I pulled the blanket over my chest. “Sorry, that’s question four.”
“Bastard,” she said, grabbing my nose and yanking it back and forth. We wrestled under the covers until we were both out of breath. I was resting on top of her when she said, “You know, I might go to Kyle Brewer one of these days.”
“And why would you be bothering the chief of police?”
She slapped my ribs. “Maybe I’ll have him do a trace on you and get the real skinny.”
I kissed her on the nose and said as gently as I could, “Miriam, please don’t do that.”
Instant defensiveness. “Why not?” Her voice lowered. “Are you in trouble?”
“Not at all,” I said. “And I want to keep it that way.” I wondered how this was going to go and what she was going to say, and she surprised me by holding me tight.
“Then I’ll stay quiet,” she said.
A few days later I started digging up ground to plant some corn, a rough and dirty job. After another over-the-sink meal and a long shower, I went up to the computer.
You Have Mail.
Tap-tap went my fingers on the keyboard. Up popped a new message:
TO: Sopwith 12
FROM: Anon666
Insults get you nowhere. Results count. And here’s one result: We don’t care what you say or claim. We get the money or this information goes public. This means you: Owen P. Taylor, Rural Route 4, Pinette, Maine. You have 24 hours, or copies of this information go to the local police, the state police, and the newspapers. Feel like explaining this to them?
The walls of the room seemed to close in about my shoulders, making me feel like I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. If Anon666 went through with his threat, I could expect a search warrant or two to be executed at my little house. Then questions would be asked, and re-asked, and after that... well, I wouldn’t have to worry about my freshly planted corn crop. The raccoons or woodchucks would get it. Not me.
I typed my reply:
TO: Anon666
FROM: Sopwith 12
Deal.
Then I shut off my computer and proceeded to get drunk.
The next day I went down to the cellar, clicking on humming fluorescent lights. The workbench filled with tools and odd bits of junk stood in one corner next to a pile of cardboard boxes and a pegboard holding hammers, screwdrivers, and an awl. I inserted the awl into two of the peg holes and moved the board on well-oiled hinges to uncover a safe in the concrete wall. I unlocked it and reached inside, past souvenirs and odds and ends. I pulled out bands of money, fifties and hundreds. Mad money, so to speak.
I counted and separated the bills, put them back, and went upstairs. My computer sentinel was cheerful as ever. Today’s message was:
TO: Sopwith 12
FROM: Anon666
Glad to see you come to your senses. The deal is $50,000 and no more messages from us. Wire the money to the Grand Breeze Bank of the Cayman Islands, to account number 448-2036. Get it there within 48 hours or the mailing begins.
I rubbed at my jaw and sent the reply with a slap to the keyboard:
TO: Anon666
FROM: Sopwith 12
No deal. Payment will be in cash. Wire transfers leave records. And I want a face-to-face handoff, in public. I’m not leaving $50,000 on a park bench or in a bus terminal locker. That’s my offer, and it’s not negotiable.
I stayed online for a while, digging around in the computers of the Department of the Interior, and was surprised when a chime went off.
You Have Mail.
Damn. Anon666 must have been sitting at his computer, waiting for a reply. What an eager fellow.
TO: Sopwith 12
FROM: Anon666
Do you think we’re your local bank, that you can negotiate with us? The original deal stands. A wire transfer within 48 hours or we go public.
My reply was just as quick:
TO: Anon666
FROM: Sopwith 12
Nope. It’s my deal or you don’t get your $50,000. If you go ahead with your threat, you don’t get your money, and I show people copies of the e-mail messages you’ve been sending and explain how I’ve been set up. Inconvenient but bearable. And I’ll be $50,000 richer. My deal, or publish and be damned.
I went into town to have lunch with the postmistress. I dropped off a few envelopes, which included money orders to the local Girl Scout and Boy Scout troops, as well as to a convent of nuns up the road who were having problems with a leaky roof. The money orders were signed Mark Twain.
When I got back that night, I had an answer.
TO: Sopwith 12
FROM: Anon666
Deal. Be at the park bench near the subway entrance at Harvard Square in Cambridge at 9:00 A.M. this Saturday. Have the money in a red toolbox, a small one that looks like a tackle box. And no tricks! My associates will be watching, and if something goes wrong, the pictures go out.
My reply was quick and to the point: See you there.
Then I went downstairs and got to work.
Saturday morning about 4:00 A.M., I swung out of bed and got dressed in the dark, shivering from the cold. The next several hours were going to be challenging, but not so challenging as they would be were Anon666 farther away. If he were in New York City or Dallas or Los Angeles, the risk would have been greater.
In my cold, dark kitchen I picked up the toolbox and went out to the rear porch. I waited in the night, listening to the crickets. A half-moon illuminated the backyard. My truck was parked off to the side by the barn. I wondered if my watchers were still, invisibly, on the job, and hoped I wouldn’t find out. Near the porch door I picked up a knapsack and slung it over my back. Something inside gurgled as I adjusted the straps. I went outside through the porch door and right past the truck, keeping the barn between me and the front yard, and then I was into the dark of the woods.
I started to jog along a path I had carefully cut through these woods. Though it was dark, I had placed at eye level little glowing dots that marked the trail. The knapsack bounced on my back and I heard a flurry of wings as I disturbed something in my path. After about twenty minutes I emerged onto a swampy bit of land that opened up to a well-lit parking lot and row upon row of cars — Powell’s Motors, in Fyfield, the next town over from Pinette. I knelt down and undid my pack. From the pack I took out a car battery, a small can of gasoline, a set of Maine license plates, and a hot-wiring kit. In another fifteen minutes I was on the road, heading south, the rising sun at my left shoulder.
Harvard Square, Cambridge. Noisy, with lots of cars. Downtown Pinette doesn’t even have a traffic light. I sat on a park bench near the entrance to the subway (they call it the T) and waited, the toolbox in my lap. I had on a Red Sox baseball cap, jeans, and a bright red windbreaker. Colorful. A trio of musicians was playing for spare change near the T entrance — trumpet, violin, and guitar doing something awful to Mozart. I looked at faces, wondering which belonged to the man — could it be a woman? — who had been torturing my life.
Then I knew. A man came up to me, grinning widely. He wore khaki slacks, heavy boots, and an Army jacket. His beard was about three steps beyond stubble and his hair was long. He looked like the kind of guy who puts his hair in a ponytail on dates. He sat down next to me and said, “Well,” in a cheerful voice.
“Excuse me?”
He looked straight ahead, still smiling. “Glad to see you’re on time. I take it the money’s in the toolbox?”
“It is.”
“So, why don’t you hand it over and we can both be on our ways?”
I rubbed along the metal edges of the toolbox. “You’ll get it, but I want some questions answered.”