Watched (17 page)

I hang up from Miranda and lean against the hood of the Impala. The junkyard shadows no longer look like mystical creatures. They look like junk, rusted and forgotten.

Wish I were one of them. My stomach clenches in a fist of pain. I try to blame it on the cheeseburger but know it's plain old fear. Helping Miranda get evidence on King, maybe needing to talk to a few cops, that was one thing. But her new plan—exposing ourselves to anyone on the planet with an Internet connection?

Insanity. Brilliant. Desperate. Brave.

After Miranda broadcasts her suicide countdown, they'll lock her away in some psych ward, dope her with drugs, give her shock treatment, who knows what?

I crane my neck, searching out the stars above, and zip up my dad's jacket, a thin barricade against the night chill. In a way, she's risking far more than I am.

After tonight, our lives will never be the same.

Mom
and
Janey
are
safe
, I tell myself. That's what counts. Nothing else matters.

Except…I try to count the stars, turning fuzzy as mist rolls off the mountain behind me. I would have made a wish but there's…nothing. I think of the future, of anything I could hope or dream or wish for, and all I see is black emptiness. Stretching out forever.

My skin burns with the cold, and I climb back inside my makeshift shelter, curl up in a ball, trying to stay warm, and close my eyes. For the first time in years, my sleep is as empty as the rest of my life. No night terrors, no panicked jerking awake worried I'd missed a call from King, no dreams at all…except maybe one.

I'm not sure if it's a dream or a fantasy, but Miranda's with me, for one magic moment. We're in a field; I'm chasing after her; we're both laughing, and she turns and reaches her hand to me, letting me catch up. I can't see her face; she's wearing a pretty dress that floats in the breeze, but when our hands touch, I swear I feel it in every atom of my body.

Then it's gone, vanished along with the rest of my hopes and dreams.

• • •

Despite staying up all night, Miranda couldn't remember the last time she'd felt this energized. Not just energized—excited. Glad to be alive. The irony was intoxicating in its own warped way.

She uploaded Jesse's video and added her own story, including reading her suicide note and promising to go through with it if anything happened to Jesse. She debated naming Kerstater, finally decided to take a chance, trust in her gut instinct. Everything she'd found pointed to the man, and if she was wrong…Well, she just had to be right.

Finally, taking a lesson from King, she used the footage to create several teaser videos, all with countdowns to the flash mob.

The other dwarves were a huge help. Clive secreted the footage in several secure sites and set them to run automatically. She didn't tell him she wanted it that way so she couldn't chicken out at the last moment. Jesse was risking his life to help her; following through on her own promise was the least she could do for him.

Misscreant covered Clive's tracks so no one would be able to trace the video streams once they went live. Topaz would be monitoring the feeds so that if anyone blocked one, he could switch to another—a trick he'd learned from Syrian freedom fighters. The others were helping by reaching out to the white-hat cybercommunity as well as hitting all the local Facebook pages and message boards, recruiting members for the flash mob.

Miranda's fingers flew over the keyboard, one window after another opening and closing, typing furiously as she carried on five conversations at once. Over a hundred responses to the flash mob invite already. And the sun wasn't even up yet. More replies would follow after people woke up.

She'd timed the flash mob to coincide with the early-bird prize drawing at the car show, thinking if only a few kids showed up, that would still guarantee someone was there to see them, but the way things were going, she need not have worried. Seemed like everyone had had a brush with a cyberbully or knew someone else who'd been impacted—or maybe the clips of Jesse made them curious enough to want to come and see him arrested…She didn't really care; she just needed warm bodies as witnesses.

The more people watching, the less chance the cops would hurt Jesse when they arrested him.

Once her suicide countdown went live, the police would try to trace her, but it was a weekend, and she was counting on them not being able to get a warrant to commit her to a psych ward until it was too late. After Jesse was safe in custody and they arrested King, it didn't matter what they did to her.

Her dad had spoken with his FBI friend last night and gave him everything Miranda had found pointing to Kerstater, but it still wasn't enough evidence to go after him. And he'd told her dad the ATF had joined the manhunt to find Jesse. Which meant it was up to her to expose King.

Her parents would be furious, and she hated hiding anything from them—again—but if her plan saved Jesse from a murder charge, they'd understand. Although she might be grounded for life—not a terrible punishment for someone like her, who couldn't make it past her own front door.

Feeling giddy, she texted Jesse. She didn't want to wake him with a call; he was exhausted. Besides, it felt good doing this herself. She owed him that much.

A little lost sleep was small price to pay for taking her life back. Thanks to Jesse.

Needing a break, she stood and stretched, grabbed a quick shower, and changed into her favorite jeans and a crimson pullover she thought Jesse would like. She couldn't believe how nervous she was about meeting him—would he think she was too pale, too skinny? She tried to do something with her hair. It was long, past her shoulders, since she hadn't gone out for a real haircut in a year. She had her mom's bouncy curls, but Miranda's hair was lighter in color, less ebony, more a reddish brown that she wasn't sure was pretty or not.

She sank onto her bed, dropping her comb. She had no clue what pretty was. Not anymore. Hopefully not what she saw depicted on TV and in the movies. But not having been with other girls her own age for so long, she worried she was hopelessly out of style.

No time for a makeover now. She went out to the kitchen, thinking she'd surprise everyone by making pancakes. She imagined Jesse walking in with her dad, smiling as he smelled them cooking—he'd be hungry after everything that happened. Maybe he wouldn't notice her out-of-date clothes or too-long, frizzy curls.

She'd just gotten the ingredients lined up when her mom came out, still in her pajamas and bathrobe, yawning.

“Are they back yet?” Mom asked. Miranda's dad had left almost an hour ago to pick up Jesse.

“No.” Miranda double-checked her recipe. It was simple enough, but she wanted them to come out perfect. “Aren't you going to get dressed?”

Mom ruffled her hair with her fingers, leaving it standing on end. “Your dad and I were up talking most of the night. We think we should call Dr. Patterson, ask her to come here for a session.”

Miranda nodded without really listening. Where was the vanilla? She'd almost forgotten it. “After Jesse's safe.”

There was a knock on the door. They both looked up. Mom frowned. Had something gone wrong? Dad wouldn't knock.

Mom walked to the door, checked out the peephole. Miranda watched, suddenly nervous. She reached for the phone, ready to call 911. “Who is it?” she whispered.

“There's no one there.”

The phone rang. Miranda was so startled she almost dropped it. “Hello?”

“Good morning, Ariel. Tell your mom to open the door before someone gets hurt.” It was a man's voice, one she recognized from Jesse's recording.
King.

Miranda stood frozen, panic turning her blood to ice. She looked up at her mom, but before she could say anything, the door crashed open and a man with a gun burst in. He punched her mom so hard her body flew over the arm of the couch. Then he turned to Miranda.

“Do what I say and I won't kill her.” He aimed the pistol at her mother, who was sitting up, holding her face in her hands. Blood and mucus poured from her nose.

Miranda dropped the phone. Her breath came fast. Whirling, she searched for a weapon, anything she could use to defend herself and her mom. She lunged for the knife rack but the man caught her in a bear hug, squeezing the breath from her.

Mom struggled to her feet, dazed. The man held the gun to Miranda's head, pulling her up to her tiptoes.

“We're going to take a little ride. Do anything stupid and you both die.”

I wake feeling energized. Bang my knees on the front seat of the car before I remember where I am or why I'm here. My stomach's growling—it doesn't care about life or death; all it cares about is energy—but I ignore it.

There's a text waiting for me from Miranda. Well, two actually. The first is business:
Dad will meet you 6:30, flash mob at Arena 9 a.m., woohoo!

The second is a photo of a colorful hot air balloon hovering over a field of wildflowers. The text says:
Never forget!
I erase the first and save the second.

It's almost six thirty. The sun has just made an appearance over the mountains to the east, but here in the valley, we're still in shadows. I climb over the fence and skirt the property line down the hill, until I make it to the road. Hiding in a cluster of sumac between the road and the railroad tracks, I hope Miranda's dad is bringing breakfast.

I spot a car coming from the east. Gray sedan, unremarkable. It slows slightly but doesn't stop. The driver is a man, about my mom's age, dark sunglasses hiding most of his face. He drives past me down to the entrance to the junkyard where he pulls in and makes a U-turn. Acting like just another driver lost on the back roads of central Pennsylvania.

He slowly backtracks toward me, his driver's side window rolled down despite the chilly air, looking at the bushes along the side of the road rather than the road itself. I stand up as he draws near, and he stops the car.

“Griffin?” he says. I relax. Only Miranda knows that name—and how cool is it that that's the name she gave her parents? Of course, with my real name blasted all over the TV they'd know the truth, but still, it makes me smile.

“Yes, sir. Are you Miranda's dad?”

He nods. “George Ryder. Hop in.”

As I cross the road, my cell rings. Miranda is the only one with the number. “Hey, great timing,” I say cheerfully.

“I thought so,” comes a man's voice. “You've been a very bad boy, Jesse.”

It's my uncle.

I stumble to the side of the car, bent over like I've been sucker punched. I feel like I'm going to hurl and fight for every breath.

“You're alive?” I gasp. “Wait, how'd you get this number?”

“How'd you think? From your pretty girlfriend. And her pretty mother.”

Mr. Ryder realizes something is wrong and gets out of the car.

“What do you want?” I ask.

“You know the answer to that. You've always known.”

“Let me talk to Miranda.” I'm surprised by the steel in my voice. The rest of me can barely stand.

Mr. Ryder's eyes go flat as he takes the phone from my hand and holds it between us.

“Sorry, no can do. King has her and her mom tucked safely away. You come to us and they go free. It's that easy.”

Nothing was ever that easy with King or my uncle. “Don't hurt them.”

“I'm afraid it's a little late for that. But they're alive. For now. Where are you?”

Miranda's dad shakes his head, mouths a word.

“No. I want to meet somewhere public. So I can be sure they're safe.” I think of Miranda's plan. Maybe her flash mob can help us. Plus, her father knows the arena. “The car show. Nine o'clock.”

There's a pause. I know my uncle doesn't like me calling the shots, so I sweeten the pot. “Just don't hurt them. I'll do anything you want.”

“Yes, you will.” He chuckles. The phone warps the noise into a movie sound effect—the kind that comes right before the serial killer strikes. “Okay, the arena. Remember where the FD command center is? Be there at nine o'clock. Alone. Or they die.”

I stand frozen after my uncle hangs up. He'll do it. I know he will. He'll kill Miranda and her mother just to show me who's in charge.

I can't let that happen.

Mr. Ryder takes the battery out of my cell phone. I remember what Miranda said about GPS tracking and how King can turn on a phone's microphone. Her dad's fingers shake the tiniest bit—the only obvious sign of emotion that I can see.

Until he speaks. “Who was that son of a bitch?”

“My uncle.” I nod to his phone clipped to his belt. Right beside a pistol. “King has Miranda's cell. That means he has your number as well. He could be listening to us now.”

He dismantles his own cell and we get into the car. He guns the engine.
To
hell
with
speed
limits
, his driving says. He slides his sunglasses on as we head east.

“So your uncle's not dead.”

I'm still absorbing that little tidbit myself. Then realize I'd never searched my uncle before leaving him in the garage. He must have called King and together they framed me for murder and the arsons. But whose body was in the garage? “He's working with King—you know who he is, right?”

A jerk of his chin. “My daughter calls him the Creep. Why the arena?”

I explain about the flash mob Miranda organized. “But the fire department command center is in the subbasement—no one can hear us down there.”

“That's okay. We'll work it out.” He glances at me. Same look my teachers give me when they can't figure out why I'm not doing better in school. “We have to go to the police. You going to give me a hard time about that?”

“No, sir. But how can we? They'll lock me up—then I can't meet my uncle and get Miranda back.” He grimaces when I say her name. I guess if I were a father whose daughter was hanging out with a loser like me, I'd make a face as well. “Plus, if anyone sees me going to the police, if word gets out that I'm talking to them or that my uncle is alive, he and King will kill them both.”

“He'll be monitoring the Smithfield police,” he says, more to himself than to me. “My daughter says he can access any computer on campus?”

“Yes. He found me last night—I don't know how, exactly. Miranda thought some kind of monitoring program.”

“That means he can access the campus security cameras. So I can't be with you.”

He's a step ahead of me. Just like his daughter.

“Don't worry about me. I can take care of myself. As long as you get Miranda and her mother.”

He nods at me. I wish he'd take off his sunglasses, so I can see if he's nodding because he believes me or just to humor me.

“Best way to do that will be if I get there first,” he says. “Hide, out of sight of the cameras. I can borrow a maintenance uniform. He'll never know it's me.”

I like how he treats me like I'm a partner, not a victim or, worse, the guy who put his daughter and wife in danger.

We've just hit the Smithfield city limits. He pulls the car over, driving behind a Sheetz and parking near the Dumpsters where we're out of sight of the road. “I'll buy a prepaid, make some calls.”

“To who, sir?” I can't help but add the
sir
, not with him sitting there all calm and determined, hiding behind his sunglasses and a hard-edged scowl. I feel like I should be saluting but settle for sitting up straight and looking at him head-on, letting him know I'm ready for whatever it takes to save Miranda.

“When this first happened—” He glances out the window, checking the side mirrors, then back again. “When the Pittsburgh police couldn't track this guy, King, after he targeted Melody—my wife—I asked the FBI for help.”

“Miranda said their computer task force didn't get anywhere.”

“They couldn't trace him with what they had at the time, no. And they couldn't make him a priority, not with everything else on their plates.”

I nod my understanding. I've read the newspaper articles about the FBI busting pedophile rings and child sex trafficking conspiracies. One cyberbully wouldn't even make the list of the Big Bads they fight—although I wish he had. Maybe they would have stopped King long ago…and my uncle.

“I've kept in touch with a special agent in the Pittsburgh Field Office. He's been trying to work the case when he can, and I've already sent him all the new info Miranda found. I'm going to call him and see if he can put us in touch with anyone in the Incident Command here.”

“Incident Command?”

“What they call it when there's a multiagency case—something big enough to cross jurisdictions.”

“Because this is a kidnapping?”

He shakes his head. “No. Because you're a fugitive wanted for murder and serial arsons. We've got the locals, the county sheriffs, the state police, the ATF, and the U.S. Marshals Fugitive Apprehension Strike Team all looking for you.”

I swallow hard. I trust him, but I don't understand. “So, you're turning me in. Okay. If you think it's best. But how will that help Miranda and her mom? I can't miss the meeting with my uncle and King.”

He claps me on the shoulder. “You'll be at the meeting. Don't you worry about that. But you won't be there alone.”

Now I understand. “You're not turning me in. You're using me as bait.”

“Want to back out? It's okay if you do. Even with help from the Feds, it's going to be dangerous.”

“No, sir. I'll do it—I want to do it. As long as we can be absolutely certain there's no way King can find out. We can't risk Miranda or her mom.”

His smile's more than a little scary. I'm glad I'm on his side. He opens the door and gets out of the car, then leans back inside, his face inches from mine. “My daughter said I could trust you. Said you were a good guy.”

I'm not sure what to say to that. “Thank you. Sir.”

“Just do me a favor and don't let her down, okay?”

“I won't.” It's a promise we both know I can't be certain of keeping, but he nods his head and leaves. Alone in the car, I scrunch down in case anyone drives by. I take my lighter out and flick it, over and over and over…focusing on the flame is the only thing that keeps me from jumping out and running for my life.

How in hell am I going to face my uncle? Much less King?