The Cowboy and the Hacker (Farthingdale Valley #5)

2. Cal

Chapter 2

Cal

A s Cal stood in the small cement courtyard of Wyoming Correctional, Cal had been just about to get in the prison van. The van would transport him to Farthingdale Valley and the supposed Mecca of the Farthingdale Valley Fresh Start Program.

Except before Cal could even move in the direction of the van, Preston rolled up in his white, two-door BMW, screeched on the brakes, and leaped out.

“Hey, where are you going?” asked Preston as he strode over, key fob in his fist. His blonde curls danced in the Wyoming wind, and his beautiful blue eyes blazed. “You told me you’d be out by noon, and here it is noon-o-one, and I’m here to take you home with me.”

Cal had talked to Preston the night before during his phone time.

He’d told Preston that he’d be released around noon and that processing would take until after lunch. That is, he’d given Preston a believable time frame, and had prayed to the gods that processing, which actually started at ten, would be done by eleven and that he, Cal, would be long gone by the time Preston arrived.

Unfortunately, the gods were not smiling now. The processing had taken longer than expected, even though Cal was the only prisoner being released or transported that day, so he was still there when Preston arrived.

There was only the guard at the door, the guard who had just signed the last bit of paperwork to turn Cal over to the driver of the van to the valley. Which meant there were only two men to witness Preston hugging Cal.

From where the guard and the driver stood, it probably looked like just a hug, not a hard grip of both of Cal’s biceps, the grab to his neck after that, and the punishing kiss.

As the bruises soaked into his skin, Cal took it all and smiled at the wild, angry look in Preston’s blue eyes, and pretended all was well.

“You can come visit me in the valley after two weeks is up,” Cal told him. “Or is it three weeks? Yes, it’s three weeks. Three Sundays from this past Sunday.”

That was an outright lie, but it would take Preston a while to figure out that he could come on the first Sunday for a visit. Any time from ten am to five pm. He could stay all that time, have lunch with a bunch of ex-cons. So much fun!

Cal needed those two or three weeks to figure out the next phase in his escape plan. Not that most folks would call one year and seven months behind bars—however willingly Cal had gone—an escape plan. But Cal had gone willingly, just to get away from Preston.

Around Preston, he’d learned to move slowly so as not to attract notice. But eventually, he’d had to actually commit the crime while going through the motions of helping Mr. Simms with his computer the next time he called for help.

I think my grandson downloaded something he shouldn’t , Mr. Simms had said. My computer is all wonky and slow now.

Cal quickly discovered it had been Mr. Simms who’d downloaded an online poker app, where he’d been promised big winnings for filling out a short survey after playing a few rounds. It was this information that had allowed malware to be downloaded and installed.

With a sigh, holding back another lecture about how internet security could only do so much, Cal removed the malware. Then he memorized Mr. Simms’ bank information, password, security code, and the name of his first pet.

Cal accepted Mr. Simms’ sincerest gratitude, told him that he could reach out for help at any time, and logged out of RemoteMeIn.

Then, after a mouthful of Bugles, which he crunched through with satisfyingly loud crunches, and a huge swallow of watery, not-quite-cold-enough Coke, Cal logged into Mr. Simms’ bank.

It was all too easy to hack his account. He entered Mr. Simms’ password, then, when questioned— This isn’t your normal computer. What is your pet’s name? —he entered the answer to Mr. Simms’ security question: Mitzi.

It was so easy it made him sick.

Inside of a second, Mr. Simms’ bank account was displayed before him in all its Silent Generation glory, with multiple sub-accounts in large amounts with many zeros.

Mr. Simms had worked hard as a plumber for years and was living the high life in Sun City, Arizona, with his beloved wife Carla and their poodle dog Mitzi.

Cal knew all this because Mr. Simms— Call me Bert —had, over the years, told him about his life. About the war. About Bert’s sister in St. Augustine, Florida, who wanted Bert and Carla to move near her. How Carla was afraid of sharks and didn’t want to move, but if Bert really wanted to, she would move. She’ll even let me get a pontoon , Bert had said. We’re going to name it Calypso. You know, after the song?

Cal didn’t know which song that was, but he’d agreed readily. It was like talking to the grandfather Cal never had.

He grabbed a thousand dollars. Paused. Grabbed a couple thousand more. It didn’t matter because the account he was sending the money to wasn’t real.

He entered any old routing number and account number. Bank name. All of it made up.

The transfer request would process. Churn for a while. Get kicked back.

The bank would be alerted to the failed transfer, see that it was fraudulent. They would down the account and notify Mr. Simms.

They would also notify the Wire Fraud Division of the freaking F.B.I., who would then investigate and, after following the very broad trail that Cal had laid out, they would find him, arrest him, and lock him up.

Cal clicked the submit button, then blocked the whole thing out of his mind so that when the police arrived at his door a week later, his shock at being discovered was real.

So that when Preston screamed at him during visiting hours at Wyoming Correctional—only once a week, thank God—Cal’s contrition was real. And his self defense— I did everything right. No mistakes —sounded very much like the truth.

It was only in the darkness of his prison cell that he could secretly admit to himself that he’d planned his own demise because doing time behind bars was preferable to even one more kiss from that pretty mouth in its round face surrounded by bouncing blond curls.

As for now, in the cement courtyard of Wyoming Correctional, Preston held onto him hard and squeezed his forearm, which made Cal wince.

“I have to get in the van, Pres,” said Cal, calling his erstwhile boyfriend by the pet name. To distract him. To give Preston something to complain about while Cal looked at the driver with widened his eyes, and silently asked for help.

Normally, asking for help wasn’t something he was really good at, but this time, it worked.

“I’ve got a schedule to keep,” said the driver, and while he didn’t physically disconnect Preston’s hand from Cal’s arm, he was big and beefy and sort of loomed over Preston and waved his old-fashioned clipboard in Preston’s face. “This isn’t my only delivery today.”

Knowing it actually was the driver’s only delivery that day, Cal gave the driver a grateful nod, and ignored Preston’s sputtering as he gingerly freed himself.

“Gotta go,” Cal said, one hand on the open van door, slid back, dusty white, the metal handle warm in the Wyoming sunshine. “But I’ll see you in three weeks, okay? Three Sundays from yesterday.”

“You better believe it,” said Preston with a hard, wide grin.

Cal knew that grin well because he’d seen it many times, just before Preston would explode. But he couldn’t explode with witnesses, and currently there were two. The guard and the driver. And while they might be fooled by that smile, they had protocols to follow, and schedules to keep, and they were very well trained, very experienced, in suppressing violence.

As Cal clambered into the van, he could feel Preston’s fingers pulling on the edge of his t-shirt, but he kept going.

He slid into the front row of seats and waved from the shadowy interior of the van. Waved in the direction of the sun hitting those golden curls and only took a deep breath—the deepest—when the driver slid the van door shut with a loud, metallic thump.

As the driver lumbered into the driver’s seat, and did drivery things like buckle himself in and start the engine, Cal knew that he didn’t care where the van was headed. They could have been off the edge of a cliff for all he cared.

He didn’t even look over his shoulder at Preston as the van trundled around the courtyard of Wyoming Correctional, spun a little gravel over Preston’s nice white paint job, and sped off along a two-lane blacktopped road toward a blank space in Cal’s future. Blank enough to figure out what to do next.