Unholy Code

Chapter 22

I’m glad Emma Elkins switched off that app. Of course shutting it down didn’t stop me at all. What Emma couldn’t know (without a great level of cybertise) was that I could just as easily track her movements by hacking her car’s computer system. I’ve found the Ford Fusion easy to access remotely and was delighted when I realized her mother had bought it for her. Now, of course, the sleek-looking coupe was about to become the Achilles’ heel of the whole family. Lana Elkins was renowned for providing superb cybersecurity on an international scale — and she had avoided the Jeep Cherokee, which had made headlines for getting hacked at speed — but when it came to the Fusion? Not nearly so wary. And why would she have been? The Fusion had escaped notice until recently. Not by me, though.

What young Emma did achieve in shutting off her “find my phone” app was to foil less sophisticated users, like her boyfriend. After reading their emails, I knew precisely why she needed to get away from him: to quiet her conscience.

It was easy for Emma to put Sufyan off her trail. What she doesn’t know is that with a little help from me, Vinko Horvat is no longer able to hack her.

He’d been showing far too much interest in her, even after screwing up an assassination attempt on Emma’s mother. Maybe he was looking to redeem himself. Too bad. Pay for therapy on your own time, Stinko. Not mine. It took me three arduous hours to sever his links to Emma’s phone and computer, which entailed cutting off all the young woman’s service for forty-three minutes, an eternity for a chronic phone user like her. But with all the ISP disruptions these days, she gave no indication of being alarmed, nor did she take any action to try to root out the source of the problem by going to her mother. Not that Emma was likely to, given her new need for secrecy.

I’m certain Vinko is much more frustrated at this point than his young target because my perusal of his emails showed that he knows about her pregnancy. That must have whetted his appetite: white girl coupling with a black guy; the worst kind of beast with two backs to the likes of him. For those who loathe interbreeding and embrace Islamophobia, Emma and her beau would be a sweet target.

But Vinko isn’t going to find her unless I want him to. I would say the same for Lana. The manipulation of those two must be coordinated, and I’m in the position to do that, with Vinko now relegated to watching from the sidelines. I’ll cue him when I’m good and ready, if I need to.

Originally, I’d thought of corralling Sufyan as well. I even feel some gratitude toward him. His rift with Emma has driven her away from those who could protect her, making his girlfriend little more than chum in the turbulent currents she’s trying to swim.

As for Vinko, he’s already switching his attention to the death of Bones Jackson. The famous receiver had took up residence recently in Oregon, presumably to imbibe the deadly, legal dose of secobarbital that killed him. I don’t blame him. A gentle death versus the ravages of brain cancer? Not a difficult choice.

For all Vinko’s professed hatred of his former teammate, I found it amusing to see that he’d viewed online video of Jackson’s memorial service six times. But what really surprised me was an email Vinko drafted to Bones’s widow Ludmila. I thought Vinko might have expressed a scintilla of regret over his teammate’s passing, but no. He called Ludmila a “slut” for having sex with a “black monkey.” His parting words to the bereaved widow: “You are a degenerate.”

Seriously, Vinko? You wrote that to her right after the service?

At least he didn’t send it. I see that it’s still in his “draft” folder. I’m tempted to delete it. Wait a sec. Vinko’s opening it. I can almost see him subvocalizing as he rereads it.

No, don’t, Vinko. Even for you, that’s going too far.

But he just hit “send,” and there it goes.

Why?

Well, why not? I realize. That’s who Vinko Horvat really is: a racist. And that’s what racists do.

I wonder if he realizes Ludmila is Russian. Does he know the well-deserved reputation of Russian women?

I feel like I’m taking a bath when I leave his site. It’s a pleasure to return to Emma’s Fusion. She’s driven sixty-three miles, so she should be inside Baltimore proper now.

Yes, the GPS agrees.

The sun must be coming up. Her mother must be waking, too. In the next few minutes both she and her husband will start to panic. They’ll wonder if their daughter has been abducted. But how? They’ll check their tight security and find it intact. Then they’ll review the electronic history of the system and learn that it was opened from inside the house by someone who knew the code. They’ll check Emma’s room and discover no signs of struggle. And they’ll see that her phone is missing, along with key personal belongings, if my guess is good about the latter.

Most painfully, they’ll realize their only child is no longer protected by the extensive measures they’ve taken to insure their family’s well-being. And if they’re particularly insightful parents, they’ll also understand that they could protect their daughter from so much, but not from herself.

A seventeen-year-old is impulsive.

A seventeen-year-old feels immortal.

A seventeen-year-old doesn’t understand that death can come in a whisper.

Emma. I imagine my hot breath on her ear. I can help you.

So her parents will be right to shudder at the fact that Em is now vulnerable to the scores of terrorists stalking American cities and hinterlands, hunting for ever more horrors to visit upon the nation.

But don’t worry about all that.

Those are the exact words I would tell them if I could. They need only worry about me. And it’s too late for that. Their only child is trying to free herself of too much too soon, and all she’s really done is seal her fate.

The one I’ve planned for her.

And you shall share it, Lana.

The chainsaws are oiled and calling. Can you hear them? Here, I’ll start one.

How about that? Can you hear it now? The blade sounds angry, doesn’t it? Like it could cut through skin and bone and the last scraps of hope in a dying girl’s heart.

I won’t let you die without seeing that, Lana. I promise.

That’s how a mother gets to die twice.