the way Mom does when she says good night.

I just stood there, frozen solid, couldn't even feel my feet much less move them. My breath came in tiny little gasps so very fast, as if each might be my last.

“You're my good boy,” he whispered.

Then he went back into the house. By the time I got inside, I overheard him telling Mom a story about how I fell while horsing around on some boulders with the other kids who'd gone camping and that's why I had a few bruises. Imaginary kids. But Mom didn't know that.

She wasn't upset at all. She was happy. Said how thankful she was that he'd taken me and I'd been able to make some friends.

My uncle said, “Sure, no problem. He's a good kid. Having a rough time is all. We can hang together more if you think it'd help.”

Just like that, Mom gave me to him. I can't really blame her—she had no idea what she was doing, thought it was part of my healing process after Dad walking out on us. Or maybe that it was good for a kid dealing with puberty and hormones and crap to have a grown man as a role model. Who knows what she thought?

All I know is that one slip of the tongue, using King's screen name, cost me everything.

The next week, I started my first fire. Almost killed my baby sister.

After that weekend, after that video went live, the Phreak was dead and the King was born. That night in the motel, me screaming but no one listening, no one caring, that session won him a bunch of awards from his fellow pervs. They proclaimed him their king.

He's been King ever since. Long live the King.

“Griffin? Are you okay?” Miranda's voice brings me back to the here and now. My eyes pop open—how long was I gone? Sometimes I fall into these gaping voids in my memory and next thing I know days have passed, forgotten in a sleepwalk haze.

“What?” It's a struggle to get the single word out. Pain and nightmare memories still grab at me. My mouth is dry, parched. I push myself to my feet and stagger to the sink, dunk my face under the water and drink.

“What's going on?”

“Nothing. I'm fine.” I'm lying. From her pause, I know she knows it, but she's too nice to call me out. “That last screen name—”

“Phreak426.”

Just hearing it makes me recoil. “Yeah. That's him. It was the first one he used.”

“Griffin!” I've never heard her say my name like that. I've never heard anyone say my name like that, even if it's not really my name—happy, excited, like I'm the most important person in the world.

Electricity charges through me. I wish she would always say my name that way.

“You're amazing! We got him!”