Rick Mofina - Free Fall

“But if it’s secret…”

“You can read a summary of Stone Ghost online.” Erich turned to the server. “I’ll have a tomato juice with ice, please.” Then to Kate: “So, how are your daughter and sister doing?”

“Both good.”

Sipping her Coke, Kate caught the reflection of a woman at the bar. She seemed to be watching them. More likely Erich . Dishwater blonde, tight T-shirt, jeans, red bag. She was older than the students, and had a hardness about her. Divorced? A cougar? A hooker, maybe?

“Kate?”

She returned her attention to Erich.

“I’ve been reading your stories on the airliners. Is there any way I can help?”

She ran down the history for him, from the beginning when she’d first heard the EastCloud crew on the newsroom scanners to her current quandary.

“I believe the cause of these two flights’ issues is linked to the email. I need help confirming it and I need help determining the source of the email.”

Kate unfolded printouts of the Zarathustra email and passed it to Erich. He studied it, rubbing his stubble thoughtfully.

“I tried to respond but got this.” She tapped her finger on the printout with the error message reading “permanent failure, unknown user” and a long string of technical text. “What d’you think?”

“Off the top, it looks basic, but smart. Your sender is likely routing the message through a multitude of places online, using layers of encryption, characteristic of an onion router. Good chance they’re using hidden servers on the Darknet.”

“Can you help me?”

“No guarantees, but there are things I can try, people I can talk to.”

“Thank you. Anything you could do would be great.”

Kate heard a soft vibration. Erich reached into his pocket for his phone and scrolled along the screen, reading a message.

“I’m sorry, Kate, I have to go.”

After Erich left, Kate stayed, finished her Coke, and paid the bill.

The night was warm and pleasant. Buoyed by Erich’s promise to help, Kate decided she’d walk the seven blocks to her building. Along the way she searched her phone and reread the Zarathustra email.

One way or another I’m going to find you.

The sudden growl of a motor prompted Kate to look quickly behind her at a passing motorcycle. She did a double take. Half a block back, she saw a woman window-shopping.

Dishwater blonde, open jacket over a tight T-shirt, jeans, red bag.

The woman from the bar.

Kate continued walking, thinking hard. Something troubled her about the stranger. She was familiar. Why?

Kate crossed the street, throwing her a backward glance. The woman continued window-shopping. As Kate kept walking, she scoured her memory, trying to recall anything familiar about the woman’s hairstyle or the shape of her face. As details swam into focus, it hit her.

I saw that woman in the grocery store near my building just before I left for London!

Kate kept walking and glanced back. The woman was still behind her but was now on her side of the street. Maybe she lived in the neighborhood.

No, because I saw her again when I got back from London and took Grace to Central Park. She was on a bench reading a book. She was always in the distance. I remember her. She can’t be following me.

Kate walked faster.

I’m going to find out .

Kate stopped in front of a closed jewelry store and gazed through the steel bars of its storefront. All the while, she watched for the woman. The stranger crossed the street and rounded a corner. Kate resumed walking, rounding the opposite corner. A short time later, she spotted the woman in the distance. Kate thought quickly, deciding to go around the entire block.

With every turn of every corner, the woman had stayed with her.

Kate stepped into an alcove. Her breathing quickened.

Why am I being followed?

Kate peered from the alcove. The woman was at the end of the block, across the street. Kate waited to confront her, unafraid.

She could handle herself.

She’d taken firearms courses, although she hated guns and never carried one. She’d taken self-defense courses. She’d taken courses with private investigators. She had a can of pepper spray and a personal alarm in her bag.

The stranger lingered at the end of the street.

Come on, come on .

Kate wanted her to get closer. She reached into her bag and slid her fingers around the pepper spray canister.

Come on. I’m ready for you.

The woman kept her distance.

Kate stepped from the alcove and walked in the stranger’s direction. The woman turned and began walking away. Kate bolted after her, glad she’d worn flat shoes. The woman ran around the corner. Kate ran after her as fast as she could, rounding the corner, glimpsing her crossing the street and running to the next corner. Kate darted through traffic, adrenaline and anger giving her speed.

When Kate took the next corner the woman had vanished.

Kate stopped in her tracks and scanned the street. A car door shut. An ignition turned. She was near. Kate tore off in the direction of the sound and spotted the woman in a sedan, hearing the transmission shift. As she got closer, the engine revved, the car lurched, tires squealed and it pulled away.

Kate stood on the sidewalk, reciting the license plate as she wrote it down in her notebook.

“Gotcha!”

Manhattan, New York

The fresh coffee Kate gulped at her desk scorched her throat.

She’d gone to the newsroom early that morning, riding a wave of anger and hammering at her keyboard.

Who was following me and why?

She had to cool off and think clearly. She looked at her notebook again, thankful she’d gotten the stranger’s New York license plate and gone on the offensive. Before leaving her building for the subway that morning, she’d taken action.

One of her sources was Ivan Vestrannicki, an NYPD detective, who’d had twenty-one years on the job before his squad took down an armored-car heist in the Bronx. Ivan had taken two bullets in his left leg. It’d left him with a limp and a cynical view of the world. After he’d retired he’d set up his own PI agency. Kate had interviewed him for a series on the challenges cops who’d been wounded on the job faced with disability payments. Ivan never forgot that.

You got a friend here, he’d told her.

This morning Kate had reached out to him for help with the plate.

Leave it with me. I’ll get back to you.

While waiting, Kate had searched the plate online, but struck out. Then she’d thought of Grace and Vanessa. Without revealing that she’d been followed, Kate had questioned them at breakfast. They’d said that they hadn’t received any strange calls or hang-ups, or seen anything odd. They hadn’t seen anyone following them. Nothing appeared to be out of the ordinary.

She’d considered all of the recent stories she’d written.

Who would do this?

Twice in the past she’d been the target of private investigations. A corrupt millionaire stockbroker who’d been scamming seniors had hired an agency to follow her. It had also happened with a story she’d done on people trying to break away from a cult. In both cases they’d tried to find dirt on Kate to scare her off the story. In both cases they’d failed. Their tactics had become part of the story. Her line rang.

“Kate, it’s Ivan.”

“Hey, what’d you find out?”

“The plate belongs to a woman who works for a private investigation agency, who subcontracts for a larger one.”

“Any idea who her client is and why she was hired?”