The Shut-In Page 3

  Hi everyone! I’m a fellow Spring Garden resident (20th and Green) and I’m worried about a gentleman I used to see along the Parkway.

  Already I’m lying. But I don’t want to invent too much detail, lest I rule someone out. For instance, I can’t say that he’s someone I used to joke with, because what if the murder victim had no sense of humor? What if he never spoke at all? So I stick to physical description.

  He’s in his late 50s, with longish blond/gray hair and a very long beard. Last time I saw him he

  (Had an arrow sticking out of his chest, and was pleading for his life.)

  was wearing a tweed jacket, chinos and wasn’t wearing any shoes. I’m worried something may have happened to him. If anyone knows his name

  (Because that’s what I’m really after.)

  or knows where he might be,

  (Even though, sadly, I already know this.)

  please let me know? Many thanks!

  I hit POST and wait for the glorious internet to help me fill in the blanks.

  Chapter 10

  It’s hard to stay focused on work because I can’t take my mind off the poor homeless guy, especially now that I’ve conjured him up in my mind again. Maybe he’s someone’s missing parent, brother, or husband, and no one in the world (well, except for me) knows what happened to him. Worst of all, I have a feeling that crazy Mrs. Archer has probably killed people many times before, and is preparing to do it again…

  Come on, FedEx guy, bring me the goods! The website promises delivery by 8 p.m., but surely you can do better than that?

  The afternoon moves forward in a slow, languid crawl. I struggle to check the FedEx tracking site every half hour, instead of every ten minutes. I put on a pair of dark sunglasses and peek out at Green Street from behind my thick drapes. My mom used to say that a watched pot never boils, but that was before the internet. I’m sure there’s an app out there that will calculate exactly how many seconds until your water reaches 212 degrees Fahrenheit.

  And then finally, at 6:57 p.m., the front door buzzer sounds!

  I almost trip as I scramble to the front windows to confirm that the big gorgeous FedEx truck is parked out front on Green, with its blinkers going and all. I know it’s probably seriously angering everybody behind him already.

  But…no truck?

  My usual MO is to have visual confirmation and then buzz the delivery guy all the way in so that he can walk right up to my door and hand over the package—groceries or whatever—while he remains standing in the hallway. But that initial visual confirmation is key.

  Oh man. What do I do? Who else could it be, buzzing at me?

  I tiptoe over to my door, take a deep breath, then flip the lock and open it the thinnest of cracks so that I can peer through both sets of front doors, scanning for that familiar black and purple uniform of my usual FedEx guy, Gene.

  But instead, I see the red baseball cap of Andre, the main delivery guy from Fairmount Pizza, which is a few blocks away. It’s weird to see him, because I didn’t order pizza…

  But then a shadowy form passes my line of sight. I see the tufts of thick black hair as well as a set of broad shoulders sitting squarely under a fitted gray T-shirt. I’d recognize the back of that head and shoulders anywhere.

  Seems the guy from 3-D ordered pizza tonight.

  “Sorry, man—I hit the wrong buzzer,” Andre says. “For a second there I thought I was bringing this to Tricia.”

  “Who?”

  “Your neighbor? Tricia? The girl right over there in 1-B? Anyway, that’s $22.95, buddy.”

  I die a million deaths pushing my door shut as quietly as I can. Granted, I’ve never met the guy from 3-D, never introduced myself. But still it hurts that he’s so totally unaware of my existence. Oh, there’s someone living in 1-B?

  After that, time slows to a stop. Somehow, the sun sinks below the horizon, which means that even if my package arrives in the next three seconds, there will be no drone flying tonight. I check the FedEx tracking site obsessively now, hitting refresh every minute or so, as I simultaneously check the local traffic news to see if there’s, oh, a FedEx truck on fire on the Vine Street Expressway.

  Then, after what seems like an eternity…and at ten minutes until eight exactly…the front buzzer finally rings.

  This time it’s Gene, and he’s here for me.

  Chapter 11

  On Saturday morning, Amelia II is prepped and ready for liftoff.

  Okay, so maybe I was up all night getting her ready. Don’t judge me.

  She’s a lot bigger than I imagined. The photos online made her seem like a stealth predator—but in real life, she’s as bulky as a flying Terminator robot that hunts and kills human beings.

  If the first Amelia was a sleek dragonfly, her replacement is a fat armored cicada. Maybe that’s the price you pay for the extended battery life, expanded range, and camera with memory.

  There’s no time to break a mini bottle of champagne over her nose by way of christening, though. She needs to be up and patrolling the streets as soon as possible. I push down my sleeves, pull on gloves, open the rear window, then gingerly place Amelia II on the sill.

  The first thing I notice after liftoff is that Amelia II is a bit slower all around. She doesn’t maneuver as flawlessly as her predecessor did, nor can she go zooming down the block like her pants are on fire. But that’s okay. I’ll just have to learn to compensate with the controls on my phone.

  As it turns out, I have plenty of time to learn. Because on that first day, I can’t seem to locate Mrs. Archer anywhere, even though I sent Amelia II out on a record eight daytime patrols.

  Sunday doesn’t warrant results, either. I don’t even want to tell you how many times I flew my poor girl.

  But then on Monday morning…

  I almost jump out of my own skin when I see the familiar body shape of Mrs. Archer making her way up 19th Street, right next to Baldwin Park.

  “Now where have you been, psycho lady?” I murmur excitedly, tweaking the controls so that Amelia II can float down for a closer look.

  But that’s when the weird thing happens.

  Mrs. Archer stops in her tracks and looks up at me, and it’s as if she’s heard me talking.

  Chapter 12

  Target Diary—Day 11

  After a weekend of thinking that I’ve been unduly paranoid, I heard the buzzing sound again. Directly overhead.

  At first, I was relieved that I hadn’t been imagining things. But immediately after that, I became furious at the intrusion of privacy.

  Who, exactly, has been keeping tabs on me?

  I am prepared for this encounter. For the past ten days I have taken to wearing my wrist apparatus all day long. I want my body movement to look natural at all times so even the most experienced antiterrorism agents won’t look twice at me. I keep an arrow spring-loaded and ready for launch at any given second.

  Over the weekend, I have perfected my aim. Subjects Five and Six can attest to that. Well, technically, now they’re unable to do just that.

  I don’t even think Six saw her doom coming. Which I suppose was a small mercy for her.

  I was thinking about the vacant look in her eyes when I first heard the buzzing.

  I glanced up at the source of the sound and immediately realized what I’ve been dealing with: an unmanned aerial vehicle. Also known as a personal drone.

  Presumably, it’s equipped with a camera.

  The movements are so hardwired into my nervous system that I’m barely aware I’m making them. I lift my sleeve. Raise my arm. Point my finger at the exact location where I want the arrow to make contact. With the drone, I presume that the main body is its electrical center, and a direct strike will take it out of play.

  I squeeze the trigger.

  Chapter 13

  The skin on my arms suddenly turns to gooseflesh. My phone might as well be a brick in my hands for all the good it’s doing.

  No! Move! Move! Move!

  Ameli
a II is depending on me to steer her out of harm’s way. She is equipped with an emergency button that will instruct her built-in GPS to send her back home immediately. The moment I hit that button, however…

  She was struck with an arrow.

  I didn’t actually see it coming at me, though I did see a vague, fluttery blur. And then the image on my screen rocks, and suddenly we’re descending down toward the park. No amount of furious screen-tapping is able to control her altitude nor her pitch.

  We’re going down—hard.

  Amelia II bounces, and suddenly I have a view of the perfect September sky, complete with little fluffy clouds. My poor drone is resting on her propellers, which means that liftoff will be impossible.

  “No!” I scream, thumbing the buttons anyway.

  Then a face fills the screen. Mrs. Archer. She’s even uglier up close and personal. And I swear, it’s as if she can see me through Amelia II’s camera, and she’s scowling at me.

  She reaches down with thin, reedy fingers and the video stream goes dead a second later, leaving me to stare at a blank screen.

  Then a thought occurs to me.

  Oh no…

  Can she trace Amelia II back to me?

  Chapter 14

  Target Diary—Day 11 (continued)

  If only I could dispatch human beings with the same precision that I take out toy drones.

  The pathetic little machine sputtered, and then nose-dived into the green grass lawn. I cleared the distance swiftly, before its owner could dart out from the shadows and reclaim it. If I’m to discover who’s been spying on me, I need to trace him through his plastic flying machine.

  The camera was staring up at me, so I reached down, covered the lens with my palm, and twisted it until I heard a satisfying snap.

  Before I scoop up the machine, however, I check my surroundings. Is my nemesis hiding somewhere behind the bushes? Hobbyist drones do not have too great a range. The controller of this one might be very close, or at the most, only a few blocks away.

  No matter. I will unmask my spy soon enough.

  I hoist the machine from the ground. It is surprisingly light. The only part of this drone that interests me is the “brain”—the neural center that controls low and high speed settings, along with its GPS unit. Everything else runs on rudimentary mechanics.

  I snap off the propellers, limbs, and motors, and then I deposit them into a nearby trash receptacle. They land at the bottom with heavy clunks.

  The drone’s brain goes into a deep pocket in my jacket.

  I take in my surroundings one last time, tempted to shout a taunt to my unseen spy. But such a thing would only gratify my ego, and wouldn’t serve the greater mission. As I walk away from the park, the drone’s brain knocks against my thigh from inside my pocket.

  What if that were my job—to take down human beings and steal their brains? That would add an entirely new level of joy and skill to the process. I think I would relish cracking open their skulls and carefully removing their thinking organs.

  Civil War soldiers became quite skilled at trepanning in a battlefield. I’m sure that with the resources available to me, I could develop a technique that would leave law enforcement and other agents of justice utterly befuddled.

  Human brains, however, are nothing like a computerized brain. We don’t yet have the technology to stimulate the dead synapses and recover the intelligence within.

  But this is not a human brain. And with a little bit of probing, the drone’s brain will give me everything.

  It won’t be difficult, especially with my level of expertise. If a device was designed to transmit, then it has no choice but to give up its secrets—namely, the internet protocol address of its user.

  Ordinary citizens do not realize how much of themselves they surrender to their little smartphones and tablets and other miracle devices. They happily trade their souls for a tiny bit of convenience. Or worse, a meaningless distraction.

  I do not own a cell phone or a computer so I can never be traced. Besides, why would I need my own personal version of such devices when there are so many available for the taking?

  The central branch of the Free Library of Philadelphia offers everything I need. It only takes a few minutes of surveillance to pinpoint my target: a doughy man in his mid-forties who is poring over historical tomes with his thin laptop off to his left.

  History bores me almost as much as old sporting matches. You already know the outcome. Why not focus your attention on making history? That’s my objective here in Philadelphia.

  I use a classic distraction technique, bumping into his table with just enough force to send those historical tomes a-tumbling. While the doughy man tries to catch them, I scoop his laptop from the table and immediately make a hairpin turn into the stacks. By the time he realizes what has happened and is shouting for a librarian, who tells him to shush out of reflex, I am already safely hidden in a labyrinth of books.

  In another room, I help myself to a stray USB cable. This is as easy as breathing! Then, in another room after that, I connect the drone’s hardware to my new laptop and start the hunt.

  The owner of this drone hasn’t entered any of his personal information yet, but that’s fine. The IP address is still in its memory, and I log on to a service I frequently use in order to trace it back to its user.

  And that’s when I find it.

  How nice to meet you, Miss Patricia Celano, of 1919 Green Street, Apartment 1-B. I look forward to making your acquaintance in person.

  Chapter 15

  After I’ve gone through just about the craziest Monday I’ve ever had, I’m surprised I’m able to sleep at all.

  Following the crash of Amelia II, I spent the rest of the day in a horrifyingly manic state, checking the peephole through my front door and putting sunglasses on to take a peek through my front windows.

  I’m not saying I was stupid enough to tape my name and address to the body of Amelia II—IN CASE I’M SHOT WITH AN ARROW PLEASE RETURN TO PATRICIA CELANO, 1919 GREEN STREET, APT. 1A. HUGE THANKS!—but a smart creep could, like, trace the serial number or something to find out who bought her. Heck, I’ll bet someone who’s especially determined could go on the so-called dark web and find out how many times I’ve ordered toilet paper in the last year. Why someone would do this, of course, boggles the mind…but you get my point.

  And if Mrs. Archer figures out who I am, then what’s to stop her from showing up at my door, knocking, and politely putting an arrow through my eye?

  Now you might be saying to yourself, But Tricia, why don’t you call those nice tall policemen and tell them what happened?

  Oh, you mean Yates and Sears, the cops who already think I’m a nutcase? I can imagine that exchange already.

  Okay, Ms. Celano, first you tell me that this crazy lady shot a homeless guy with an arrow, and now you’re telling me she shot your toy drone? Why would she do that?

  Seriously, was it homeless, too?

  And what if they decided that I needed to be put under a twenty-four-hour psychiatric watch or something? I can just see it now—the rest of the cops in the squad room will snicker and roll their eyes as they watch me attempt to function through the tinted glass.

  She says she’s allergic to the sun, too—I’m tellin’ ya, ya can’t make this stuff up!

  No, thank you.

  It is much preferable to spend the rest of my day in a state of extreme paranoia.

  Which I do.

  Needless to say, not much work gets done today, either. I seem to be jumping at every single noise outside and checking the peephole and windows every fifteen minutes.

  So at bedtime, I find myself on my mattress in the loft, staring at the ceiling and trying to calm myself down. With every noise comes the urge to climb down the ladder and check the peephole and windows, but I command myself to stay put. And let me tell you, there are a lot of noises at night.

  Eventually, though, I do drift off. At least I think I do. That, or I’m so
crazy I’m losing whole chunks of my memory because the next thing I know there’s a very loud CRACK! at my front window.

  If my eyes weren’t already open, you can bet they’re open now.

  What the heck was that?!

  As if in mocking reply to my panicked mental question, there’s another CRACK!

  And yep, there I am, suddenly sitting up in bed (or, er, on my mattress), doing my best impression of a bat as I try to do some echolocation to pinpoint the origin of that sound.

  For a blessed number of moments, there is no sound at all. All of Philadelphia seems to be absolutely quiet. It’s as if someone hit the Mute button on the entire world.

  And then—

  CRACK!

  My head spins toward the exact location. The god-awful cracking sound is coming from my front windows.

  Could be worse, Tricia. It could be coming from inside the house…

  I crawl off the mattress and somehow force my trembling hands and feet to navigate the ladder all the way down to the floor. As quietly as possible, I make my way across my apartment in the dark. The glow-in-the-dark clock on my wall tells me it’s ten after midnight. Ambient light from outside slices through the edges of my curtains. I would appreciate the spooky film noir ambience of it all if I weren’t so freaking terrified.

  I embark on the same circuit I’ve done what feels like hundreds of times today: I look through the peephole. Then, I push the curtains aside to check out the empty sidewalk on Green Street.

  Only…

  It’s not empty.

  Mrs. Archer is standing there, near the curb, hands in her pockets, looking up at me.