You're Only Dead Page 3

  Victor glanced at him before making a turn down an isolated road. "I live here. So, a week ago."

  "You've been here all this time?"

  "Where else am I gonna go?"

  Emery nodded, eyes drifting out the passenger's side window. "You never did tell me the story of how you inherited this place."

  "Sure didn't," was Victor's only reply. "This isn't a sure thing, alright? I hide my dicey shit pretty well, but that cleanup crew after my ass was pretty thorough and would probably know exactly what it was they were looking for. If I don't have my backups, I don't know what to tell you. Creating this software from scratch took me three years."

  Emery glanced down the familiar stretch of road and spotted the house in the distance. "Maybe they didn't trace you all the way to your residence."

  "Don't bet on it. Where do you think they found me to begin with?" Victor looked ahead and slowed, carefully observing their surroundings. "Keep alert."

  "Is someone here?"

  "No idea. If anyone above those shitheads' pay-grades noticed that I'm not dead, it's possible."

  Emery drew his gun as Victor pulled the car off to the side. He could see right away that the house had been ransacked. The door hung wide open with a broken hinge, papers strewn out the door shifting through mud in the slight wind. There were no other vehicles and it was silent, but Emery kept his guard up as he glanced at Victor and slid out of the car. Victor hung close, equally cautious as he peered into the door. They split off as they entered to survey the damage and check for unwanted visitors. Emery cleared the main living space while Victor went to check the bedrooms and once it had been confirmed that they were alone here, they reconvened in the kitchen. Victor looked down at the dining table, which was knocked on its side, and shoved it listlessly with his foot.

  "See, this is the kind of shit that pisses me off," he griped. "They were already going to kill me. Why fuck up all my stuff, too?"

  Emery grimaced and took another look around. There was hardly a piece of furniture that wasn't tossed, the floor completely covered in books, clothes, random bits of décor, and broken pieces of things. "Did they take your computer?"

  "Yeah," Victor said, looking at him hard. "Of course they did."

  Emery felt sinking defeat. He rubbed his head with a hand. "So that's it then."

  "No."

  Emery looked up quickly.

  Victor motioned for Emery to help him lift the table and turn it back upright, which he did. Then Victor beckoned and he followed him into a bedroom. Once there Victor pressed his hands against a wall, smoothing them along and studying it carefully. "They didn't find my backups. I was afraid it was a little obvious, but I guess not."

  "Definitely not," Emery remarked, as he himself had no idea what Victor was talking about. This was just a wall.

  Victor banged his hand against the surface and a hunk of drywall caved in. He stuck his hand into the cavity it left and began to yank away bigger pieces, tossing them aside and brushing out the debris to reveal a sunken wall safe underneath. He quickly twisted in the code and popped it open, scattering more bits of plaster at his feet as he did so. Inside the safe was a stack of thin notebook computers, a few smaller locked boxes, a bit of weaponry, and various other sundries. Victor reached in to pull out the third computer down from the stack and shoved it into Emery's hands before reaching in to dig out a few more things. Emery examined the sleek silver laptop curiously, turning it over. A Polaroid photograph fell to the floor from the inside as he did so. Emery glanced up and Victor before bending over and scooping it up. It was a picture of three teenage boys, the one on the left most probably Victor, young and skinny and beardless. They were all emphatically making ridiculous faces at the camera. Emery looked up and handed the photo out. "Who are they?"

  Victor looked over, then blinked down at the photo, taking it back and studying it for a moment. "My cousins. Ty and Mikey." He tossed it back into his safe and gathered a few more small boxes in his arms before closing it up.

  "Were you close to them?"

  Victor didn't look at him as he moved back towards the kitchen. "Sure."

  There was an awkward silence as Emery followed him back to the kitchen table, setting the computer down and watching as Victor sat at a chair, unraveling a bound charge cord. He plugged it into the nearby wall socket and powered on the computer, eyes flitting back to Emery periodically before he relented.

  "I was raised with them. By my aunt and uncle. So, yeah, I guess they were sort of like brothers to me."

  Emery nodded, leaning his hands on the table next to him. "What happened to your parents?"

  Victor gave him a slightly irritable glance. "Mom couldn't stay clean. The state awarded her sister custody of me when I was ten. Don't know who my dad is. What happened to yours?"

  Emery caught the sharp edge to that question and cleared his throat. "Sorry."

  Victor shook his head, clattering away at a sudden wall of code on his computer and rapidly switching between a series of screens. "You should sit down. This is gonna take a while."

  Emery looked down at the table beneath his hands. The dark wood grain was scuffed from being tossed but still had a gloss to it. In that brief glance downward he could have sworn it was the shine of crimson he saw there, pooling across its surface. He swallowed, meeting Victor's curious gaze and recomposing himself. "No. I'm alright. I'll keep watch."

  "Suit yourself," Victor said, popping open a few cases to pull out some wires and a black box.

  Emery watched with interest but couldn't make heads or tails of most of it. "Do you think this can get you back into his computer?"

  "No," Victor dismissed. "That's a dead end. I doubt he has anything useful stored in there anyway. We're gonna hack his phone."

  Emery blinked. "His mobile?"

  "Yup."

  "But how?"

  "Even if you were on my level it'd take hours to explain. Suffice it to say that this is military grade shit of the go to prison for the rest of your life, possibly get tried for treason variety. And I am super not excited to use this against a guy who already has a reason to kill me."

  "Is it traceable?"

  "Oh it sure as shit is. But only if he suspects his phone is tapped. As long as he stays oblivious we should be in the clear."

  "Brilliant." Emery scanned the nonsense array of items on the table before him and watched Victor produce a shiny new phone from a white cardboard box. "How did you learn to do all of this, Victor?"

  "I didn't learn it. I invented it."

  Emery paused. "What's your IQ?"

  "One-fifty-seven."

  "Blimey," Emery huffed. "Are you serious?"

  "Why?" Victor looked up at him. "Sorry, should I put on a lab coat before telling you that?"

  "It might help."

  Victor waved him off and went back to his typing. "So I've got a knack for the way things function. Big deal. I'd trade it in a heartbeat for a fucking shred of common sense."

  Emery frowned, studying him in silence for a moment. There was a real sense of tragedy behind this person. Here was a man who could have had everything if not for one stupid mistake. A man who could have possibly changed the world for all his potential. Solved national crises, revolutionized engineering, cured deadly diseases. He wondered how many Victor Scotts there were out there. Immeasurably bright minds above good hearts that had slipped through the cracks, never to resurface. "Are you sure there isn't anything I can do to help you?"

  "Just give me the phone number. And if those dicks didn't toss my fridge while they were at it, get me a beer."

  Emery nodded and wandered off to the refrigerator to retrieve one. After that there was nothing to do but sit in silence and watch Victor work, but he was simply too anxious. Ever since arriving in London he had felt calmer than all the days before, finally having gotten ahold of a real plan. He wasn't going to despair anymore, he wasn't going to panic, he wasn't going to lose himself. He was going to find his partner, simple as. G
etting Victor on board had been even better, but with a lull in the tasks he set out to accomplish, all there was to do was reflect. Being in this house again pulled up too many memories. Some of them were terrifying, but even worse were the happy ones. Emery went out of the kitchen and into the wrecked living room, where he sat on the couch that had been sliced open with a knife by whoever was searching for Victor's tech.

  Here he was again. Sitting on this couch in Whitchurch, helpless and useless while Victor worked tirelessly in the kitchen to save Kurt's life. How he hated the bloody cycle of things. How two years ago this place had been a bastion of hope—the place where his life had truly begun—and how it now mirrored his situation once again perfectly. Destroyed. Pillaged. Dismal. He wiped a hand over his face and looked down at his watch where a thin fissure split the glass over the surface. He traced his finger over it idly before sighing at himself and yanking the sleeve of his jacket down over his wrist to cover it.

  It wasn't until an hour later that Victor came back into the living room with a phone in hand, holding it up and nodding. "Okay. This is all I can do for now."

  Emery sat up straight. "What now?"

  "Uhh, it's complicated, but basically all we need to do is wait for his phone to connect to the specified network. I tapped into the radio tower closest to his home. When that happens," he dangled the phone between his fingers, "we get a clone."

  Emery stared at the phone in awe. "How is that possible? Don't you need the phone itself for something like that?"

  "Typically yes, but let's just say 'there's an app for that'. A Scott exclusive." He pocketed the phone, stretching his arms up over his head and taking another unhappy look around at his thrashed domicile. "I figure we'll thumb through his itinerary, browse his history, wait for any suspicious calls or texts."

  Emery shook his head. "But that could take days."

  Victor shrugged. "Well what do you want me to do? Do you think we're just gonna find 'secret drug dealer' under his contacts?"

  "I don't…" Emery leaned forward, rubbing his temples. "Alright. Fine."

  Victor watched him for a long moment before clearing his throat, looking down as he crossed his arms and leaned against the doorframe. "Okay, Em. I'm sorry, but I have to ask this. …Is there any chance—any chance at all—that Kurt left of his own accord?"

  "Not a one," Emery replied flatly.

  "I just have to be sure."

  "He left his clothes. His belongings. That morning was a typical routine—he wasn't acting odd, he didn't do anything, say anything out of the ordinary. I've gone over that day in my mind a thousand times. Every last minute. All I know is that he was happy. He was content…there was virtually no trace of the old Kurt. The surly one. The indifferent one. The cold-blooded thug that you remember. He smiled all the time then, he…" Emery paused for a long moment. "He wouldn't just up and leave, and he didn't."

  Victor regarded him carefully for a bit before walking over and sitting on the couch next to him. "Okay. Sorry. I just…"

  "I know. I understand."

  They sat in awkward silence for a few moments together. Then Victor held out a hand, gesturing lazily to the open space against the wall before them. "Oh, good. They stole my TV."

  * * *

  Emery opted to drive back to the hotel while Victor sat on his computer in the passenger's seat, typing away at something that resembled rocket science. It was dark by the time they made it back. Emery helped Victor to carry the many bags of things he'd packed from his home up to the room before sitting down on his bed and tiredly pulling off his jacket. His body demanded sleep but he refused. He was finally on to something. As soon as Victor's phone trick kicked in, he would have unlimited access to Hunter Eaton's secrets. He wasn't going to be asleep when that happened. Emery turned to his nightstand and picked up his glass box, opening the lid and sliding his hand in. Disturbed, the tarantula inside move about, crawling onto the source of heat that was his palm. Emery scooped it out and held it close to his chest.

  "So I don't know if y—what are you doing with that?" Victor demanded as he exited the bathroom.

  "What?" Emery looked up.

  "Look, your taste in pets is weird, but I can get over it. Just don't take that thing out of its box. It'll…get loose or something." Victor edged over to the other side of the room with suspicious eyes.

  Emery covered the spider gently with his other hand. "Fidget is a desert spider and it's cold in here. It'll freeze just sitting in there for too long. I broke its blasted heating lamp."

  "Reason number two-hundred and six to own a mammal instead of an eight-legged sack of goo."

  Emery looked over at the nightstand, turning on the arm lamp and adjusting it so that its bulb was close to the glass box before slipping the animal back inside and closing it up. "Do you feel any better?"

  Victor blinked at him before reaching a hand up to graze his busted lip. "Yeah, whatever. Only hurts when you mention it." He sat down on the second bed and yanked off his shoes, looking around the room for a moment. "Man, I'm gonna miss Whitchurch."

  Emery frowned. "I'm sorry, Victor."

  "Ain't your fault," he said. "I did that one to myself."

  "You don't think you'll be able to go back?"

  Victor shook his head. "At this point I'm thinking I should've wised up and shipped off this island years ago. I'm an illegal citizen anyhow and I'm pretty sure they wouldn't want me stickin' around even if I weren't."

  "Where would you go?"

  Victor rubbed under his nose and thought for a moment. "Nowhere right now. I don't have any fucking money."

  "You will," Emery assured. "I'm good for the money, Victor."

  "I'm more worried about you being dead before you can pay up than I am about you welching."

  "So I'll pay you now." Emery stood, looking around before spotting his bag and digging through it. He unzipped an inner compartment and pulled out a large stack of cash. Ten thousand Canadian dollars. He turned to Victor, who was holding up his hands.

  "Jesus, I was kidding, don't…"

  Emery came closer and held it out. "Take it. It's a fraction of what I owe you."

  "Keep your Cana-dough, dude, what am I gonna do with that anyway?" Victor pushed his arm away. "Come on, sit down. Relax. Let's worry about that shit later."

  Emery stared at him for a long moment before relenting, tossing the money back into his suitcase. "Two hundred thousand. Not a penny less. I keep my word."

  "I believe you. Don't worry. I've done things for which I was a lot less sure about the payout."

  "Really?"

  "Yeah. I definitely have a track record of taking jobs I obviously shouldn't."

  Emery sat down on the bed again. "Like what?"

  "Uh, abducting some cocky rich kid with a death wish, for one."

  "…Besides that."

  "I don't know, just stupid shit." Victor stood up and went to the small table, sitting and opening his computer back up. "I was twenty-three when I first came to the UK. This friend of mine, Bruce, he got me set up in Glasgow for a few months. I loved the guy, but he was one of the dumbest motherfuckers on earth. And he had this ridiculous fucking temper. My first gig here was the one he got me loading supply trucks for some warehouse he was working for at the time. It was the only place that didn't ask for a background check or references or…anything—it was a no frills sort of job. It was alright. Two days before I would've gotten my first paycheck Bruce comes in hungover as all hell and gets in a fist fight with the boss. An actual fucking fist fight. Broke a goddamn stool over the guy's back and knocked him out cold. So needless to say the cops got called and we got the fuck out of there. Bastard cost me three weeks' pay."

  It sounded about as far from a fond memory as could be, but Victor was smirking as he relayed the event. "Sounds like a lovely mate," Emery muttered.

  "He had his moments." Victor squinted into his computer screen before straightening up. "But hey, I'm a tolerant guy. Whether you're a fat, stupid, dr
unken Scotsman or a crazy little Canada-loving queer, I'm not one to judge."

  "…Thanks. I think."

  "Don't mention it."

  Emery sat back against his headboard and sighed. "So…I mean just out of curiosity, if you had the money, where else would you go?"

  Victor looked up and stared off into space for a long while before looking back down at his electronics. "I got it."

  "South America? Somewhere in the Caribbean perhaps?"

  "Not that." Victor snatched the phone, holding it up. "Eaton's phone. It's ours."

  Emery quickly sprang up, going to the table and grabbing the phone that was handed out to him. He immediately began thumbing through it in fascination. "Yes. Yes, this is it. My god, I can't believe you've done it."

  "Really? How many times do I have to remind you that I'm—"

  "A genius, yes, absolutely," Emery said, poring through Hunter's contacts. He closed it out and swiped through a few screens. "This is incredible. Everything is here. His work notes, his texts, his pictures. It even…" Emery trailed off, blinking down at the wall of photos he'd come across carefully.

  Victor leaned forward. "What? What is it?"

  Emery swallowed and furrowed his brow, tapping the first picture to show up. It was a picture of Emery sitting at an outside restaurant with two classmates, taken somewhere back in 2014. His lips parted as he sifted through the next few images. They were almost all Emery. Most were taken from a distance. On streets, sitting at tables, standing in ques. Dear god. Hunter hadn't just been keeping tabs on his behavior all those years. He'd been bloody stalking him. "They're all of me…" he heard himself utter.

  "What? His pictures?"

  Emery blew out a breath, thumbing through a few more until he got to a particularly disturbing set. Photos from years ago of him as a teenager. In Hunter's bed. Asleep, and wearing almost nothing. He began to run through them faster until he stopped on the last set with a sickening twist in his gut. His class photo from 2004. He was just fourteen there. "The fucking bastard!" Emery spat.

  "Whoah, okay, calm down. Wha—"

  "What is he doing with these?!" Emery demanded to no one. "He can't have these. How do you get rid of them? I want them off of here!"