I took a bus across town to withdraw the daily maximum from some random ATM. That would give me enough money to rent a cheap room and pick up a used laptop. Gone, at least temporarily, were plans to build my dream machine.
The ATM was located outside a convenience store. The baseball cap obscured my features. I'd hit a thrift store tomorrow and get out of the club gear, except for the boots. I was still digging the boots.
Out of curiosity, I checked my balance. Then I checked again. There were way too many zeroes in the balance. The account held enough money to leave the country and live in comfort for a lifetime in any of a number of countries.
But that wasn't my money. That kind of money came with strings, and I didn't have a passport or any interest in running away. No, my goal was precisely the opposite. I intended to make myself strong enough to stand up to the Heavenlys. No, that wasn't right either. My goal was to be strong enough that no one would mess with me or the people I loved.
I wiped and reformatted the hard drive in my newly acquired used laptop before I found wifi service reliable enough to download a stash of files I'd hidden on the cloud before I turned my life upside down and married King.
The files contained base programs I'd used in previous projects, a very short contacts list and some identity verification codes that might still gain me access to some of the deepest, darkest websites in the world.
If anonymity was my armor, these tools were my weapons of choice. I sent one email to Stiff. Any action?
Stiff and I had partnered on several projects in the past. He'd remember me. The bigger question was whether he would believe the email came from me. If he did, he would be my quickest reentry point into the game.
I closed down the laptop and headed back to the hotel.
The hotel was a cheap, pay-as-you-go place that accepted cash and didn't ask for proof of ID. The room contained a full-size mattress on a wrought iron frame. The mattress sagged in the middle and smelled of mildew, just like the three-foot by five-foot bathroom. I'd learned the hard way that occupants were expected to provide their own toilet paper.
There was a desk attached to the wall and a straight-back chair. A TV was bolted over the desk, but it was useless. The hotel bill didn't include cable or internet.
I kept the roaches at bay with an all-natural bug repellant. Too bad the repellant didn't work on the pimp and hooker next door. Instead, I invested in noise-cancelling headphones and learned to sleep when they did.
Each day for a week, I took the bus to a different neighborhood in the city to make another withdrawal. Even so, I could have sworn I was followed at the last ATM.
That was a long night as I changed buses twice, and the bus stops were at least a mile apart. Then, I changed things up by calling a car to take me in the opposite direction from my room before I backtracked and spent the night in an abandoned church doorway.
The next morning, I startled awake to the smell of coffee. A smiling priest was waving the coffee cup under my nose.
"Good morning," he said.
"Morning," I mumbled through fetid morning breath.
I clutched my backpack-encased laptop to my chest and stood, ignoring the proffered coffee.
"You look like you could use the coffee. Why don't you come in instead? I'll make breakfast."
"That's okay. I've got to go."
"You sure? I'd enjoy the company. I'm Father DiMarco, by the way. This is my church."
I looked around at the cracked façade and weed-laden landscape.
"I know it doesn't look like much now. Give me six months. You won't recognize the place."
Father DiMarco appeared to be in his mid to late thirties. His face was kind. He had a streak of gray in his dark hair that added an air of debonair grace.
When he asked again if I would join him for breakfast, I followed my instincts and said yes.
The interior of the church wasn't in any better condition than the outside.
"How long have you been here?" I asked.
"Oh, about thirty-six hours, I guess."
"So, no congregation yet?"
"Not yet, but the Lord will provide."
He led me through the sanctuary into the back.
"I've cleaned up the living quarters already, and the kitchen came fully equipped. There's an extra bedroom, if you need a place to stay. I don't need it."
He thought I was homeless. Well, I was, but I wasn't. I had three homes if I counted the hotel, but none of them felt safe.
Oddly, this dilapidated church and this charismatic holy man did feel safe.
Father DiMarco showed me to a seat at the table before digging through the kitchen for breakfast ingredients. It didn't take me long to realize he didn't know much about cooking. The fact he was picking eggshells out of the bowl was a dead giveaway.
"I can cook," I offered, not purely for altruistic reasons.
"Can you now? That would be a true blessing. I've been accused of poisoning dozens with my brand of cooking."
I quickly set about making a couple of omelets while Father DiMarco struggled through three attempts at toast before deeming three slices edible.
"I volunteered for this assignment, you know," Father DiMarco said. "I don't know why, but as soon as I saw a photo of this building, I knew this was where I belonged.
"Of course, it wasn't that easy. I saw the photo while on a committee delegated with the task of closing down a number of locations. For a year, I campaigned to rehabilitate this old place, but it wasn't financially viable."
I must have looked surprised.
"The church is here to nurture spirituality, but that costs money. The congregation is expected to financially support the church in exchange for the nurturing. If there aren't enough financial resources, then it's time to find a more lucrative location regardless of the needs of the parishioners.
"But I can be quite obstinate when I set my mind to it. So, when they denied me for the tenth time or so, I took another tactic. I quit. I quit the church.
"I went to my family and told them I wanted to buy this property. At first, they thought I was crazy, but last month, as if by a miracle, they gave in.
"My parents fronted me my inheritance, so here we are."
"So, you're not a priest anymore?"
"Technically, no, but in my heart, I will always serve a higher power.
"How about letting me start with you? You're in trouble, aren't you? Running away from something?"
I nodded, unsure how much I wanted to tell him.
"Legal or money troubles, or is it a man?"
I didn't answer, but Father DiMarco found his answer some other way.
"A man. Do you have anywhere to go? Family to support you?"
"My mom is dead. I'm afraid to involve my friend."
"Okay. That's good. Well, it's not good, but I'm glad you're not wanted by the law. Never a good situation."
"No, nothing like that."
"Then you should stay here as long as you want. You're safe here, and you cook! You'd be saving my life if you stayed."
That made me smile—not much has made me smile in a long time. "I appreciate the offer, but you don't even know my name. And my husband is an influential man. He could cause problems for you if I stay here."
Father DiMarco leaned toward me. "What is your name?"
"Teela."
"See, one problem solved already.
"Seriously, though, the second I saw you this morning, I had the same feeling I had when I saw the photo of this building. You belong here with me. I have a feeling you and I can do great things together."
"I don't know."
He patted my hand. "Well, you think about it while I do the dishes. I won't force you to stay. I have a feeling you've experienced too much force in your life. I don't want to add to the burden.
"Why don't you take a look around while you wait? I'll find you in a few."
I strolled through the living quarters. While the furniture was worn and the wood floors scarred, the room was neat. The first bedroom was obviously Father DiMarco's as it included personal photos and clothing.
He'd opened the curtains. The sunlight warmed the cozy room. It was a room where someone could curl up with a book and forget the outside world.
The second bedroom was slightly smaller but also bathed in sunlight. A patchwork quilt with matching shams covered the bed. A cushy rug lay next to the bed.
I could envision myself staying there. Maybe I could replace the rocking chair with a desk.
Farther down the hall, I found Father DiMarco's study. It wasn't as neat as the main living area. With so many leather-bound volumes, he probably ran out of time. If I stayed, and the longer I was there, the more likely it was that I would stay, I'd help him.
A laptop sat in the center of the desk. The device was connected to a portable hot spot. I was itching to see if Stiff had responded. Maybe if I set up a VPN and routed my activity through a foreign country, but even then, I knew any hacker as good as me could track my connection back to me.
Father DiMarco joined me. "You can use it if you like. Check your email or Instagram or whatever. Whatever you need."
"I have a laptop, but I could use the hotspot."
Just this one time.