January 28th 2006
“So let me get this clear,” she says, looking at me as if I have to be kidding, “You want me to risk my ass doing research on a random person, but don’t want me to know the reason?”
“Pretty much,” I mutter, keeping a straight face.
She scoffs, clearly amused, “Damn… you celebrities really do need to get off that pedestals of yours.”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re just always like, ‘Oh, normal, ordinary mortal, we need your help, but…no no no, you can’t know what it’s about! The world will come to an end if you do!’”
“You do seem to forget you’re a reporter,” I counter, not impressed.
“It’s just a job, Dorough, it’s not what I am. Besides, I’m not really a reporter, more like a… hacker. But that doesn’t sound as cool.”
“Wait, so you’re not a reporter?” I ask, a little bemused.
“No,” she sulks, “I just search stuff out for the reporters.”
I can’t help but laugh and she throws me an accusing stare. I look back at her with a bright smile as I slowly sip my coffee. I don’t know what gave me the idea to call Carry exactly, but I’m glad I did. She’s like a fresh wind, clearing my head. It’s, yeah, refreshing. And although I have no intention on laying out any details for her, it feels good to have an outsider look at the matter for a change. It’s, well… refreshing.
“Don’t laugh at me! I get paid, isn’t that what everything is about?” she exclaims and my face turns serious.
“Not so loud! You want the whole diner to hear us?” I ask, looking around fearfully. The diner had been exceptionally quiet, which was probably why I chose this to meet with her in the first place. She rolled her eyes.
“They don’t care,” she murmurs, “So tell me more about this Peter guy.”
I shrug, “There’s not much to tell, I mean, that’s why I need the info.”
“Come on, you must know something! Where else am I gonna start looking for him?”
In the blink of an eye, she has pulled out a laptop of her bag, watching me expectantly. I hesitate, feeling Brian’s phone getting heavier in the pocket of my jeans. I had ever so sneaky stole it out of Harold’s possession, who would clearly kill me if he knew. Despite my desperate apologies, I have no intention of giving up on my search.
I feel my hand throb dully as a reminder of my mistake.
Leighanne had been very serious when she told me not to come near her husband again. So I hadn’t, I didn’t deserve to either. AJ and Nick kept me updated on changes. Well, they pretend to anyway. A few days ago I’d seen Nick with this haunted look in his eyes, but he wouldn’t tell me for the life of him what was going on. Of course my worry only grew. So sitting here in this empty diner with Carry feels… well… refreshing.
“P-Peter Robins,” I stammer, looking at her.
“Jesus Christ, Dorough, do you know how many Peter Robins’ there are on this planet?” She gives me an exasperated sigh, lowering the top half of her computer to get a better look at me.
“No,” I answer truthfully, shaking my head for emphasis. I feel so stupid for not knowing things sometimes. “But he’s Canadian, and really, really tall.”
“Right, like that’s gonna get us somewhere,” she sighs sarcastically. Just for my benefit, she starts typing.
“Well, there are like fifty Peter Robins’ on Google alone.”
I get up slowly, walking around the booth and planting myself next to her. Staring at the computer screen, I narrow my eyes, trying to see if I can make out anything familiar. Right, like you’d plant your face on Google if you were into killing people. I remember AJ telling me that there was no Canadian Peter Robins in any criminal database, so that one went out of the window as well. We desperately needed more information than just ‘tall’, ‘Canadian’, and “douche-bag.”
“He was a little older than me,” I mumble slowly, digging into the furthest parts of my memory for any slip of info about the bastard. “From ’72, I think.”
Obediently, Carry placed the year into the search-bar. Not much happened. “Well, it was worth the shot,” she says softly, “Does he have a middle name, or anything?”
I shrug hopelessly, looking down into my coffee cup. “I dunno…” I mutter eventually.
“What’s so important about him anyway,” she wonders out loud, knowing I won’t give her an exact answer. “Does he have to do with that suicide attempt?”
“It wasn’t suicide!” I snarl before knowing what I’m saying. Her eyebrows shoot up a mile in the air, before coming down in a frown.
“How do you know that?” she asks, tilting her head slightly.
“F-forget what I said, just… just forget it, alright?” I say, clumsily stumbling out of the booth.
“Where are you going?” she snaps, grabbing my arm.
“This was a mistake. I don’t want to get you involved in this mess. Trust me, you don’t want that.”
“I wouldn’t have taken your invitation if I wasn’t the least bit curious what it was about, I’ll admit that, but you can trust me. It’ll stay off the record. I’m not a reporter, remember?”
I hesitatingly sit back down, sighing wearily. “Well, I guess there isn’t any involving going on if we don’t get anywhere with this,” I say, pointing at the computer screen in annoyance.
Carry nods, sitting back as well. “Well…”
“Well?”
“What do we know about him?”
“He was a friend of Brian’s, like years ago,” I mumble, “I only remember he was like this, big friendly giant that would follow him around like a puppy. It was kinda creepy at some points.”
She nods, “What happened?”
“I’m not sure,” I tell her, “Nick says Brian ended the friendship with Peter at some point. We haven’t heard from him ever since.”
“How does that tie into everything?”
“Got me,” I shrug again, “I mean, it was almost seven years ago. It shouldn’t tie into anything. But it does, for some reason.”
“Can you please stop being so vague? Does this Peter dude have to do anything with what happened to Brian?”
“I have reason to believe he does,” I declare darkly, finally pulling out the phone that is still in my pocket.
“What’s that?”
“Brian’s phone,” I mumble, turning it over a few times in my hands. It’s battered and dented, hanging together only by the duct tape Harold wrapped around it. It was a God’s miracle the thing still works. “There’s only outgoing messages though.”
“You do realize you’ve completely lost me at this point, right?” she says uncertainly.
“It was an accident,” I mutter, reading the message over and over like I’ve done for the past three days. It’s like another code, another note to decipher, like the note with the numbers, only this time, it’s completely not making sense. At all. Peter was Brian’s friend. A very close one.
Why would he do anything to hurt him? Unless….
It was an accident.
I gulp, looking up in a flash. If it was an accident, that would explain why he hasn’t shown up anywhere yet. Maybe he’s hiding somewhere. In shame. Guilt perhaps. If so, we should be able to find him. But why… why would it be an outgoing message? That didn’t make sense. But it was something.
“So, you’re a hacker, right?” I asked and she rolled her eyes.
“I prefer you not called me that. Hacker sounds so… so illegal.” As to prove her point, she hastily whips her head around to see if anyone has heard us. “I also have a real job, you know. Officially, I’m a photographer.”
“That’s great,” I mutter, “But can you hack into the Westminster Hotel?”
She gives me a look, “You don’t really listen to anything I say, do you?”
I shrug, “Only the important stuff.”
Carry nods theatrically, and then starts to type frantically on the computer. I wait patiently. I have no idea how people do these things, but she seems like she knows what she’s doing. In record speed she opens windows, unravels passwords and types in commands that don’t make any sense to me.
“So what you wanna know?” her voice suddenly states and I blink, realizing she’s stopped typing and is now looking at me. Unbelievable. It took her only ten minutes.
Westminster might have to look into a new security system.
“Was there…” I swallow as my throat suddenly went dry, “Was there a Peter Robins checked in around November 14th?”
“Let’s find out.”
It takes another five minutes, but then Carry turns towards me with an disappointed look, “There’s not even one Peter Robins in the data around that time. Can I ask you something?”
“S-sure,” I answer uncertainly.
“When did they break up?”
I give her an annoyed stare, “They were just friends.”
“You know what I mean.”
“About seven years ago, according to Nick.”
“Do you know why?”
“No,” I frown, “In 1999 we had all bunches of friends, I wasn’t going to bother finding out why Brian stopped hanging around with one of them.”
“Fair enough,” she admits, “But doesn’t it seem weird? Him breaking up with one of his friends all of a sudden, with no explanation, and you guys never seeing the guy again?”
“If you put it like that…” I sigh, “But it was none of our business.”
“I bet you wish it had been now.”
I stare at her for a moment. She’s right. But that doesn’t change anything. “It’s been a long time ago,” I answer weakly.
“And nobody knows what happened,” she concludes. Suddenly, her hands are typing again. We’re back at Google, and I exasperatedly roll my eyes. What does she think is going to come of this?
“What if,” she starts, her hands unstoppable and her eyes glued to the screen, “Something happened in ’99? You guys were big back then right?”
Were. The word stings, but I don’t comment. With growing confusion I watch her dismiss a number of sites, all the while she keeps talking. “If anything major happened between them, we would have known. It would have been in the papers everywhere. So it must be something else. Something hidden.”
“We don’t even know if anything happened,” I counter skeptically.
“Come on, you said he followed Brian around like a puppy. No way they just broke up.”
“Again, they were just friends.”
“Does this look like anything you’re looking for?” She questions suddenly, turning the screen so I can see it as well.
Suddenly, there doesn’t seem to be enough air in the stuffy diner. I turn towards Carry with a panicked look.
She frowns in concern.
“You okay? Is it him?”
I can’t seem to get a word out of my throat, staring at the site on the laptop. It’s a news article, a small one, from 1999. It’s not front-page, it’s not anything worth mentioning at all, if you didn’t know what it was about.
It was a missing person report, created by a Seth Mackles.
Peter Caleb Robins, Dark hair, tall (6’5’), strong build.
26 years old. Missing since February 16th 1999. Last seen in Livingston, New Jersey. If you’ve seen this man, or know anything about his whereabouts, please contact Seth Mackles.
I frown deeply, my eyes glued to the picture of a black-haired Canadian. Unmistakably the Peter Robins we’re looking for. And unmistakably the Peter Robins that has apparently been missing since 1999.
Author's Chapter Notes:
to understand this chapter a little better, I suggest you read chapter 21. Like It's 1999 again before reading this one. Just a tip
Chapter End Notes:
Bam! Plot-Twist! Or maybe not...
