Constant Fear (9 page)

CHAPTER 14

G
iven the number of student organizations on campus and the limited amount of available space, the CB-B10 conference room, in the basement of the Cargill Building, should have been booked constantly, but it was no longer in the system. Pixie had hacked the online reservation system and deleted the windowless room from the available inventory, essentially making it disappear. Because students could no longer reserve CB-B10, and because the administrative folks knew it was not to be commissioned for classroom use, it was available to The Shire as a dedicated meeting spot. They had renamed it “Sherwood Forest,” in deference to the theme of their operation.

Cargill was not centrally located on campus. Sometimes the distance made it more practical to meet in The Quad or at one of the school’s many lunchrooms between classes. For this particular gathering, though, Andy wanted to use Sherwood Forest. The mood of the six young people seated around the solid oak conference table was somber and tense.

“This meeting will come to order,” Andy began. “Let’s take roll call.”

Solomon groaned. “Dude, you sound like such an anus when you get all formal. Can’t we skip this part and just get on with it?”

“It’s important,” Hilary said. Solomon rolled his eyes, because Hilary was always coming to Andy’s defense. “Roll call, minutes of our meetings, our charter—these things are what give our group structure,” Hilary added.

“Even French club doesn’t have roll call, and they’re uptight about everything,” Rafa said.

Andy slammed his palm hard against the table. The sound got everyone’s attention. “Hey, people, wake up! I mean it! We’re in deep shit here, if you haven’t figured it out yet. If you don’t want to do roll call, don’t do it. I don’t care. Let’s move on.”

Roll call and other formalities aside, all six members were present: Pixie (aka Troy), David (aka Dark Matter), Rafa, Solomon, Andy, and Hilary. The Shire.

“What have you got, Pixie?” Andy asked.

“Let’s start with the obvious.” Pixie pushed his sunglasses up the bridge of his nose. He was wearing his usual Western-style plaid shirt, dark jeans, and well-worn Doc Martens originals. “How many people had the private cryptographic key to unlock our specific address on the bitcoin block chain?”

Andy nodded. It was a fine question to ask. A bitcoin private key was nothing but a long string of numbers and letters; with digital currency, that was ultimately what defined ownership. You couldn’t stuff a bitcoin in your wallet, but you could use the private key to unlock the cash. Stealing the money only required getting that key.

“We all had access,” David said. In a fluid and practiced motion, he pulled his thick hair into a ponytail and tied it off with a rubber elastic. “Isn’t that the problem?”

“Did we all have access?” Pixie asked. “Who here actually used the key to look at the block chain? I didn’t.”

“Can you prove that?” Solomon asked. He popped a Twix bar into his mouth as if it were a cigar; then he fixed Pixie with a skeptical glance. “Let’s be honest here. We can’t trust each other anymore. We all had access in some way because we all knew where the key was. It’s as simple as that. Everyone here is a suspect.” He leaned back in his chair with a satisfied grin, as though he’d just gotten to the heart of the matter—without roll call.

“I told you the wallet would never be safe on a computer connected to the Internet!” Rafa snapped. Never one to sit still, Rafa bounded to his feet and began to bounce on his heels, leaning on the back of his chair for support. He pointed at Andy. “I told you,” he repeated.

“It
was
protected,” David said. “I had the best firewall running.”

“But did you set up a cloud backup service, David?” Pixie asked. “Or use Ubuntu on a machine with zero connections and zero blocks to generate the wallet-dot-dat file? Or any of the other thirteen steps I told you to follow?”

David/Dark Matter leapt from his chair and pointed his own accusatory finger at Pixie. “Maybe you took it. Maybe you did it just to teach me a lesson.”

Pixie pushed his chair back and puffed his chest as much as he could. If his dad had been there, he’d have seen a Troy who was worthy of the tough-guy name. “You really think I have the money? Is that what you think?”

Hilary banged her fist against the conference table. It was hot and stuffy in the cramped room. She had taken off her button-down shirt to reveal the black T-shirt underneath: a graphic of the evolution of man, going from ape to biped and concluding with a modern-day human walking and texting.

“Enough! You guys are like a couple of squabbling kids. This isn’t going to help anybody,” she said.

David and Pixie held their stare-down confrontation a couple more seconds before they retreated to their respective chairs.

“The good news is that we can see the bitcoins in the ledger,” said Hilary.

“I can also
see
Jupiter through my telescope,” Solomon said, “but that doesn’t mean I can go there.”

“I’ve never seen you use that telescope to scope out anything except the girls in Hamilton Hall,” Rafa said.

“Hey, numbnuts,
I
live in Hamilton Hall,” Hilary said.

Rafa and Solomon broke eye contact and fell silent. Their body language suggested the lens of Solomon’s telescope might have once fallen on her.

“Really, guys?” Hilary said with a slightly amused expression.

“Hil, it was an accident, I swear,” Solomon said.

“Guys, can we focus here?” Andy asked. “Hilary is right. We can still see the coins on the ledger. That means we can tap the address if the owner tries to sell them.”

“Not necessarily,” Pixie countered. “If somebody tumbles the bitcoins to a clean address that we don’t know, those coins will vanish.”

“And they can do it, too,” Rafa said. “They’ll sip the coins ten or so at a time, and there’s no way to spot the transaction, especially if the tumblers split the payouts. The bitcoins will end up somewhere on the block chain that we won’t know about. Then they’ll be gone, and gone for good.”

Pixie nodded vigorously and had to push his sunglasses up the bridge of his nose once more.

“Is it possible that Gus’s dad took the bitcoins back?” Hilary asked.

“Possible,” David said. “But that would mean he had somehow traced the theft back to us, and I know we covered our tracks.”

“Just like you safeguarded the bitcoins,” Solomon said in a snippy tone.

“Hey, it’s an extra sixty bucks to you if you’re going to ride me like that!” David shot back.

Solomon slipped the second Twix bar into his mouth before he had finished chomping down on the first. “Speaking of Gus Martinez, did any of you see his Facebook post?”

Andy looked alarmed. “No,” he said. “What did he post?”

Solomon shrugged. “Nothing, just that his dad was taking him and his mom on some surprise vacation. No wireless, but he wrote he’d post pics when he got back.”

“A vacation three weeks before spring break?” Andy sounded dubious.

“I didn’t think it was a big deal.”

“Yeah, well, it could be a huge deal,” Andy said. “Everybody listen up. Until we know what happened to the bitcoins, we have got to pull our heads out of our collective assess and start thinking. Anything out of the ordinary, anything at all, could be trouble. You got that?”

Silence.

“Got it?” Andy repeated.

This time, everyone nodded.

“As of right now, The Shire is finished. We’re done. No more meetings. If we want to talk, we do it by encrypted messaging or in person out in the open. I don’t know who is watching us or what’s going to happen, but Gus going on a sudden vacation should make us all nervous.”

“Good idea,” Pixie said. “I’ll set us up with Whispernet.”

Andy’s dark eyes smoldered. “One of us has the bitcoins,” he said as he got to his feet. “I know it and whoever took them knows it, and if you don’t return the money, it’s going to end up being the biggest mistake you’ll ever make in your life.” Andy spun on his heels. Without so much as a glance to the others, he stormed out of the conference room, slamming the door behind him.

For almost a minute, the remainder of The Shire sat at the conference table, silenced by the heavy pall that had settled over the room. Solomon finally broke the spell.

“Look, I know things are tough, but what’s really eating Gilbert Grape there?” he asked, pointing at the closed door.

“His mother showed up in town,” Rafa said. “I guess she came to his house, and he kind of freaked out.”

Solomon’s eyes went wide. “Whoa,” he said. “That’d do it.”

“He’s supposed to meet her tomorrow for lunch or something,” Hilary said. “That’s what he told me, at least.”

“Long-lost mom comes back and the bitcoins are missing,” Solomon said. “Is there some sort of connection here, people, we should be looking at?”

“Yeah,” Pixie said, “the one from your brain to your mouth.”

“I love you, too, Pixie,” Solomon said. “In fact, I love all of you guys, even if you did steal the money.”

Everyone got up to leave. Nothing more could be said. In a way, Solomon had said it all.

CHAPTER 15

T
he tanker truck barreled down Route 120 three miles inside the Winston town line. A 350-horsepower engine hummed in perfect working order, and the Bridgestone tires spun fast enough to go five miles above the speed limit. It drove like brand-new because the truck mechanics at BVC Environmental, who maintained the vast fleet, took great pride in their work.

For years, BVC was the go-to company for transporting nitroglycerin, explosives, flammable products, and compressed gases. On the heels of the Hazardous Material Transportation Act of 1975, BVC Environmental was responsible for many safety innovations accepted as standard practice today. But a truck was still a truck; and even if the cargo was properly secured, operator failure or negligence was the most cited reason for traffic accidents and chemical spills.

In his seven years working for BVC, Pedro Sanchez, a married father of two, consistently scored high on his driver-performance evaluation, which meant he had received the largest possible pay raise when it came time for his annual review. He knew how to use the two-way radio, had received only two traffic violations (an impressive feat, considering the miles he had logged), kept his vehicles impeccably clean, was always punctual and cooperative, and demonstrated superior safe-driving habits. He had never been in an accident. Only a handful of drivers could make such a claim.

On this day, the clouds were puffy white cotton balls painted on a pale blue sky, and the buds on the tree branches seemed bursting to get out. The winter had been typical for New England—brutal—and the road was marred with numerous frost heaves. Sanchez had to be careful. He was hauling a small ocean of chemicals in his tanker, and sudden movement was not advisable.

At one particularly scenic spot, with views of a wide field and a large white farmhouse with an adjacent red barn, Sanchez shifted his truck into a lower gear to help climb a hilly rise. He had never driven these roads before, so he was careful to take the turns at a slow speed. Flipping a tanker truck was not all that hard. It was even easier when the tank was filled with four thousand gallons of aluminum sulfide. The yellow crystalline solid dissolved in a water solution and gave off a strong, rotten-egg, ammonia-like odor; but as long as it was secured inside the tank, Sanchez could smell nothing.

Sanchez whistled to the fast beat of an Enrique Iglesias tune while navigating a series of sharp turns. The aluminum sulfide shifted and sloshed inside the massive tank, forming waves with each tap on the brakes or turn of the wheels. Sixteen tons of chemical waves could make for treacherous driving, but Sanchez was a pro. He knew how to drive
with
the waves, and intentionally kept them small so the truck stayed in control. Baffles subdivided the interior of the tank into several mini-compartments. While they reduced the overall wave effect by eliminating the space needed to build momentum, by no means did they provide total stability.

At the point where the road forked, Sanchez should have gone straight; that was where the plant was located. Instead, he checked his map and went to the right. There weren’t many textile plants in the state anymore, but the recent trend to move manufacturing back to America had given a jolt of life to a sector of the economy once thought headed for extinction. This trend benefited BVC as well as drivers like Sanchez, who had seen an uptick in shipments of hazardous materials like aluminum sulfide, used in textile manufacturing.

Dispatch had no idea he’d taken a different route to the plant, but they would find out soon enough. Trying alternate routes wasn’t enough of an infraction to get him fired, but Sanchez didn’t care either way. He was done with the job, and would make more money from this one trip than he could earn in a lifetime.

The truck lumbered past a small blue sign for Pepperell Academy. Three-tenths of a mile later, Sanchez spied the black pickup truck pulled over to the side of the road. The truck was where he expected it to be, but Sanchez checked his notes anyway and confirmed the license plate was a match. He steered the truck onto the shoulder and applied the brakes with care. They made a loud screeching sound, followed by a hiss of air before the tanker came to a juddering stop.

Sanchez climbed down from the truck’s cab at the same time that three men got out of the pickup.

“Primo, Javier me ha contado mucho de ti. Qué gusto cono-certe por fin en persona,”
the man with the long ponytail said
.
(“Cousin, Javier has told me much about you. It’s good to finally meet you in person.”) He opened his arms and the two men embraced. Also in Spanish, Fausto said, “These are my associates Efren and Armando.”

Sanchez was related to Javier, not Fausto, but membership in Sangre Tierra blurred the bloodlines. Fausto shivered. “I am not used to this weather.”

Fausto wore aviator sunglasses and a fine-looking brown leather jacket. Sanchez did not know these items belonged to his cousin Javier Martinez. Efren and Armando were also dressed for the chilly March weather in Javier’s expensive clothes.

Sanchez shivered as well, but his was the chill of fear. He had felt in control while inside his truck, but now he had second thoughts. A spike of anxiety put a tight band around Sanchez’s chest. He looked past Fausto to a point down the road.

“What about other cars?” Sanchez asked as he bounced on his feet to help calm his nerves.

“You worry too much, my friend,” Fausto replied. “Have you seen any other vehicles on the road? No, you have not. Why? Because we have set up a detour, that’s why. One of our associates has connections to a road crew, and he brought us some very authentic-looking detour signs and little orange vests. We are on our own for now.”

“How many others are involved?” Sanchez asked.

“Now you ask questions that don’t concern you.”

“I’m sorry, Fausto, but I’m nervous. I want to make sure I brought enough of what you asked for.”

“Worry not. I came here with a handful of men, but Soto’s contacts are many and he got me the rest of what I needed. Including me, there are twelve of us to take out six kids. I like our chances.” Fausto’s smile showcased his precious-metal mouth.

Sanchez had never met the famed assassin in person, but he had heard plenty of stories, and the man’s golden smile filled him with dread. After Soto had called, Sanchez thought only of the money. Seeing Fausto in person made it all seem real, and he was burdened with second thoughts. Fausto’s smile said there was no going back.

“Let’s get this over with,” Sanchez said as he exhaled a weighty breath. “The chemical suits are in the cab.”

Fausto whistled and pointed to the truck. As if a starter pistol had gone off, Efren and Armando rushed over to the tanker, climbed up, and removed a messy pile of chemical suits from within. Sanchez had no problem stealing from his company. Nobody ever guarded the locker room where those suits were kept.

Fausto checked his watch. “We need to report this accident soon if we’re to keep to schedule,” he said. “So please hurry.”

Sanchez got the feeling Fausto wasn’t being entirely truthful, and he suspected there was much more to this plan than what he had been told. Efren snatched the tanker’s ignition key from Sanchez’s outstretched hand. Sanchez was impressed by Efren’s strong build and repulsed by Armando’s many facial scars.

“I know how to drive,” Efren said, as though reading Sanchez’s thoughts.

Armando and Fausto helped Sanchez load the chemical suits into the back of the pickup truck, while Efren climbed into the tanker’s cab. Efren turned the ignition key and Sanchez stopped his work to listen to the tanker’s engine rumble back to life.

“Let’s move! Let’s move!” Fausto ordered as he pulled Sanchez toward the pickup.

Sanchez held his ground. His gaze sharpened on the tanker. All it took to say good-bye to one life for another was a phone call from Mexico. He thought of everything this day would bring him—money for his children, for his wife, Maria, for the things he saw on television but only dreamed of owning. Sanchez shelved his apprehension. It would be worth it in the end, Sanchez assured himself.

Efren depressed the gas pedal with the brakes still engaged, and the tanker’s engine revved like a bull readying to charge. Sanchez was already in the pickup, sandwiched between Fausto in the driver’s seat and Armando to his right. The tanker’s engine revved up once more. Sanchez could tell Efren was trying to put the truck in gear. A horrible grinding sound, metal on metal, rattled Sanchez’s fillings. The tanker lurched ahead several feet but stopped abruptly; then it bucked forward again. Sanchez grimaced at Efren’s apparent incompetence.

Fausto took notice and set a comforting hand on Sanchez’s shoulder. “Fear not, friend. Efren is a fine driver. And besides, the quality of those gears won’t matter a few moments from now.”

The tanker lunged forward again, this time without the sudden stops and starts. Fausto hit the gas on the pickup. After a spray of loose dirt as the tires fought for traction, Fausto was keeping pace alongside the rumbling tanker. Sanchez gripped the seat hard enough to turn his knuckles white. The road was not wide enough for a car driving in the opposite direction to pass safely.

“Are you sure about those detours?” Sanchez asked.

“Cousin, you worry too much.” Fausto pushed on the gas some more as the tanker picked up speed.

Sanchez watched the speedometer’s needle rise.
Fifteen . . . twenty . . . twenty-five . . .

The pickup pulled slightly ahead of the tanker, until the truck bed containing a cushion of chemical suits was even with the tanker’s driver’s-side door. With the truck still in motion, Efren took his foot off the gas pedal, but the truck kept most of its speed, partially propelled by a gradual downhill slope. Efren’s eyes showed no fear as he opened the door and gave Fausto a big thumbs-up sign. Without hesitating, Efren leapt from the truck traveling thirty miles an hour and made a bull’s-eye landing in the middle of the pickup truck bed, using the chemical suits to cushion his fall.

As soon as Efren landed, Fausto slammed on the brakes. The driverless truck plunged ahead just as the road bent sharply to the left. Sanchez reflexively pantomimed slamming on the brake pedal, as though he were able to prevent a collision with the fast-approaching tree line.

A moment later, the air vibrated with a thunderous crash that sent clusters of birds into frantic flight. The engine compartment folded around a thick oak tree, which swayed from the violent impact. The sides of the cabin crumpled until the glass windshield shattered and the metal twisted like origami.

A contained tsunami of chemicals jackknifed the tanker. The massive steel drum spun sideways and sliced through a thicket of pines, snapping trees like blades of grass. Another series of chemical waves pushed the tanker off balance until it teetered on the uneven ground and eventually tipped over, with an earsplitting crunch of metal and snapping branches. Large gashes opened up in the metal wall, spilling gallons of poisonous liquid by the second. The air was fouled with the stench of rotten eggs and ammonia.

Sanchez buried his face in his hands. “Oh, sweet Lord, what have I done? Forgive me. Please forgive me.”

Fausto shot Sanchez a disapproving look tempered with a hint of sympathy. Maneuvering within the pickup truck’s cramped quarters, Fausto put his knees on the seat as he placed his hands over Sanchez’s ears. It was a gesture meant to comfort a distraught man. He appraised Sanchez once more, looking deeply in his eyes, and seemed satisfied by what he saw.

“I forgive you,” Fausto said as he twisted hard in one direction, while pulling his arms the opposite way. The spin generated enough torque to snap Sanchez’s neck like a tree branch crushed beneath a tanker truck. Instantly Sanchez’s body went limp. Fausto released his grip and Sanchez’s head slammed against the dashboard and lolled to one side at a ghastly, unnatural angle. “I am truly sorry, my friend,” Fausto said. “But this was Soto’s desire.”

Efren didn’t waste a single second. Without prompting, he hopped out of the truck and dragged the body outside. From the back of the pickup, he grabbed a chemical suit for himself and one for Armando. Armando assisted Efren with the zippers before he put on his own suit. They both wore respirators underneath a yellow hood, and the front visor shielded the rest of the face from chemical exposure. The suits were banana yellow and covered every inch of their bodies. They were challenging to walk in, and it took a lot of effort to drag Sanchez twenty feet beyond the mangled truck. They dropped him faceup on the hard earth. When Armando let go, he was breathing heavily, but Efren was stronger and not at all winded. Both men appraised Sanchez thoughtfully.

“He looks like he came shooting out the window,” Efren said in Spanish. The respirator altered his voice, but his words were intelligible enough.

“Let’s make it look a little more authentic anyway,” Armando said. “Just to be sure.”

Efren returned to the wrecked truck and grabbed some shards of shattered glass from inside the cab. All the while, liquid poured out from various breaches in the tanker walls and formed poisonous lakes in the saturated earth. Efren sprinkled the glass shards over Sanchez’s face, hair, and clothes. Then the two men, both dressed in bright yellow chemical suits, took turns beating a dead man’s face with thick tree branches.

And they had only just begun.