“Huh,” he said. “Not part of the deal.”
“No, but it’s the deal that’s here. Some questions and answers, and then you’ll get the box.”
He shrugged. “Why the hell not. Fire away.”
“I take it you’re Anon666.”
He smiled again. “The same. But why don’t you call me... Tom, for now.”
“All right, Tom it is.” I shifted so I could look at him better. “This was all a scam, right? You probably sent out hundreds, maybe thousands, of those messages by electronic mail, trying to get a nibble. Right?”
He winked. “That would be giving up trade secrets, now, wouldn’t it?”
“But that’s what happened, right? You’re skilled in computers and you saw an opportunity. Send out untraceable threats to thousands of addresses and hope that someone who is feeling guilty or who likes privacy will pay up. Right?”
No answer, just a smirk. I went on. “So, why did you do it? Running low on funds?”
He laughed and put his hands in his jacket. “I did it because I could, that’s why. There are kids out there, two or three years out of college, who work at companies designing software. When the companies go public, the kids are millionaires before they’re thirty. Can you believe that? Ready to retire.”
He was still smiling but there was an edge to his voice. “I’ve worked eighty to ninety hours a week, in three start-up companies, and all three have gone bust. I’ve got enough stock options to paper a room with. So I saw a way of using my skills to make some extra income. New skills are taking over society, and I’m pleased to be able to use them. Now, that’s enough chitchat. Open that box, just a crack, so I can see the money.”
I lifted the lid and angled the toolbox around so that the bundles of $100 bills were visible, and his grin got even wider. “Nice, very nice,” he said. “How about handing it over?”
I closed the lid, snapped it shut, and said, “One more question and it’s all yours.”
The smile started to fade. “Make it quick.”
“You married, Tom? You got kids, maybe live with a girlfriend?”
He held out a hand. “I’m all by my lonesome, but that will probably change next week. Say, at Club Med?”
Another laugh and I passed him the toolbox. I said, “It’s all yours.”
He grabbed it and headed to the subway entrance without looking back.
I waited a few seconds, ditched the cap and windbreaker, and followed.
He lived one stop away, near Porter Square. Shadowing him was almost too easy. He was focused on the toolbox with that delighted smirk on his face. I kept him in view from an adjoining car and trailed him when he got off in a residential area with big Victorian houses that had been divided into apartments. I winked at a couple of kids scurrying by on bicycles.
He bounded up the front steps of a large white house and let himself in with a key. I waited up the street a bit, leaning against an oak tree. Cars were parked up and down both sides of the roadway. I stood there, hands tucked into my pants pockets, thinking of Tom and that little phrase he had used.
What was it? Something about new skills taking over society and his being pleased to have them. Yeah.
Even though I was expecting it, the explosion on the upper floor of the old Victorian made me jump.
Both windows blew out to the street with a rocketing blast that echoed a few times. Even a part of the roof, black shingles flying, was peeled away by the force. A ball of flame and smoke roared up through the roof, car alarms started blaring, and there were screams from people running on the sidewalk as pieces of wood and glass fell to the street and bounced off car roofs.
I smiled and walked away. There’s something to be said for old skills, too.
That night, safely back in Pinette, I was in Miriam’s arms when she said, “What is it with you? You’ve been grinning ever since you got here.”
“I’m a happy guy, that’s what.”
“Happy about what?” she asked, rubbing slow circles on my back.
“Happy that I took care of a job today, one that’s been bothering me for awhile.”
Her hands pressed deeper. “And what was the job?”
“Hmmm,” I murmured, burrowing underneath the blankets. “It’s a secret.”
“What?” she said, with mock dismay. “And you can’t tell me?”
“Well, I could...” I said, letting my voice trail off.
“And why not?”
I tickled her ribs and she jumped. “Because if I told you, then I’d have to kill you.”
She giggled and gently tapped my face. “Some joke.”
I kissed her. Some joke.
Three days later FBI agents knocked on my door. I had just finished washing the kitchen floor when I heard their strong rap-rap on the screen door to the porch. I went out, wiping my hands on a towel, and there were two of them, in dark blue business suits, holding up their badges.
“Federal Bureau of Investigation, Mr. Taylor,” the older one said. “I’m Special Agent Cameron, and this is Special Agent Pierce. Mind if we come in?”
“Not at all,” I said, and they walked in with me. “Sorry about the floor, guys. I just washed it.”
Agent Cameron’s hair was thinning on the sides and graying, and the younger one, Agent Pierce, wore his black hair in a crewcut. I understand they’re coming back into fashion.
“Can I get you guys anything to drink? Water? Soda?”
They both shook their heads and the older agent said, “Do you mind if I get to work, Mr. Taylor?”
“Not at all,” I said, sitting down at the kitchen table with that day’s Portland Press Herald. Agent Cameron left the kitchen and I heard him go upstairs as the younger agent sat across from me. I spread open the newspaper and said, “How do you think the Red Sox will do this year?”
No reply. I looked up to see him staring at me with disgust.
“Have I said something that offended you, Agent Pierce?”
“You and what you’ve done are offensive, Taylor,” he said. His hands were placed on the table in front of him, and his fingers were thick and stubby.
“All done in the service of my country, or so I was told,” I said as I turned a page.
“Don’t tell me you still believe that,” Agent Pierce said, nearly spitting out the words.
“Why not?” I asked.
Agent Cameron came back into the kitchen. “Upstairs is all in order. You still have the agreed-upon number of firearms?”
“I do.”
“If you don’t mind, I’ll go down to the cellar.”
“Be my guest.”
Agent Pierce and I glared at each other, then I went back to my newspaper. Agent Cameron came back twice, to announce searches of the barn and my pickup. A few minutes after that he and Agent Pierce stood in my kitchen, and the older agent said, “Everything appears to be in order. No violations. No evidence that you’ve left town. And how is life in this little town treating you, Taylor?”
There were a lot of possible answers to that question, and I chose one that seemed pretty neutral. “I’m getting used to it.”
For the first time, I saw Agent Cameron smile. “Just be glad we didn’t place you in upper Alaska or the Texas panhandle. At least the weather here is relatively moderate.”
I smiled back. “Ain’t it the truth.”
As they turned to leave Agent Cameron stopped and said something that made my knees lock: “Oh, if you have a moment, there is a matter we’d like to discuss with you. It concerns a bombing death in Cambridge.”
“Oh?”
The younger agent said, “Have you heard about it?”
“Something in the paper yesterday. Some computer worker. Right?”
“Very right,” Agent Cameron said. “A powerful blast. It was fortunate that the other two apartments in the building were empty at the time. The explosion made identifying the body... extremely challenging. We’d like to talk to you about it.”