Lisa Gardner - Catch Me

Ball came, a tiny black dot traveling down the computer screen, first slow, then fast, fast, fast…

Jesse clicked his mouse. On the screen, his bear swung a bat, the sound of thwacking came through the speakers, and suddenly, the tiny black dot was moving again, flying away from Jesse’s bear, over Helmet Hippo into the green of the outfield, but still going, going…

The word “GONE” lit up across Jesse’s screen. Virtual confetti rained down, triumphant music blared. Home run. Jesse had done it. Home run!

The graphic explosion cleared, and now Jesse could watch his bear and Helmet Hippo run the bases. Scoring once, scoring twice, as Jesse’s team took the lead, eight to seven.

“Jesse, five more minutes,” his mother called from the kitchen.

“Okay!”

Jesse remained glued to the screen. His left hand now clutched Zombie Bear. All his teammates were talking, conversation bubbles appearing everywhere as they congratulated him on his game-winning hit.

But Jesse had eyes for only one teammate: Helmet Hippo.

“Way to go! You are a champion!”

Jesse was still smiling, beaming really, when a new icon lit up on the bottom panel of his screen. The mailbox. His bear had just received mail.

Jesse obediently clicked. Generally mail came from the site itself. Notification of bonus points, presents for Zombie Bear on his birthday, or announcements of weekly specials on the site-play this game, earn this many bonus points!

But the message wasn’t from the website administrator. It was from Helmet Hippo. They could send mail to each other. Jesse hadn’t known that, but now he did.

“Homerun Bear,” the message began (only Jesse called his bear Zombie Bear, after the scissors incident). “Congratulations on your winning hit. I knew you could do it! Want to play again? Tomorrow, 3:30, I’ll be here. I always wear my Red Sox hat for good luck. You?”

There was a button for reply.

Jesse hit reply, watched a fresh window open up. Helmet Hippo’s name automatically appeared, but the rest of the message was blank. No phrases to pick from. He’d have to do it. Type it in all by himself. But he could use the first message to cheat a little, look at those words for spelling.

Jesse’s mother was banging around in the kitchen.

Jesse stuck his tongue between his teeth and began to laboriously type. “Yes. I’ll be here. I like the Red Sox, too.”

LATER, AFTER DINNER, after homework, after bath and bedtime stories, Jesse curled up beneath his Star Wars sheets and clutched Zombie Bear. He thought again of his homerun hit. He thought again of Helmet Hippo.

And he felt warm all over. Like someone special.

Tomorrow, 3:30. Jesse couldn’t wait.

“THAT DOG THAT’S NOT YOUR DOG is waiting for you on the front porch,” my landlady called through my bedroom door. It was 9 P.M., time for me to start thinking about heading to work.

My bedroom was located in the back ground level of a 120-year-old triple-decker. At first I’d been concerned about this. I would’ve preferred a second- or third-story unit, but those larger apartments were all taken and, frankly, out of my price range. It turned out, however, that my landlady, Frances Beals, was security savvy. She’d been born in this house, she’d told me the day of my interview. Good Irish Catholic family with eleven kids. Half the siblings were now scattered to other states; the other half were already dead.

Having lived her whole life in Cambridge, Frances wasn’t blind to its shortcomings. A university town, Cambridge featured an eclectic mix of multimillion-dollar grand old mansions and barely maintained brick apartment units. There were sprawling green spaces and quaint dining opportunities for upwardly mobile young families, as well as Laundromats, pizza joints, and trendy clothing stores for the college kids. Some of Cambridge’s residents, like Frances, came from families who’d lived here for generations. Most simply passed through for a summer or semester or four-year degree. Meaning the town offered interesting pockets of well-established security, surrounded by other pockets of petty crime, vagrant lifestyles, and drunken debauchery.

Before I could rent the room, I had to pass a two-hour interview with Frances, to determine which of these categories I fell into. When she ascertained I had no pets, no boyfriends, and most likely, no body piercings, I’d passed muster. My only requirement for her was a double-bolt lock on my door, and I asked permission to inspect all door and window locks on the lower level.

She seemed surprised by this request, then pleased. Like maybe that proved I had some common sense after all.

The most Frances and I had ever spoken was during the interview. I figured she was married once, because there was a wedding portrait on the mantel. Next to it was a picture of a baby, but Frances never mentioned kids and no family came for Christmas. Maybe that told its own story. I wondered, but I never asked.

By mutual agreement, Frances came and went through the front entrance, while I accessed my room via the rear, garden door. I tried to keep out of her way, which wasn’t too hard as I worked graveyard four nights a week, then slept till midday.

My room was small, but I liked the battered hardwood floors, the nine-foot ceilings, the historic bull’s-eye molding. A female professor had rented the room before me. She’d left behind an Ikea bookshelf filled with romance novels. So that’s what I did in my free time. I sat in my room and devoured Nora Roberts novels. I figured with everything I had going on in my life, I deserved at least a few hours a day with a happy ending.

Now I pulled on a bulky gray hooded sweatshirt, then reached under my pillow for my. 22. A year ago, I’d never so much as touched a handgun. I couldn’t have told a pistol from a revolver, a rimfire from a centerfire, a. 22 from a. 357 magnum.

Now, I gotta say, I’m a hell of a good shot.

A. 22’s not the best self-defense weapon in the world. Most people choose this gun as a “concealment” weapon-its small size and light weight make it easy to carry. Tuck it in your pocket or belt holster, or, as I’d been told, hang it from a chain around your neck like a true gang banger.

In public, I kept mine in my leather messenger bag, as Massachusetts frowned on citizens being openly armed. In private, however, and certainly on January 21, the semiauto would be in a holster on my left hip. I’d practiced many, many times, drawing it quickly and opening fire. In fact, I practiced that at least thirty minutes twice a week.

My Taurus semiauto had a nickel finish with rosewood grip. It weighed twelve ounces, fit snug in the palm of my hand, and I’d come to welcome the feel of the warm wood against my fingers. It was a pretty gun, if I do say so. But it was also reasonably priced, and inexpensive to arm.

A year ago, I wouldn’t have considered that either. Not just that firearms can be expensive, but so are boxes of ammo. And let me tell you, just because I feared for my life didn’t mean I had unlimited resources.

These days, I was a walking advertisement for safety and security on a working girl’s budget. Hence the real reason I had a two-hundred-dollar. 22, and not something much more commanding, such as a two-thousand-dollar Glock. 45. My instructor, J. T. Dillon, let me fire his one day. I thought the recoil was going to blow off my arm, but the hole in the target was something to behold. SWAT guys and Special Forces commandos often carry. 45s. I wondered how that must feel, confronting an unknown threat while surrounded by buddies you know have got your back and carrying a weapon designed just for a guy like you to get the job done.