I’ll put you to work.”
I walked inside the ship’s store and glanced around. Framed portraits of sailboats hung along one wall. Near the door stood a long bookcase filled with paperbacks and magazines. I waited for the woman behind the register to finish ringing up an older couple, then explained why I was there. She told me to go backout and wait on the porch by the pay phone, that she’d put the call through.
I picked up on the first ring. “Hello?”
In a husky feminine voice the caller said, “Morning, Nick. Is now a good time to talk? Your sister is dying to get this over with.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
DYING TO GET SOME ANSWERS
I read that article you wrote about me on the
Cool Ghoul Gazette
.” At the mention of the
Cool Ghoul
website I felt my stomach muscles tighten. “You have an interesting way of weaving facts into a story without making it seem dull. I especially liked the quotes you used from the fisherman.”
Probably using a voice modulation device
, I thought.
Or a smartphone app that alters the voice
.
“Should have been you in the canoe, not your sister. I thought it
was
.”
“What do you want?”
“Who knows about the email?”
An older couple wandered onto the porch and parked themselves in rockers next to the pay phone. I shifted the phone to my other hand to create a barrier between us. In a hushed whisper I said, “Let me speak to my sister.”
“The email, Caden, who did you show it to?”
The back of my neck felt prickly hot. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the man in the rocker leaning toward me as if listening.
“No one.”
“We both know you’re lying.”
Droplets of perspiration tickled my ribs. With a slight quiver in my voice, I confessed. “My parents. They know about the email.”
“And?”
“I … they showed it to Officer McDonald.”
“Bad move, Caden. Now I know you can’t be trusted.”
“Told you, it wasn’t my idea. My parents made me.”
“By the way, that reverse lookup trace route trick you tried? Not bad. Certainly a much better effort than what McDonald’s people are doing.”
A sour sickness settled in the pit of my stomach. “You have to believe me, I tried to do like you said, really I did.”
“
I
don’t have to do anything.”
“Look, if it’s money you want, my family doesn’t have any.”
“I already told you, I want my life back. And you’re going to help me.”
“If this is some kind of prank, you can —”
“No prank, Caden. I’m dead serious. Now then, let’s see how serious you are about keeping your sister alive. Give me your log-in ID and password for that Crime Watchers database.”
“Why? You going to crash that site, too?”
“What I do or don’t do is none of your concern.”
It occurred to me that only a few people on the island knew about my work with the TV Crime Watchers group: Kat, Officer McDonald, and the officer from the canine unit. Sharing my log-in with anyone was a huge risk. Not because of the database of TV shows. I doubted anybody cared about those. But because we’d paid a white-hat hacker to get us access to the National Crime Information Center — the FBI’s database of all criminal records. Using my log-in information, someone could, theoretically, get into our system admin’s directory and find the file.
“I … can’t.”
“Oh, I think you can. ID and password — spit it out!”
“It’s not that easy.”
“You want me to hurt her, Caden? Is that what you want? ‘Cause I will.”
“Okay, okay, but first I need to talk to Wendy. I need to know she’s okay.”
“Not going to happen.”
“Please, just let me talk to her. Then I’ll give you my log-in information.”
I needed to keep the caller on the line, needed to know how badly he or she wanted the Crime Watchers information.
There was an audible sigh on the other end, followed by, “Make it quick.”
I strained to hear any background noises: footsteps, horns honking, a clock chiming, anything that
I walked inside the ship’s store and glanced around. Framed portraits of sailboats hung along one wall. Near the door stood a long bookcase filled with paperbacks and magazines. I waited for the woman behind the register to finish ringing up an older couple, then explained why I was there. She told me to go backout and wait on the porch by the pay phone, that she’d put the call through.
I picked up on the first ring. “Hello?”
In a husky feminine voice the caller said, “Morning, Nick. Is now a good time to talk? Your sister is dying to get this over with.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
DYING TO GET SOME ANSWERS
I read that article you wrote about me on the
Cool Ghoul Gazette
.” At the mention of the
Cool Ghoul
website I felt my stomach muscles tighten. “You have an interesting way of weaving facts into a story without making it seem dull. I especially liked the quotes you used from the fisherman.”
Probably using a voice modulation device
, I thought.
Or a smartphone app that alters the voice
.
“Should have been you in the canoe, not your sister. I thought it
was
.”
“What do you want?”
“Who knows about the email?”
An older couple wandered onto the porch and parked themselves in rockers next to the pay phone. I shifted the phone to my other hand to create a barrier between us. In a hushed whisper I said, “Let me speak to my sister.”
“The email, Caden, who did you show it to?”
The back of my neck felt prickly hot. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the man in the rocker leaning toward me as if listening.
“No one.”
“We both know you’re lying.”
Droplets of perspiration tickled my ribs. With a slight quiver in my voice, I confessed. “My parents. They know about the email.”
“And?”
“I … they showed it to Officer McDonald.”
“Bad move, Caden. Now I know you can’t be trusted.”
“Told you, it wasn’t my idea. My parents made me.”
“By the way, that reverse lookup trace route trick you tried? Not bad. Certainly a much better effort than what McDonald’s people are doing.”
A sour sickness settled in the pit of my stomach. “You have to believe me, I tried to do like you said, really I did.”
“
I
don’t have to do anything.”
“Look, if it’s money you want, my family doesn’t have any.”
“I already told you, I want my life back. And you’re going to help me.”
“If this is some kind of prank, you can —”
“No prank, Caden. I’m dead serious. Now then, let’s see how serious you are about keeping your sister alive. Give me your log-in ID and password for that Crime Watchers database.”
“Why? You going to crash that site, too?”
“What I do or don’t do is none of your concern.”
It occurred to me that only a few people on the island knew about my work with the TV Crime Watchers group: Kat, Officer McDonald, and the officer from the canine unit. Sharing my log-in with anyone was a huge risk. Not because of the database of TV shows. I doubted anybody cared about those. But because we’d paid a white-hat hacker to get us access to the National Crime Information Center — the FBI’s database of all criminal records. Using my log-in information, someone could, theoretically, get into our system admin’s directory and find the file.
“I … can’t.”
“Oh, I think you can. ID and password — spit it out!”
“It’s not that easy.”
“You want me to hurt her, Caden? Is that what you want? ‘Cause I will.”
“Okay, okay, but first I need to talk to Wendy. I need to know she’s okay.”
“Not going to happen.”
“Please, just let me talk to her. Then I’ll give you my log-in information.”
I needed to keep the caller on the line, needed to know how badly he or she wanted the Crime Watchers information.
There was an audible sigh on the other end, followed by, “Make it quick.”
I strained to hear any background noises: footsteps, horns honking, a clock chiming, anything that
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