Patricia Leer stared at the ATM receipt in her hand, trying to make sense of it. Zero balance. How could her account have a zero balance? She settled back into the driver's seat in her car, sighing as she continued to forage her memory for some explanation that made sense. Shaking her head, she turned the ignition key and drove to her bank. When her turn came, she stepped up to the teller window, clutching the ATM receipt.
“How can I have a zero balance?” she demanded.
The teller click-clacked on her computer keyboard and smilingly informed Ms. Leer that she had emptied her account yesterday at 9:07 am.
Patricia narrowed her eyes and frowned, thinking about what she had done yesterday. Going to the bank had not been on the agenda, much less emptying her checking account.
“I wasn't here yesterday,” she told the teller.
Another teller, one that Patricia knew, stepped over toward them.
“Ms. Leer? You don't remember coming in yesterday?” she asked.
“I don't remember because I didn't come here yesterday.”
The teller gave her a confused look. “Ms. Leer, I saw you here yesterday.”
Patricia frowned and shook her head. She had not gone to the bank yesterday. She simply hadn't. The teller must be confused.
“You're mistaken,” Patricia said after a brief pause.
The teller smiled nervously. “Just a moment,” she said, stepping around the counter and into the manager's office. The branch manager came to the door and nodded toward Patricia.
“Ms. Leer?” the manager called, “Can I help you?”
Patricia sighed and marched over to and into the manager's office, dropping into the cushioned chair facing the desk. The manager walked around the desk and slid into her chair, regarding Patricia with a slight smile and understanding eyes.
“Your tellers claim I came into this bank yesterday and emptied my checking account. I was not in this bank yesterday.”
The manager turned toward her computer monitor, clacking away on her keyboard, scanned the screen, and returned her gaze to Patricia.
“Ms. Leer, your records indicate that you did in fact withdraw your entire checking account balance yesterday morning at 9:07 am. In addition to that, I can personally attest to the fact that you were here yesterday. I saw you.”
Patricia sat dumbfounded. She was certain that she had not set foot in this bank yesterday and the employees here appeared to be just as certain that she had. Was she losing her mind? Was there some sort of conspiracy? Was she sick? Brain tumor? What other explanation was there? She frowned, looking down at her lap, blinking, thinking, trying to remember.
“I...I honestly don't remember being here,” she mumbled.
The manager tilted her head and gave her a sympathetic look, then rose and moved around to where she sat, gently placing a hand on her shoulder.
“It's okay, we all have days like that, where we forget things. Perhaps if you go back home and look at the money, you'll remember why you withdrew it.”
“Look at the money? You didn't give it to me in a check?”
“No ma'am, you specifically requested it in cash. The teller had to check with me about it. It is a bit unusual, but we know you here, so we didn't really consider it a problem.”
Patricia went home and looked for the money, which, according to the manager, she had carried out of the bank in her own cloth bag with handles and the name of a local bookstore on it. She found the bag but it was empty. After completely turning her apartment upside down, she had no idea what had become of her money. She had begun to seriously worry. She carried her concern with her to work that afternoon, remaining constantly distracted throughout her shift. She worked as the assistant manager of a local grocery store, Carter's Groceries, and considered approaching Mr. Carter with her story, but thought better of it. She feared he would think she may be losing her mind and find some reason to let her go, and she certainly could ill afford to lose her job now.
She needed to talk with someone...a psychiatrist? Psychologist? Medical doctor? She had no idea. Growing up in a tiny Southern town in rural South Carolina, she felt isolated from such things. The neighbors had always helped each other out in hard times, though this was something outside their purview. Her parents had died years ago and her only sister lived several states away. She had a few friends, though none were what one would consider a confidante. When she got home that night, she searched the Internet for counselors located nearby and found one, made a note of the number, and settled into bed with one of her favorite trashy novels.
Harry Wyndham listened patiently as Hannah Pace told her crazy story. Three days ago, she had stopped by a fast food spot to grab lunch and her debit card had been rejected several times. She then drove to the bank and had been informed that she, herself, had come in the previous day and requested her entire checking account balance in cash, placed it in a plastic bag, and left. She had absolutely no memory of such a transaction, or even visiting the bank that day. The bank manager had assured her that it had happened and had sent her on her way with no further explanation. Fearing some type of identity theft scheme or possibly some other nefarious plot, she reported all this to the local police department, who told her they would look into it. Upon her return home, she had found no sign of the money, though she had found some odd things, like the fact that two of her frozen meals were missing. She was meticulous about her budget and this included keeping a strict account of the items she bought with the times and dates of their consumption. This way, she was able to calculate the most economical purchases to the penny.
“You know,” she told Harry, “The stores try their best to rob you. You have to be vigilant.”
Harry nodded and smiled blandly. Since moving to this god-forsaken town four years ago, he had found it difficult to drum up much business as a private investigator. He had been forced to farm out his skills and experience to the local police department, along with the occasional guest lecture at nearby community colleges, technical schools, or local civic groups. This, together with his freelance photography, kept his rent paid and his cupboards full. Still, he preferred this to being a Newark police officer. At least the people down here were cordial and most of them were honest.
“What did you say was the name of your bank?” Harry asked the crazy lady.
“Rockridge Trust,” she said.
He wrote that down. It was the largest bank in town, not that such a thing meant much in a town of eight-thousand. He would pay them a visit tomorrow just to satisfy crazy lady. If she kept track of her frozen dinners, she'd sure as shit keep track of his time...especially at $50.00 per hour. That was a discount. Normally, he charged twice that much, but crazy lady was divorced and had a limited income from her job at the local movie theater, where they showed second and third-run features at discounted prices.
“And you have no memory of withdrawing the money, nor what you might have done with it?” Harry asked.
The woman shook her head. “I don't believe I withdrew it. I was not in that bank when they said I was.”
“How much was your balance?”
“Three-hundred, sixteen dollars and forty-four cents.”
Harry restrained himself from rolling his eyes and chewed his bottom lip. “I'll go talk with the bank manager, see what I can find out. But ma'am, I'm pretty sure the bank wouldn't scam you for such a low balance. Three-hundred dollars...”
“Three-hundred, sixteen dollars,” she interjected.
“Still, that is a small sum for a bank to risk a lawsuit, don't you think?”
“All I know is, I didn't take it out, and now the bank says it's gone.”
Harry sighed. “I'll talk with them. But I can't promise anything.”
Hannah Pace nodded solemnly and left without another word.
The next morning, Harry sat in Margaret Blackwelder's office at Rockridge Trust bank, expecting her to tell him that Hannah Pace was nuts. Instead, she told him the oddest thing.
“She's the third per
son in the last three weeks to come in here and withdraw her balance, all in cash, and then forget it the next day.”
“The third person?” Harry asked, blinking.
Margaret nodded. “First one was Patricia Leer, and then almost a week later came Betsy Stocker. Now it's Hannah Pace.” She shook her head. “Something strange is going on.”
Harry narrowed his eyes and tilted his head. “All of them claimed they couldn't remember withdrawing their money?”
“Right.”
“And they all requested it in cash?”
“Yes.”
He shook his head, thinking. This was strange. “Mind if I ask how much the other ladies had in their accounts?”
“I can't tell you that. But I can tell you it was significantly more than Hannah Pace.”
Three women withdraw all their money in cash and none of them can remember it. Were they hypnotized? Drugged? And what did they do with the money? If someone had hypnotized them, or manipulated them some other way, then the perpetrator would have to include some way for them to transfer the money to him or her. But that could be anything. He could've planted a suggestion for them to leave it somewhere at some particular time. All cash, so there would be no record of exchange. Harry shook his head and whistled. If he was right, this was a brilliant plot, and it would take some brilliant detective work to catch the thief.
“Has anyone else in town made any significant deposits or opened a new account recently?” he asked the manager.
She shook her head. “First thing I looked for after Hannah Pace left the other day. Someone is using these women, I just don't know how.”
He had to get them together and interview them at the same time. Figure out what they have in common, where they all may have gone or with whom they all may have come into contact. Before he did that, however, he'd visit the first suspect...the only person he knew they would have in common. A person with access to drugs. Doctor Spencer. The only doctor in town.
By the time Harry had interviewed and cleared the good doctor, contacted each of the three victims and arranged to have them meet him at his office, Margaret Blackwelder had dialed his cell number and left him voice mail.
“Lisa Grantham just came into the bank and requested her entire checking account balance in cash. We gave it to her because there's no legal reason we could withhold it. Maybe if you go visit her after you get this message, you can find out what she's gonna do with it.”
The message had been left an hour ago. He dialed the number of the bank and asked to speak with Margaret.
“Can you give me Lisa Grantham's address?” he asked her.
“Not legally,” she replied.
“Time is an issue, Ms. Blackwelder. If I have to spend the next hour tracking down her address, I may lose my window of opportunity.”
“Okay, I'll help you out, but I can't just give you the information. She's married and her husband's name is Tim. That should give you a clue. You do have a phone book, don't you?”
He rifled through the phone book and located a Timothy Grantham on Evergreen Circle.
“214 Evergreen?”
“If I were you, I'd probably knock on the door at that address and see if Lisa's there.”
“Thanks, see ya.”
He hung up and hurried out the door. Ten minutes later he sat outside the house at 214 Evergreen Circle. It was a nice house, reddish-brown brick with beige shutters. Couple of trees in a well-trimmed yard. Subaru wagon sitting on a paved driveway. Harry sat in his car across the street contemplating his next move. He could ring the bell, but if this woman was under the influence of some hypnotist or drug, that would do him little good. She would have to either leave or the thief would have to come to her, which was highly unlikely. Unless she had already dropped off the money. He sighed and watched. The good news was that she was married, so he figured she'd have to do something before five o'clock...if she hadn't already. He waited and lit a cigarette, cursing himself for not thinking about picking up lunch on the way.
Fortunately, Lisa Grantham emerged before noon, carrying a smallish box, and got into her car. He followed her to the post office. Crap, he thought. The thief has them using the postal service. They won't give me any info. He sighed and lit another cigarette. He'd have to sit here all day and wait for the thief to show up. That is, if that package was for the thief. For all he knew, Lisa Grantham had the money in the same bag in the back of her car and was gonna drop it somewhere on her way home. He couldn't follow her without risking missing the thief showing here. He was stuck. If he'd only been able to tail her from the bank. Damn it!
Then again, what if the thief showed up, opened the box and placed the money in a bag, and then came back outside? He'd never know. He cursed again and got out, just as Lisa Grantham was coming out of the post office. He had planned to walk by her car and look inside the window, but now that was impossible. He watched her face as they passed, however, and did note that she bore the look of a zombie, someone who was moving on automatic pilot. She stared straight ahead as they crossed paths, despite his efforts to make eye contact. He stood at the door and watched her go, wondering if he was playing the right hunch. He decided that he was...after all, it was unlikely that she would be running any ordinary errands if she were under the influence of someone else at the moment. He found a seat just outside of a little glassed-in room where patrons could drop off and retrieve mail at a room-length counter. He pulled out his cell phone and pretended to pay attention to it while periodically giving the counter casual glances.
Then his phone rang. It was Hannah Pace, the previously known “crazy lady” who was admittedly less crazy, though still annoying.
“Miss Pace, I'm on the case now,” he whispered into the phone. “I'll call you back when I have more information,” and then he hung up, hoping she heard and was not offended. A moment later, his phone rang again. It was Hannah again. This time he pressed the decline button and quickly switched his ringer off. She left a voice mail, which he retrieved and learned that she was unable to make it to his office that afternoon. He noticed with a sly glance that a young girl with short, dirty blond hair and glasses had entered and picked up a package, which looked to be the same package that Lisa Grantham had dropped off. He held the door open for her, following her outside, slid into his car, and tailed her to an apartment complex. Glancing at his watch, he noted it was almost noon. He parked across the street from the apartments and called Patricia Leer and then Betsy Stocker and postponed their meeting indefinitely, explaining that he was hot on the trail of a likely suspect while assuring each of them that he would re-schedule with them in the next day or so.
He waited and watched, attempting to ignore the rumbling of his stomach. His sixth sense told him he was on the right track, despite the reasoned voice in his mind screaming at him that he wasn't even sure this young girl had picked up the same package. It had been the right size and shape, same basic color, but that was it. And the girl, mid-twenties at her oldest, looked more like a college student than a master criminal. Still, he maintained a vigilant eye on his prize, smoking one cigarette after another in an attempt to quell his hunger. At quarter of one, the young girl emerged from her building, climbed into her white Honda sedan, and motored up the street. Harry followed at a distance, flicking his cigarette butt out of the window. After a couple of turns, she pulled into the parking lot of the public library, parked, and went inside. He parked and considered his options. Should he wait outside or go in? She had gone into the building empty-handed, so she was not returning books. She could be in there for hours. Some folks spent hours at the library, reading or working on their laptops, or even just browsing the bookshelves.
He growled to himself and got out of the car, rolling up his window and locking the door before slamming it shut. Strolling inside, he noted the long counter on the left where a couple of ladies were busy checking books out to patrons. To his right sprawled a children's area, complete with a couple of children's compu
ters and around the corner to his left, just past the circulation desk, metal shelved sections marked New Books and Large Print stood on either side of a large area, separated by a group of cushioned chairs and a standing rack of newspapers. Directly ahead of him, thickly carpeted stairs rose on a spiral. He turned left and casually surveyed the area, walking past the aisles of books, peeking down each one. A few patrons surveyed the offerings, though none were the young girl. He frowned and returned to the stairs, ascending to the second floor.
Upstairs, to his right, a glass-enclosed room housed multiple rows of computers. To the left, multiple shelves on either side of the area held books with standing desks holding computer monitors scattered about. He strolled over and noticed the area to his left was labeled Young Adults, with the area to his right designated as Adult Fiction. A woman sat at a desk in front of the fiction, gazing at a computer monitor. She looked up as he approached.
“Good afternoon, how can I help you?” she cooed, smiling.
He returned her smile. “I just wanted to browse. First time here.”
“Well, the fiction is directly behind me and the non-fiction is just beyond that. If you have any questions, please ask.”
He smiled and nodded and made his way into the stacks, discreetly glancing right and left down each aisle. As he neared the end of the fiction section, he noticed a small space separating the fiction and non-fiction, where the young girl with dirty-blond hair and glasses stood over a wheeled cart, apparently organizing books. He approached her and smiled, nodding his head and sneaking a peek at her name tag.
“Er...Penny?” he began.
She smiled. “Yes?”
“First time in here...just wondering where the true crime is.”
She pointed toward the non-fiction. “Just ahead there in the three-sixties.”
“Thanks,” he offered, smiling, and strolled over to where she indicated.
She couldn't be the thief. She must live with the thief. The problem was, there was no way to ascertain this without taking a few risks or spending a good deal more time gathering intel on her, neither of which he found particularly appealing. He was beginning to wonder if he should take his suspicions to the police. The problem there was that he had no real evidence. He felt the pressure he used to feel as a cop...the pressure to get this guy before more people were victimized and especially before this guy and his girlfriend moved on. And while he was convinced she wasn't the thief, he was fairly certain she was at least an accomplice for retrieving the money...though the possibility still existed that she had done that at his request and without knowing the contents. He shook his head and cursed under his breath. He needed to know more. He needed an inside source.
He made his way back downstairs armed with only her name, but that would have to do for now. Penny Mepris. At least he could find out what the Internet knew about her. Hopefully she had a Facebook page that would lead him to her boyfriend. Before he left, he stopped by the circulation desk.
“Hi, I'm interested in doing some part-time work here and was wondering what types of part-time jobs you offer,” he told the smiling lady at the desk.
“Well, there are circulation assistants, reference assistants, tech assistants, and shelvers,” the lady said.
“About how many hours per day for shelvers?”
“Usually three.”
He nodded. “So, about twenty hours a week?”
“I think fifteen.”
So she probably works another job on the weekend. And maybe a few mornings or evenings. “Thanks,” Harry said, smiling, and left.
She had reported for work at one, it was one-forty now, so she'd likely be at the library until four. He drove over to a fast food place and grabbed a burger from the drive-through, then sped home. Once there, he did a search for Penny Mepris and to his utter surprise, she was nowhere to be found. Penny Mepris had no digital footprint. No Facebook, no blog, no Instagram...nothing. Unusual, especially for someone of her age, though certainly not unprecedented. This was going to make his job a little more difficult. He glanced at his watch and dialed Hannah Pace's number.
“Miss Pace, do you frequent the library?”
“Yes.”
“How often?”
“A few times a week.”
“Do you know anyone who works there?”
“Yes.”
“Penny Mepris?”
Pause. “Doesn't ring a bell.”
“I believe she's a shelver.”
“Oh. She's new, I think.”
“Thanks.” He hung up and dialed Patricia Leer's number.
“Ms. Leer, do you frequent the library?”
“Yes sir, I sure do.”
“How often?”
“Almost every day.”
“Do you know anyone who works there?”
“Just about everyone who works there.”
“Penny Mepris?”
Pause. “That name is familiar, but I can't place her. Is she the new shelver?”
“Yes ma'am, thanks.” He hung up and dialed Betsy Stocker's number.
“Mrs. Stocker, let me guess...you use the library quite often, don't you?”
“Yes sir. How'd you know that?”
“Do you know Penny Mepris?”
Pause. “Does she work in the children's department? I don't know any of them.”
“No ma'am. Thanks anyway.” He hung up.
He shook his head. What were the odds? He then dialed the number for Family Central Bank, one of the two smaller banks in town, and asked to speak with the manager.
“This is Tom Brickman, how can I help you?”
Harry introduced himself and told Mr. Brickman about the case he was on. “So, Mr. Brickman, my question is, have any of your customers come into your bank in the past few weeks and withdrawn their entire balance in cash?”
Mr. Brickman paused an uncomfortably long time. So long that Harry was about to ask him if he was okay when he finally spoke. “I just left my wife,” he mumbled.
“Pardon me?” Harry asked.
“My wife withdrew the balance in our checking account...all in cash...while I was at lunch. She claimed she had no memory of it. I thought she was having an affair.”
“When did this happen?”
“Almost a week ago.”
“Mr. Brickman, this may sound like an odd question, but does your wife frequent the library?”
“Yeah.” He sounded far away.
“Mr. Brickman, I'm pretty sure your wife isn't having an affair. This has happened to four other women.” And no men, Harry thought. Why no men? Of course, the majority of library patrons were women, but that didn't explain why they hadn't targeted any men.
“Mr. Brickman, did you suspect your wife before this happened?”
“Huh?”
Harry repeated the question.
“Uh...not really, I guess. I mean, I knew she was a little unhappy. I mean, all she does lately is read sex books.”
“Sex books? Like manuals or something?”
“No. I mean books with sex in 'em. You know, those stupid excuse for romance novels, only it's all about the gardener seducing the lonely wife or the Indian seducing the lonely wife in the old west.”
“I see,” Harry said, somewhat disappointed. “Anyway, like I said, I don't think your wife is having an affair. I'm pretty sure she was being truthful when she said she didn't remember withdrawing the money or what she did with it. Maybe you should try to make it up with her.”
“Yeah.”
Harry hung up. So there are at least five and they weren't limited to one bank. He called the only other bank in town but they hadn't had any incidents. He glanced at his watch and hurried out to his car. He wanted to get back to the library before Penny left.
Waiting outside the library, Harry spotted Hannah Pace heading toward her car, books in arm. He got out and made his way over, waving to get her attention.
“Oh hi, Mr. Wyndham,” she said a little too loudly.
> Harry put his finger to his lips and she gave him an apologetic look.
“What are you doing here, Miss Pace?”
“They called and said my book was here,” she said, holding up the book.
Harry looked at the book cover and tilted his head to read the title. Forbidden Lust. The painted cover portrayed a Victorian era woman dressed in fine clothes in the arms of what appeared to be a menial servant.
“May I see that?” Harry asked.
She handed him the book and blushed. “It's my guilty pleasure,” she shyly confessed.
He studied the cover and title, then opened it and scanned the inside flap. “Miss Pace, please don't take this the wrong way, but do you read books like this often?”
She gave him a look that was a mixture of confusion and embarrassment. “Um...not that often.”
He held the book up and told her he was actually here on the case and that book may be a clue, asking her if he could take it for a day or two.
“I guess so,” she said.
“I'll return it in a couple of days, I promise,” he said, waving as he returned to his car.
He flipped through the book, reading the occasional passage, grimacing at the poor writing and gratuitous sex scenes couched in romantic terms. He shook his head, unable to see the appeal, though there was a reason these books were read almost exclusively by women.
At ten after four, Penny appeared and headed for her car. Harry followed her to her apartment complex, a small four-building system with, fortunately for Harry, outside mailboxes housed in a large metal box at one end of the complex. He watched her carefully through the telephoto lens on his camera, noting that she checked two boxes, 301A and 301B. Curiously, instead of parking her car and going inside, she motored back out onto the main road. He followed at a distance, watching as she pulled into the post office. Was there another victim? Keeping one eye on the post office door, he dialed Patricia Leer's number and got her machine, hung up without leaving a message, and called Betsy Stocker.
“Mrs. Stocker, would you mind telling me what type of books you typically read?”
“Excuse me?”
“I know it sounds strange, but it may lead to a clue about who stole your money.”
“How would that be a clue?”
Penny emerged carrying a rather large box. “Mrs. Stocker, I have to go...I'll call you back in a bit.” He hung up and started his car, once again following Penny at a distance. She drove back home, carrying the package inside. With the telephoto lens, he was able to see her through a window and took note that she entered the first apartment on the left. Unfortunately, the windows of that apartment had the blinds drawn. He called Margaret Blackwelder.
“Was there another one?” he asked her.
“No, not today.”
He thanked her and hung up, dialing Tom Brickman. “Did a customer come into your bank today and withdraw all their money?”
“No, why?”
“Just a hunch. Thanks.” He hung up and dialed the last bank, but there had still been no such odd requests. He had assumed since she retrieved a large box that there was a new victim. Apparently, she just got a regular package. Unless, possibly, they had managed to expand the scheme to another town or state. Had they done this before? The ladies had suggested that Penny was new at the library. Perhaps this woman and her boyfriend had done this elsewhere and were moving around robbing people in various places. Harry figured the second apartment belonged to the boyfriend. He got out and moved toward the building, pointing his lens at the surrounding trees in the guise of photographing birds. Walking around the building, he noticed that blinds covered every window on the ground floor. He returned to his car and dialed Betsy Stocker's number again.
“I'm sorry about before, Mrs. Stocker. Can you tell me what kind of books you read?”
“All kinds.”
“Do you ever read romance novels?”
She paused. “Yes.”
“It's okay, Mrs. Stocker, I'm not judging you. It may have something to do with how or why you were chosen.”
“Chosen?”
“To rob.”
“So you think someone did this to us? To me and the other ladies, I mean?”
“Something like that. I'm still working on it. In the meantime, you might want to stay away from the library for a while.” He hung up and decided to get something to eat and drive home. He figured he'd eat and relax the rest of the evening.
When he woke, he checked his phone and noticed several messages. Why had he not heard the phone ring? Checking it more carefully, he noticed he had turned the ringer off. He remembered doing that the previous day, but he also remembered turning it back on. Strange. Then he noticed the date. His phone indicated that it was April 11. Yesterday was April 9. How did his phone jump a day ahead? Wait. Goose bumps. He sat down abruptly, just before his knees gave way. He looked around and located the book, sitting on the couch. That book. Forbidden Lust. He pulled himself up and staggered into the kitchen, retrieving a paper towel and a large plastic freezer bag. Very carefully, using the paper towel to protect his fingers, he picked up the book and slid it inside the bag, quickly sealing the bag with the zip lock.
He rose, showered, got dressed, and dialed a number on his phone.
“It's me. I need something analyzed as soon as possible. I'm on my way.”
He drove for nearly an hour, out of town and into the country, eventually arriving at an old warehouse where he parked and carried the plastic bag to the door, upon which he knocked. A haggard looking individual opened the door and Harry handed him the bag.
“Call me when you have something.”
The man gave him a curious look and closed the door. Harry returned to his car and drove back to town. On the way he phoned Margaret Blackwelder.
“Yes,” she said, “You came in yesterday and emptied your bank account. You refused to listen to reason. In fact, you said almost nothing other than insisting that we give you your money.”
“I know,” he said. “I know who the perpetrators are and I'm working on getting the evidence to prove it.”
“By the way, two other ladies came in yesterday and did the same thing.”
He sighed. “I'm on my way to deal with it.”
He pulled up and parked alongside Penny's apartment complex, got out, and walked up to Penny's door. Quickly running his hand along the back of his waist to make sure his gun was there, he gave the door two forceful knocks, still not quite sure what he was going to say. He had no idea what her reaction would be. Soft steps echoed into the hallway and then the door swung open.
“About time, Lonnie. I tried calling you all day yesterday,” she said, then turned and walked back into the apartment, leaving the door standing open.
Harry frowned and tentatively stepped inside, closing the door behind him, keeping a wary eye on Penny.
“Where were you, anyway?” she asked, stopping just before entering the kitchen.
He narrowed his eyes and half-turned his head. “I'm sorry, do we know each other?”
She gave him a confused look. “Stop fucking around, Lonnie. Butch was worried and so was I. What happened to you yesterday?”
He stood, staring, cogitating, attempting to come to grips with what was going on. Was she trying to confuse him in an effort to avoid being caught? Was Butch her boyfriend? Is he in the bedroom right now? Will she get violent if he tells her what he knows? He felt odd...out of his element...though he knew this to be precisely his element, which confused him. He couldn't figure out what to say next so he just stood there, a dumb look on his face, staring at this young girl who was apparently a good actress.
“Lonnie!,” she snapped, “What the hell is wrong with you?”
“Why do you keep calling me that? My name is Harry Wyndham.”
Now it was her turn to give him an odd look. “Are you fucking around?”
“I'm deadly serious,” he said, leveling his gaze at her.
“Shit!”
she exclaimed and moved quickly back toward the living area, which caused him to tense. “We gotta get Butch over here...something got fucked up.”
“No!” he snapped at her, both surprising and stopping her in her tracks.
“Whattayou mean, 'no'?” she said, “Butch needs to know something went wrong. You were supposed to snap yesterday and you still think you're Harry.”
His head had begun to throb. “What are you talking about?” he asked her as calmly as he could manage.
She sighed. “Okay, sit down, I'll tell you the truth, but you might not like it.”
“I'll stand.”
“Fine,” she said, sitting in a cushioned chair. “You and Butch are brothers from Philly. He's a chemist, you're a forger. Your real name is Lonnie Curtis and you're the one who did all the paperwork that allowed the three of us to get driver's licenses down here under fake names. I wrote all the back stories. The whole reason we're doing this is because Butch's daughter, your niece, Marissa, went to work for a huge pharmaceutical company – she was a chemist too – and she developed this incredible nanobot technology which they stole from her. She then got mysteriously ill and died. Butch is convinced they killed her, so the three of us got together to work up a plan to make things right...to honor Marissa.”
“So I'm a forger from Philly?”
“Yeah.”
“Why do I think I'm an ex-cop from Jersey named Harry Wyndham?”
“Because that's the back story I wrote for you. That's how I know your best friend is named Joey Fellows, you never had any kids, and you grew up in Jersey City in Chelsea.”
He frowned and shook his head. How could she know all that? “Okay, but why do I think I'm the guy you made up for me? Why don't I know what you're talking about?”
“I dunno. You were supposed to snap yesterday,” she said, then noticing his questioning glance, she continued, “Snap – snap out of it...Butch came up with it. See, you were the first test. You were the first one we tried the bots on. You volunteered.”
“Bots?”
“Yeah, the nanobots. What Marissa's employer didn't know was that she shared all her notes with Butch, so when it all went down, Butch figured out how to make a sort've nanobot virus that gets in your brain and sort’ve re-programs you.”
“I've got these things in my brain?”
“Yeah, but something's fucked up. Like I said, you were supposed to snap yesterday. That's why I need to call Butch.”
“Wait. Me and Butch are brothers, but who are you?”
“Kelly Barone. Marissa's best friend. I wanted to help.”
“And what is this big plan?”
“Well, once we've tested the various viruses to our satisfaction, we'll unleash them on the executives at this pharmaceutical company. We'll get rich and they'll all get nice, long prison terms.”
He frowned. Something wasn't right. “Why would I volunteer to be 're-programmed'?”
“There are several different forms of the virus. The bots have to be programmed and in the form you have, they were supposed to make you think you're Harry Wyndham for about a month and then you were supposed to snap without losing the memory of being Harry. You should remember everything I've been telling you, which is what I keep saying...we need to call Butch so he can figure out what went wrong and how to fix it.”
“That makes no sense. Why would I risk this?”
“We all might have to risk it. The form of the virus you took reprograms you to be someone else. That way, if we ever get taken into custody or put on a polygraph, we can pass with flying colors. You just volunteered to make sure it worked.”
“Then what's the deal with the ladies and having them withdraw their money and send it to you?”
“That's another form of the virus, which completely wipes one day from their memory. We had to test it on someone...and the money was how you were able to pay rent.”
“But I make enough from consulting and freelance photography to pay rent.”
She laughed. “You don't make a dime from that. That's just part of your back story.”
He grimaced. Everything he knew was a lie. Or was it? She was certainly relaxed, not at all like someone afraid of capture. She was either an outstanding actress or she was telling the truth.
“So it had something to do with library books, right?” he asked her.
“Yeah. Butch came up with a paste that held the virus. I just spread it on a few trashy novels that I knew were popular with a few sad women and we had our test subjects and a little cash.”
“That must be what messed up my snap,” he said.
“What?”
“I took one of those novels as potential evidence,” he said. “I must've gotten the virus on my hands. I actually withdrew my bank balance yesterday and sent it to you.”
She blinked at him, her mouth slightly agape. “Those two forms of the virus weren't made to coexist or work together. They must've somehow damaged one another.”
The way she told the story gave it the ring of truth, though he remained troubled. While he couldn't exactly put his finger on it, there was still something amiss. He shook his head, considering his next move. She had risen and moved toward the end of the couch to retrieve her phone. She picked it up and was just about to dial when something occurred to him.
“What's the other apartment for?” he asked her. She froze.
“What other apartment?”
“The one across the hall.”
She gave him a look of confusion that he didn't buy. She wasn't a great actress after all.
“I don't know what you're talking about, Lonnie,” she said, starting to dial again.
He pulled his gun. She stopped dialing.
“Penny or Kelly or whoever you are, you're telling me the truth, but not all of it.”
She sighed and put the phone in her pocket, moving over to the kitchen, where she retrieved a set of keys from a pegboard.
“Okay, let's go see the apartment,” she said.
He followed her across the hall and waited while she unlocked the deadbolt and then the door.
“Help yourself,” she said, waving him forward.
He shook his head. “After you,” he said, waving his gun toward the door.
She sighed, opened the door, and stepped inside. He followed closely. Inside, the apartment looked nothing like a residence. Several desks and tables with computers, scanners, and printers sat in the living area, while the kitchen appeared to be a makeshift laboratory. Instead of a dining table next to the kitchen, a table filled with beakers and test tubes rested along the wall. The counters in the kitchen were lined with multiple chemicals and various instruments and utensils. Taking a couple more steps into the apartment, Harry stretched his neck to glance down the hall.
“So, what's all thi....” He never finished his sentence. He felt a sharp pinch at the base of his skull and then all went black.
Penny/Kelly stood just behind him, phone in hand, which she now dialed.
“Butch?”
“Yeah?”
“I had to put Lonnie down.”
“What?”
“He showed up still thinking he was Harry, so I had to use the failsafe.”
“Damn it. I knew something was wrong when he showed up with that stupid book this morning, asking for tests.”
“He accidentally got the viruses crossed.”
“He got number six?”
“Yeah. Those two together in his brain...we're lucky those buggers didn't turn him into a fucking psycho.”
“So what now?”
She sighed. “We gotta move on, get a new town, new testers, new Lonnie.”
“Alright. Does this mean I need to start working on new paperwork?”
“Nah, I don't think so. We got licenses. I'll turn in my notice and we can stick around another week or so collecting from the pathetic hens who read garbage.”
“What about Harry? People will be looking for him. Shouldn't we clear out now?”
/> “Nah, that would look suspicious. I'll take care of Lonnie...dump him back at his apartment. The failsafe looks just like a brain aneurysm. By the time they do the autopsy, the bots will have long dissolved.”
Butch whistled. “Can't believe how smart you are. Didn't get it from me, that's for sure.”
“Well, Dad, when the bastards kill your soul-mate it has a way of bringing a laser-like focus to your agenda. Fortunately for me, those idiots never knew Marissa and I had a relationship. As far as they knew, we were simply co-workers. But they will pay, trust me. Nothing could stop me from making them pay.”
The Muse