Skunk Hunt (10 page)

With a heavy flounce, she headed for the main
exit. The Tyrannosaurus followed her with a lovelorn mating
roar.

I read the card:

Bureau of Police

Richmond, Virginia

Sgt. Yvonne Kendle

Investigator

Followed by her email address and several
phone numbers.

CHAPTER 8

When we weren't staring at the computer
screen, we were glancing over our shoulders. We had chosen
Starbucks because of the broad windows, as if a tin-ass detective
would be dumb enough to gape at us from the parking lot. Any of the
customers lapping away at their lattes at the tables around us
could be undercover cops. That young man downing a Danish might
actually be eavesdropping on a microphone disguised as an Ipod. The
young couple exchanging creamer-lips could be a phony police
couple, although the fact they were both guys made them stand out a
bit much.

But Investigator Yvonne Kendle would have
stood out even more, and she was nowhere to be seen. Maybe they
didn't allow giant moldy pastries on the premises.

We had driven in separate cars to reach this
rendezvous, and each one of us had a near-wreck story to share.
Jeremy had almost sideswiped a Neon on Huguenot Road. Barbara had
dinged a Mercedes at a stoplight—fortunately, the other driver had
been so enthralled by her Wonder Woman-ness that he had been
satisfied with the phone number Barbara made up on the spot.
Meanwhile, I had been so busy watching my rearview mirror I just
missed fenderizing a student jogger at Broad and Laurel. For my
nick-of-time braking I had received from her a bird from both
hands. I might have mentioned earlier that the students of today
have no manners.

"You can't smoke that here," said a clerk
nastily as Jeremy took out his pipe. He looked like a student.

"Can I
clamp
it between my
teeth
?" Jeremy fussed. Barbara and I gave him
dark looks. A pipe in Starbucks, lit or unlit, drew attention.
Jeremy caught our expressions and returned the offending item to
its pouch.

"We should've picked a spot where we can
smoke," Barbara complained, her fingers twitching.

"I think they've outlawed smoking in
restaurants," I observed weakly. Current events wasn't my strong
suit. "I guess we could have gone to a park."

"Hey," Jeremy tapped his laptop. "I need
Wi-Fi, all right?"

"So you can't do that in a park?" I
asked.

Jeremy smothered me with a look of contempt,
then returned to clip-clapping at the computer's hieroglyphic
keyboard.

"What time is it?" Barbara had been fidgeting
ever since we met in the parking lot.

"Bottom right of the screen," Jeremy
said.

Barbara and I leaned forward. Forgetting the
watch on my wrist, I marveled at the tiny digital clock in the blue
border. Jeremy had the time at his fingertips. Will wonders never
cease.

"11:51," Barbara said breathlessly.

"AM," I added.

"April Fool's Day," Jeremy sneered.

"You don't think this is legit?" I asked.

"I wouldn't put it past Skunk to play a
post-mortem joke on us," my brother said with a meaningful
sigh.

"That's kind of sick, don't you think?"
Barbara said.

"Skunk wasn't exactly a masterpiece of mental
health." Jeremy did not take his eyes from the screen.

"That's a mean thing to say," Barbara
pouted.

I flinched at this emotional goo. I had not
expected the loyal-daughter act from her. Money (or the prospect of
it) makes the heart grow fonder, or so I've heard. Money brings
families together in a cuddly mass you can't imagine—just before
that cuddly mass all-too predictably goes critical and
explodes.

Jeremy's fingers paused and he eased back to
take a sip from his Espresso Frappuccino. Neither Barbara nor I had
joined him when he strode up to the counter. In my current pay
bracket, Africa Kitamu was beyond my means. And while Barbara's
eyes lit up at the image of the Double Chocolaty Chip Frap above
the counter, she pulled away fearfully. "I don't understand..." she
had whispered to me.

"It wouldn't be the first time," Jeremy said
in an oddly meditative voice.

"Dad never played jokes," said Barbara.

'Dad', instead of 'Skunk'. Her family
affection was boiling over. I knew what she meant, though. Dad had
never bubbled with empty words or meaningless pranks. If he said he
was going to lay someone's brain out on the sidewalk, you could
count on a cranial extraction. Not that he ever said such a
thing—not in so many words. But when he showed any inclination to
whack you, you cleared the deck.

It suddenly struck me that Jeremy wasn't
talking about bad jokes. The only other interpretation was that it
was not the first time Skunk had come back from the dead. On the
metaphorical plane this made sense if you converged rebirth with
getting out of jail. Yet a ghoulish cast in his tone hinted at a
darker meaning. I began to wonder if I should have just shredded my
letter and gone back to bed. I didn't believe in ghosts. I did
believe in ghosts.

You can see I was divided.

Jeremy typed in 'www.treasure447.com' and
watched as a narrow line at the bottom of the screen thudded slowly
across the indicator. I supposed this registered his progress, or
lack thereof.

"Is that it?" Barbara half-shouted when
something popped up. The Jeremy of the past would have popped her,
but the new Doubletalk only scowled.

'Sorry, 'www.treasure447.com' does not exist
or is not available.'

The message was pretty obvious, even for
me.

"You want to tone down your screeches a
little, Sweet Tooth?" Jeremy hissed. He was still looking at the
computer, shaking his head. "Boy, whoever's behind this is really
anal. When he says noon, he means noon. Until then, all we're going
to get are 404s."

"Meaning..."

"Not Found."

We hadn't done anything to deserve
bounty from Heaven, or wherever. We hadn't even done
anything
illegal.
But legal or
otherwise, you had to display some form of energy if you wanted
something in your hand besides empty air. And I, for one, had about
as much energy as a sponge.

"Yeah," Jeremy said, flashing his Skunk-brow
at me. "April Fool."

"Don't say that," Barbara protested. "Daddy
wouldn't play a trick like that on us."

Now it was 'Daddy'. Our sister was regressing
fast. 'Goo-goo-ga-gaaaa' was only a breath away.

"I don't see why not," Jeremy shot back
skeptically. "I think he was capable of some pretty nasty tricks,
from what I've heard."

From what he'd heard? Why not first-hand?
Maybe he had been told Skunk tales in prison. At home, our father
did not bother with tricks. Could his entire life—and death—be an
elaborate bait and switch?

"Try again," Barbara said, pushing her bosom
onto the table, a pair of big creamy lattes.

"Sweet Tooth," I ventured with brotherly
solicitude.

"Yeah?"

"You're drawing attention."

She brushed this away—or didn't guess my
meaning—and poked Jeremy in the shoulder. "Go ahead."

"We still have three minutes," Jeremy
complained.

"Maybe our clocks are off," Barbara said.

"
All
of them?" But a bit of prematurity couldn't hurt, so Jeremy
tried again.

'Access Denied' the screen said.

"Good," Jeremy said. "They're getting ready.
Something's there."

"What good is it if we can't get in?" I
complained. I wanted to get this business over with. Every minute
spent with my siblings reminded me why we had chosen to remain
apart. Our separate dysfunctions were almost manageable. Put us
together, and we couldn't fight our way out of a basket—and I think
we all sensed this.

"One minute..." Barbara was staring at her
Betty Boop watch.

Jeremy once again typed in the address, then
sat back, like a gunman easing off on the trigger. There was more
agony of boredom than suspense in his slouch. He doubted anything
would come of this, and perhaps did not care one way or the other.
It was a curious attitude for a man whose life hovered between
intermittent pay checks and beer binges.

Barbara popped a large wad of gum—actually,
she swilled it. I had always thought avarice made people ugly, but
right now her face looked as attractive as the rest of her. I don't
think anyone with class would have appreciated it, but I'm sure in
her social circles she was queen. I have to say, though, that the
maniacal gleam of anticipation in her eyes made me uneasy.

Yet I couldn't shake the feeling that the
three of us didn't amount to much. Our combined intellectual
curiosity, attainments and contributions to civilization might have
almost added up to a normal human.

"Hey!" Barbara protested through her gum.

"Mmmm?" Jeremy said.

"It's ten seconds past noon!"

With a suave swing of his arm, Jeremy brought
his index finger down on Enter.

'Access Denied' popped up on the screen.

"That's it, then," my brother shrugged.

"What?" Barbara moaned.

"Whoever is behind this has been pretty
awesome up to now," Jeremy said. "He knows about the big skel in
our closet, he's tracked down our addresses, he knows things about
us individually that no one but Skunk could know. And I'm unlisted
in every way."

"What about your probation officer?" I
asked.

"Ah," said Jeremy. "Good point."

"What if this guy's in a different time
zone?" Barbara shot, almost spitting out her pink gob. "What if
he's in India or something?"

Jeremy snickered, but not nastily—if such a
thing is possible. "He might be, but like I said, he's taken
everything into account up to now. Why go to all this trouble and
be so dumb to screw up the time? No, this guy is—" Jeremy did a
doubletake on the screen. "How the hell did he get my eddress?"

The balloon that had popped up on his screen
said he had a new message in his inbox. Jeremy clicked on the
caption. Barbara's breasts spooned through the sugar dust left
behind by a previous customer as she drew closer to the screen.
"What's it say?"

"'Sorry for the delay.'" Jeremy read. "'You
have one added minute to site access. Your opportunity of a
lifetime ends at 12:16 EST.'"

"He didn't sign it?" Barbara asked.

"Did you think he would?" Jeremy answered.
"And his address has been masked. Maybe I could...but there's no
time."

He re-entered the site address.

A small image of a treasure chest appeared on
the screen, overlaid by a single word: Enter.

Jeremy clicked. What seemed at first to be a
blank page came up. We all leaned forward, like kids trying to spot
the bobcat tucked away in the tall cage at Maymont.

"Here," Jeremy said, touching the upper left
corner of the screen. We could just make words in a very faint
font.

Scintallant you're not. No
puzzles or cryptograms for this group. I'll make it as easy as
possible. Just log in here, Mute-Sweet Tooth-Doubletalk, to see the
plain answer. No caps. No spaces. Underscore between
passwords
.

"Not even a 'good luck'," I said. When Jeremy
and Barbara quizzed me with glances, I added, "Like good luck
getting all this past the cops."

"Yeah," said Jeremy, standing and waving at
the seat. "And whoever else is watching us. You're up first,
Mute."

I sat. The curser blinked at me from the
login box. I focused on the laptop's keyboard.

"Hey Mute," said Jeremy. "Don't stick your
tongue out. It worries me."

"And maybe it draws attention," was Barbara's
two cents worth.

I re-inserted my tongue in my mouth and
allowed my finger to hover above 'b'. Then I drew back. "You'll see
my secret word."

"You don't trust us?"

This from Jeremy, the least trustworthy of a
worthless lot. I didn't respond.

"Don't worry, passwords are masked. When you
type your word in all you'll see are black dots."

"Oh," I said. I raised my index finger
again—and again lowered it. "You guys mind not watching me?"

Barbara and Jeremy had been bug-eyed with
interest, practically lying on top of me. Their eyes went even
buggier and they turned away.

Damn. My tongue was out again. I retracted it
and began to type: b. A black dot popped up in the login field.
b...r...i...n.... "How can you tell if you're typing capitals or
not?"

"The caps lock is off, unless you pressed
it," Jeremy said.

"Oh..." I looked back down at the screen.
Where was I? I counted the dots by silently voicing the letters:
b...r...i...n.... I entered the last two letters: k...s. Then I sat
back.

"Did you underscore?" Jeremy asked.

"Uh..."

He nudged me out of my seat and typed a
single key. Then he stood. "Your turn, Sweet Tooth."

Bracing herself in front of the laptop as
though she anticipated a powerful electric shock, Barbara squinted
at the faint login box.

"Well?" Jeremy demanded after a minute.

"I forgot my contacts," Barbara said, not
complainingly, but with the reasonable plainness of an octogenarian
explaining why she could no longer walk without assistance.

"You can't see well enough to type?" Jeremy
said impatiently.

"Of course I can. I just need to...need
to..." She inclined her nose until it nearly touched the keyboard.
Abruptly, she said, "I have to go to the toilet."

"We don't have time," Jeremy said. "Hold your
water."

"It's not water."

"Then hold your chips." My brother was
relentless, prodding Barbara with a stiff finger that I thought
would only make her bowels weep faster.