The I.P.O. (19 page)

“They set me up, so they’re definitely aware that
someone’s
been in their system, and I think there’s a good chance that by now the IT security guy over there knows it’s me.”

Dillon sounded scared – or maybe just nervous – anyway, something outside his typical spectrum of emotions, which ranged from insulted to angry. 

“What are you gonna do?” Ryan asked.

“I’ve got some ideas, but I’m not sure how much they know yet.  Let’s just say I could potentially be in a lot of trouble.  I've spent all morning kind of re-evaluating my goals.  Don’t worry, I’m not planning on going down without a fight, and trust me, at least on some level I
will
get my revenge.

“Anyway, I have a bunch of Avillage information that only I know, and if I’m taken out of play, that information is gone.  You’re the closest thing I have to a confidant, so I’m going to share it
all
with you.  Nothing picked over or edited this time.  I probably should’ve done it a long time ago.

“I’ve transferred all my data onto an external hard drive, and I’m mailing it to your home address in Cleveland.  I want you to read everything and then destroy the hard drive – really destroy it.  Be paranoid for once in your life.  Hack it up and dispose of the pieces in different locations.  Your brain is essentially a secure hard drive that no one else can access.”

“Yeah, sure,” Ryan said.  “I’ll look out for it, but I think you’re overreacting.  When they find out you’re one of theirs, you’ll probably get off with a slap on the wrist.”

“We’ll see, but I doubt it.  Oh, and don’t waste your time with Jared Ralston's email.  It was overrun with spam.  All the old stuff’s gone.” 

There were a few seconds of radio silence before Dillon added, “You’ve been a great friend.”

~~~

“Sir?” Corbett said, walking right into Bradford’s office.  There would be no waiting anxiously outside the door with news this big.  “I’ve got the hacker’s identity.  And he’s one of ours.”

“An employee?!”

“No.  An orphan.  Dillon Higley – ticker symbol DILN.  He’s a computer programmer and app developer.  Actually been quite profitable.”

“Who’s his chairman?” Bradford demanded.

“Tom Erskine in orphan ID.”

“Good.  Never even heard of him,” Bradford said, staring at his monitor as his index finger stroked the wheel of his mouse.  “I don’t have a single share.  Prescott’s got his standard 2%, but he hasn’t been buying.

“Leave me his contact info, and I’ll take it from here,” Bradford said.  “Do not tell
anyone
about this!”

“Yes sir.”

“And Corbett?”

“Sir?”

“Nice work,” Bradford managed, as much as it pained him to do so.

As soon as Corbett left the office, Bradford changed all of his passwords and got to work researching Dillon.  He learned that his father was a hacker and that his father’s sentence had been extended on a terrorism charge.  Dillon had never gelled with his adoptive family, but he was a consistently productive app developer.

A cursory review of his financial statements though showed that the dividends his stock was paying out were far too high for the amount of money the apps brought in.  It turned out that almost half the money he was bringing in was in the form of capital gains – from trading other Avillage listings. 

Got him,
Bradford thought, his sneer morphing into an icy grin, as he typed out an email to Dillon.

Dear Mr. Higley,

I hope you have enjoyed snooping around our intranet.  I am quite confident that you did not find whatever it was you were looking for.

Currently I am weighing my options with respect to what my next step should be.  Before I go to the authorities, I’d like to give you the opportunity to tell me your side of the story and, possibly, tell me what you might be willing to do to keep this issue out of the legal system.

Let me remind you that corporate espionage is a potentially serious federal charge, especially when the perpetrator profits from it.  And I see that you have done remarkably well trading Avillage equities.

As you have probably already discovered, I don’t conduct any important business over email.  I will be in the Boston area next Friday.  We can discuss this in person then at a location of your choosing.

I look forward to hearing from you.

Aaron Bradford

Executive Vice President, Avillage, Inc.

Send.

He leaned back contentedly in his office chair, imagining the panic that would be coursing through Dillon’s veins the next time he opened his email.  But his pleasant daydream only lasted half a minute before it was rudely interrupted by the chime of a new email.

It was from Dillon.  It simply read, “Northbound rest area Interstate-95 just across New Hampshire border.  Noon.”

CHAPTER 12

All packed up and ready to move out, Ryan still had almost twenty-four hours to kill before his parents would arrive to pick him up for summer break, and the last thing he wanted to do was spend that time alone, holed up in his even-more-barren-than-usual dorm room.  He needed a change of scenery.  He didn’t really care where.  Just some place different.

After running into the bank to take out a few hundred dollars cash, he scampered down the stairs of the T station at Harvard Square and hopped on the red line toward Boston South, where he bought a round trip Amtrak ticket to New York.

Maybe Annamaria would be available, maybe she wouldn’t, but after traveling all morning, he couldn’t foresee chickening out on at least calling her.  Worst-case scenario, he’d spend the afternoon in Manhattan.  Either way, it would beat sitting in his dorm.

As the Amtrak express train squealed to a stop into bay 3 at Penn Station just past noon, Ryan finally willed his thumb down to the green phone icon on his phone’s touch screen – and then froze.  Annamaria answered on the first ring.

“Hello?” 

Silence. 

Having put all his effort into initiating the call, he hadn’t thought far enough ahead to consider what he was actually going to say if she answered.

“Hello?” 

More silence.  He was about to hang up when he heard her say his name.

“Ryan?  Is that you? I can’t hear you.”

“Uh, can you hear me now?” he stammered.

“Oh yeah.  Now I can.  Loud and clear,” she said casually, obviously not sharing his anxiety.  “So what’s up?”

“Uh, it’s nothing major.  But I didn’t know if maybe... you might have any time to talk sometime today?”

“Sure.  My shoot’s about to start back up, but I’ll be done in a couple hours.  You want to call me back?”

“I could...” Ryan said, his heart pounding.  “But is there any chance we might be able to meet up in person?”

“Oh.  Well,” she hesitated, “I don’t think I can make it back up to Boston again this soon.”

“No.  I... uh... I actually just arrived in New York.”  He paused, shaking his head.  That had to sound weird.  “I don’t know how you feel about stalkers?”

“I love them. 
Love
them!”  Annamaria laughed.  “Hey, let me give you a call when I’m done.  I’m staying at the Peninsula Hotel, if you want to head over that way.”

“Awesome.  Oh, and if you don’t mind, can you just give me your room number?  I brought some of my higher-powered telephoto lenses down with me, and I just need to know where to aim them.”

To Ryan’s relief, she laughed again – a bubbly carefree laugh that reached through the phone and demanded reciprocity.  “I’ll see you in a couple hours,” she giggled.  He was feeling better already.

But as he walked out of the train station onto W 31st street to start the 25 block trek toward the hotel, the melancholy seeped back in.  The stagnant New York air was thick, holding on to every scent the city had to offer, and the low-hanging sky was a virulent gray that seemed to infect everything it came in contact with, somehow sapping the color from both heaven and earth. 

By the time his phone rang an hour and a half later, his mind was once again wholly consumed with what had led him to New York in the first place.

Then he caught sight of Annamaria stepping out of the lobby of the Peninsula.  The world stood still for a moment as she walked out in a plain white V-neck T-shirt paired with well-worn jeans and flip-flops, an ensemble that tens (if not hundreds) of thousands of other women in the city were futilely trying to wear like she did. 

She made fleeting eye contact with Ryan and then headed north into Central Park, as Ryan followed at an inconspicuous distance. 

A hundred yards or so into the park, she veered off the asphalt path toward a large steep-faced boulder with a flat top under a mature elm tree.  Ryan tried his best not to struggle as he scaled the nine-foot rock to join her at the top.  And at last, they sat side by side, their legs dangling off the front of the boulder, nearly invisible to the rest of the city.

“Nice spot,” Ryan said, squeezing his knees together to prevent any potentially misinterpretable touching of their legs.

“Yeah, I found it last time I was here on a shoot.  Every so often, I’ll leave my phone in my room and walk down here – just to think; stare off into nothing for a little while; cry sometimes.  I’ve never been bothered here.  You’re kind of away from everything.  But I like that I can still hear the city.  It’s kind of comforting.”

He gave her a silent nod that told her he got it.  He knew the fine line between solitude and isolation, and he’d found himself on both sides of it at different times alone with his thoughts.

“But you’re the first person I’ve shown this place to,” she said with a fragile smile, trying to keep the mood from getting too somber.  “So congratulations!”

Ryan took his phone out of his pocket and pretended to take a picture.  “Gimme just a sec here.  I’m gonna upload this location to my Facebook page and then tweet it out real fast.”

Annamaria laughed and threw her shoulder into his, nearly knocking him off the rock.  “So how have you been?” she asked with a playful smirk.  “Why did you come to visit me?”

He strained to smile back at her, but his expression read more sorrow than joy, and eventually his eyes fell to the ground below.

“What is it?” she asked, gently placing her hand on his shoulder.

“I just found out that my mom was pregnant when she died.”

“Oh my God.  How do you know?”

“I read an email between her and my dad.  They were gonna surprise me with the news the night of the car wreck. 

“It’s just that...”  He paused, staring straight ahead, shaking his head slowly.  “I always wanted a sibling.”

“I’d give anything to have mine back,” Annamaria whispered.

Ryan continued, “And I’ve started to remember some things that might not be significant, but after hearing what happened to you and listening to Dillon’s rants, I’m starting to wonder if Avillage really is behind a lot of this.  Maybe Dillon’s right.  Maybe part of every dollar I ever make will be padding the bank accounts of my parents’ – my family’s – killers.”

Annamaria took Ryan’s hand in hers, ready to listen for as long as he wanted to talk.

“This is gonna sound weird,” he confessed with a nervous a laugh, “but the most impactful thing my parents ever said to me was after they’d already died.  I mean, I know it wasn’t really them, but it seemed real.  And it’s what they would’ve said if they could have. 

“My dad told me that I was their everything – even more so since they were gone.  And then my mom told me to do four things.  She said, ‘Make a difference.  Be happy.  Love.  And be loved.’

“‘Make a difference’ was first. 

“That’s always been my  biggest motivation – trying to be their legacy.  But now I’m almost done with college, and what I’m good at is taking tests and making money.  That’s not what they cared about.”

“What do
you
care about?” Annamaria asked.

“I care about my family.”  That was a cop out though.  Who didn’t care about their family?  He thought for a while before coming up with a real answer, as if it were the first time he’d ever considered the question.  “And I guess I care about us Avillage orphans.  Even Dillon. 

“I mean, look at us.  We’re a pretty complex group of... anomalous individuals – outliers, I guess you could say.  All of us have come from tragedy early in our lives, yet most of us have achieved or are at least on our way to achieving some level of what society would call success. 

“But I think we still resent and fear some malevolent puppet master behind the scenes at Avillage headquarters.  And I think most of us have never come to grips with the trauma from our childhoods.”

“I know I haven’t,” Annamaria said.  “But I know what I have to do.  If I could ever work up the nerve to do it.

“I’ve gotta go back to Panama.  Back to the orphanage in Rainbow City and confront my old headmaster.  Then, somehow, find a way to be of some use to those kids again.  That’s what I care about.  And I used to be good at it.  Thing is, I don’t know if anyone could even take me seriously at this point.”

He looked Annamaria squarely in the eye still squeezing her hand firmly, his voice now even and steady.  “Annamaria, listen to me.  It’s incredible that you’ve been able to get where you are right now with everything you’ve been through.  I’m not saying you’re not beautiful.  You are.  But don’t ever let anyone try and convince you that you got where you are on your looks.  Your looks nearly damned you. They were an obstacle you had to overcome.  And you did it.”

She smiled appreciatively, her lower lip quivering.

“And I hate to say it right now, but I actually have to get back to Boston.  My train leaves in half an hour.  Thank you for talking to me.  I know it was quick and I hogged most of the conversation, but you have no idea how helpful it was.  And if you
ever
need someone better – or I should probably say different – than your rock in central park to talk to, I’m here.  Any time.”

~~~

Anxiety was a foreign concept to James Prescott.  But right now he was anxious. 

From the day he’d turned thirty, he’d never fluctuated more than five pounds north or south of 180.  At his last doctor’s appointment he weighed in at 170.  That seemingly insignificant finding had led to a thorough exam, which then led to routine blood tests and eventually a series of CT scans.

Today, he’d be getting the results.  His doctor had politely but emphatically declined to provide them to him by phone, encouraging him to come in to discuss them in person, as soon as possible. 

Doctors don’t get paid for phone calls; they get paid for office visits
, Prescott reminded himself cynically, but he knew deep down that the news couldn’t be good. 

And so he waited – alone in the bright, airy, teal and stone waiting room of the Executive Health Clinic of New York-Presbyterian Hospital.  Too keyed up to sit, he began to pace, intermittently looking over at the receptionist for some indication he might be on the verge of being called back.

Technically, he was still early.  But, they had to know that his time was infinitely more valuable than the doctor’s.  Wasn’t that the point of the Executive Health program?  That people like him wouldn’t have to wait?

Finally reaching a boiling point, he approached the desk with an uncharacteristically disingenuous smile.  “I’m sorry, ma’am.  It’s been nearly fifteen minutes.  Is there any way you could page Dr. Timmons?”

Before the receptionist had a chance to respond, Prescott heard the “clack” of the mechanical door to the back of the office unlatch, and the door slowly swung open.  Dr. Timmons stepped through into the waiting room and greeted him with his characteristic firm handshake – but not the exuberant, bordering on brown-nosing, smile Prescott had become accustomed to.

They walked in silence, Dr. Timmons in front and Prescott following closely behind, past their customary exam room and down the hall to a small conference room, where two middle-aged women in white coats were waiting, projecting the same deliberate lack of expression Dr. Timmons had.  More evidence of bad news in Prescott’s mind.  These were clearly colleagues, not assistants.  And while “multidisciplinary care” had been an enticing feature in selecting this particular health plan, realizing that he would soon be needing it was sickening.

Dr. Timmons introduced his colleagues, a radiologist and a medical oncologist, offered Prescott a seat, which he politely refused, and then started in a soothing tone, “I wish we had better news for you, Mr. Prescott.  But your CT scan of the abdomen was abnormal.  There appears to be a mass in your pancreas, and it took up the contrast we gave you.  Now, we don’t know exactly what we’re dealing with at this...”

“What do you
think
we’re dealing with?” Prescott interrupted.

“Well, what we need to do to figure that out is more testing, which is what I was leading up to.”

Prescott was unimpressed.  “You could have told me I needed more testing over the phone,” he said pointedly.  “In your professional opinion, what do you
think
we’re dealing with?”

“In my professional opinion – well, in
our
combined professional opinion – the findings would be most consistent with... with pancreatic cancer.”

Prescott nodded with no change in expression.  He knew among cancers that was a bad one.  “And is it confined to the pancreas?”

“There was a spot in the liver as well,” Dr. Timmons answered, knowing there was no way he’d be able to get away with sidestepping the question.  “But that spot was also non-specific.”

“What kind of life expectancy am I looking at?” Prescott asked emotionlessly.

“Mr. Prescott,” his doctor sighed.  “There’s no way to answer that.”

“I’ll have my assistant look it up before I even get back to my office.  Just save me the time.  What is the life expectancy for someone with metastatic pancreatic cancer?”