TAKEDOWN Page 3

  Al's car warmed quickly, and he stripped off his cap to reveal short, thick sandy hair. His gloves came off massive hands and he unzipped his jacket. Jane followed his lead and removed her wool beret. Al's blue eyes glanced approvingly at her shiny dark shoulder-length hair and ample lips.

  Al talked about business. It was safe, and Jane relaxed. A smile lit his rugged features when Jane took a pen and notepad from her purse to record important points.

  "Your boss said you use those Mac computers," he commented.

  "Yes."

  "Aren't you all worried they'll go out of business?"

  Jane bit her tongue. Educate the client, educate the client. "Apple? No. Photoshop renders images faster on the Macs, and the machines don't crash nearly as often. They don't get viruses. We're more productive because we don't waste time putting the chain back on the bicycle every time it falls off. And you know, Steve Jobs is back at Apple, and he's brilliant."

  "Oh." He adjusted the rearview mirror.

  As they passed Princeton Al talked about his patent pending on bass jigs. By the time they neared the Milaca exit he'd moved on to sizes, colors (chartreuse-pumpkin was a hot seller) and an explanation of glow-in-the-dark synthetic crawdads. As they flew by Onamia he waxed on about manufacturing issues and outsourcing to China to keep costs down, because, after all, the competition was already there.

  Jane took copious notes and maintained an engaging expression throughout the drive. It was tiring, but she nodded, suggested tips and testimonials pages for the site, and she even offered to create original animated gif images, like fish jumping onto hooks.

  Al liked her marketing ideas, and he had a few of his own. He'd visited the Tacklemart website too, and he wanted his to be better. Jane assured him they'd provide a better and more delightful customer experience.

  Al decided to park in a lodge lot, as they planned to walk out onto the ice. His fish house was a safe-looking thirty yards from shore. Al pulled two sleds from the back of the SUV, and he loaded rods, tackle boxes, buckets, an ice chest, and the auger onto the larger of the two. There was room for Jane's purse and book bag.

  "You didn't tell me I'd be a mule," she joked.

  "I'm an organic guy. Besides, Rob said you're the best he has," Al commented, "and I figured he meant smart and strong." He paused. "I didn't count on pretty."

  Jane reddened and turned away.

  "I hope I didn't embarrass you."

  "It's ok," she sputtered. "I'm not used to hearing such fluff and nonsense."

  He looked surprised.

  "Let's go catch some fish."

  "You bet," he replied. "I'll be fishing outside as well. Heck, this is great weather."

  Jane groaned inwardly and yanked on the sled rope. She trudged forward quickly, leaving him to catch up with his heavier haul.

  After they arrived at the fish house they unloaded everything, and Al spent a few minutes showing off the tackle and putting it on the lines. "I'll teach you how to jig." He positioned Jane to watch him. "I'm using a half ounce lure. You keep the lure one to two feet off the bottom, and jig. You let it touch the bottom and then bob it up a couple times." He jerked slightly on the rod. "Let it fall back down to touch the bottom, and then go again. See?"

  "Yes, I see."

  "Keep your rod down, so you have room to jerk when you get a bite. If you have the rod up at a ninety degree angle," he demonstrated, "you can't jerk farther back."

  "Makes sense."

  "I'll teach you the finer points as we go along. I'm going to start you with a heavier jig because you have to learn how to feel what's going on down there, and a beginner needs to start with something they can feel."

  "Sounds good." She nodded.

  By early afternoon, using the All-Pro lures baited with minnows, they'd scored their walleye limit, all keepers, and Jane caught one over 30 inches long. They also hauled in a mess of perch.

  Around 1:30 PM they started packing up. "I didn't think we'd make our limit so soon," Al lamented.

  "I didn't realize I'd have so much fun," Jane admitted.

  He looked at her as if she had two heads. "Of course it's fun, and challenging. You can't see what's under water. You rely on skill and intuition, and there's luck involved. It's like life. Will you come out again?"

  Jane thought about it. "May I bring my friend next time?"

  "Of course. She's single?" He smiled broadly.

  "In fact she is, but she might be dating someone."

  "Ah. Well, we'd better get back. Your boyfriend will be waiting," Al said a bit too offhandedly.

  He's fishing for more than walleye . . . and I'm not going to bite. "Yes, it is a poke back to the cities," Jane replied in an even tone.

  Chapter 6

  It turned out Al Longren liked Neil Diamond tunes -- and singing the lyrics off-key between verses -- as much as he liked fishing. Jane listened to "Play Me" and "Forever in Blue Jeans" and "Kentucky Woman" five times each before they rolled into the Northtown Mall lot. If Al had played Diamond's croons in the shack she wouldn't have needed fancy lures. Jane would have reached down the holes and killed the fish with her bare hands.

  She tried to shake off the music headache. As it was still early -- a hair past 3 PM -- she decided to stroll inside Northtown to do some shopping before heading home. Maybe she'd treat herself to an Orange Julius. It was too late to return to the office anyway, and the large mall was a tempting offering after spending the day in an eight-by-ten foot ice shanty.

  After she stowed her stuff in her Cavalier she turned and thanked Al, and they set up a time to meet at the office the next week. Then Jane stuffed her hat in her pocket and bare-headed it to the east mall entrance, to dive into a mind-numbing and relaxing window-shopping experience.

  The Karmelkorn aroma hit her as she swung through the double doors, and the breeze blew her hair in five directions. She pushed it back behind her ears, unzipped her jacket, and walked over the bright tile to scan the mall directory. Then she remembered her promise to call Sandy, so she sat down on a green bench in the concourse and pulled her coveted Motorola StarTAC clamshell phone from her purse. She punched the buttons.

  "Valley View Web Designers, Sandy speaking," came the voice at the other end.

  "Hey Sandy, Jane sang out. I survived the fishing trip!"

  "Great! I'm multitasking. Wait while I put you on speakerphone." Sandy paused. "Go ahead."

  Jane hated speakerphone. Sandy loved it. "You're working smarter, not harder, Sandy, but now you sound like you're talking from inside a tin can."

  "Stop gassing about it, Jane. I'm increasing my productivity. I can bill a client while we're talking. So, how'd it go?"

  "Well, there's nothing salacious to report, but guess what? I caught an enormous walleye!"

  "Yeah? Maybe it was a set up."

  "No way. It was my own skill and genius, I tell ya'."

  "Awesome. You're an "afishionado". Get it?"

  Jane groaned. "You and puns."

  "It's the highest form of humor!"

  "So you say. How's things at the office?"

  "You didn't miss much here, Jane. Only the strange men in the parking lot watching us all come in after lunch."

  "Strange men?"

  "Yeah. They were sitting in two standard government-issue looking cars. You know, the black ones with the big bumpers. Shelly thinks they're gearing up to arrest those crooks two doors down from us."

  "The nail salon?"

  "SCOM Finance. Does the place seem like it's not on the up and up or what? People call it "scum" finance."

  "Geez, I dunno. Sandy. I've never been in there."

  "I can't wait to get the perp-walk photos. So . . . was Mr. Tackle . . . as hot as the ice was cold?"

  "Eh. Easy on the eyes, but he listens to Neil Diamond."

  "Oh," she laughed, "you have my condolences."

  Jane heard something fall in the background, and a muffled scream, and . . . someone making popcorn? Pop, pop, pop. Must be noise
from the Karmelkorn stand.

  "Sandy, what's going on there?"

  "Shit!"

  What the hell?

  Suddenly Jane heard high-pitched screams and running. Heavy footfalls. She thought she heard . . . what? Gunshots? People were yelling in the cubicles, followed by more fearful screaming.

  Sandy was sputtering. "No. No!"

  Then Jane heard another voice she couldn't identify, close by. "One is missing. The one on the board named Jane Nelson. Her magnet is in the "out" column." Something in his voice silenced Jane. It was gruff and urgent in tone, and creepy.

  Sandy's voice again. "No, oh please don't. Don't shoot!"

  Jane's pulse raced. Her vision blurred, as if she were being sucked into a black vortex.

  "Where's Jane Nelson?" shouted the strange voice. "I heard someone else in here when I came down the hall. "We're missing one!" he shouted.

  "I-I-I d-don't know. She didn't come in to work today. She's with a client." Sandy was breathless and her voice was strained. She was scared. Then it sounded like she was choking and vomiting.

  Jane's heart pounded panic. Her fingers clutched the phone in a death grip.

  The mall Muzak system droned a stringy version of "Silent Night". Crowds of Christmas shoppers were toting colorful bags, strolling and chatting, oblivious to the massacre happening in real time on Jane's phone.

  Sandy begged for mercy. Three shots pierced Jane's right ear. She felt a sudden tightness in her chest, and her brain screamed. "Oh, oh, oh," she gasped.

  No! Next Jane heard the sound of a chair collapsing, followed by staggering footsteps, and then quiet. In her mind's eye she saw Sandy folding to the floor, and she knew she'd never erase the image from her mind.

  Jane's hands were shaking, and she dropped the phone to the floor, her head suddenly light, and her thoughts a jumble of confusion and panic and adrenaline.

  They'd killed. They'd asked about her. They were looking for her.

  Chapter 7

  Her troubles had crossed from the virtual world to reality. Somehow they'd tracked her IP address to the office, but they didn't know which employee to eliminate . . . so they eliminated all.

  Jane went limp as a dishrag. She stared blankly down the mall concourse, to the line of mothers with children edging up to see Santa in his workshop. Two security cameras dangled from the ceiling amidst the green and red swag hung with ornaments, all within thirty feet of her location.

  Jane felt numb. Pulling her parka hood up over her head, she moved off the bench and toward the exit as she tried to take stock of her situation. She hadn't purchased anything at the mall, and Al had paid for everything on the trip up north. She had about fifty dollars in her purse, and one set of extra clothes in her car.

  As she rushed out across the lot Jane realized she needed time. She couldn't go home. She had to think. They knew her name, and they'd soon know her address. She couldn't go to her sister's place. Her parents were with friends at their snowbird retreat in Texas. Thank God.

  By the time Jane Nelson put the key in the ignition her hand was shaking. She had to avenge the deaths of her coworkers and reveal the plot she'd stumbled onto in the digital ether.

  Jane steered to the one place she knew to be safe to hide out for a few hours. Wilson Library. Jane had spent four years exploring the nooks and crannies of the massive red brick fortress at the University of Minnesota. She knew where to dump her car -- at an unused and unlocked garage a couple blocks off the U campus. She and friends had rented the house on the same property, and there was never a car kept in the second garage because the roof leaked.

  She didn't arrive a moment too soon. As she pulled onto the exit ramp a report blared from WCCO on her radio . . . "killed workers today at Valley View Web Designers . . . the BCA and Federal agents are working with local authorities to investigate . . ."

  FBI? What did they have to do with it?

  " . . . Jane Nelson, a person of interest in the case, age 28, is driving a red 1990 Chevy Cavalier, Minnesota License number . . . checking on her employment status at this time . . ."

  Person of interest? Didn't that mean suspect?Crap. Whom did these guys own? Jane tried to remember the words exchanged on the chat board.

  She arrived at the garage, which was really an old carriage house. She pushed on the sliding door, and was relieved when it moved easily in the track. She quickly pulled her car inside. It was as she remembered -- a big musty space which had degraded to a leaning shell. One good straight-line wind gust will knock the grey boards down someday, she thought. She grabbed her bag, pulled the door shut, tugged her hood to close around her face, and ran the six blocks to the library.

  Wilson was one of the largest university libraries in the country. It was officially open until midnight, but of course it had longer hours if you hid at closing time. As she entered, Jane turned her head away from the reference librarians on the right and edged toward the public access catalog terminals. She dropped her bag at her feet, stood over a screen and pecked her subject on the keyboard: US Stock Market. Paging through the subcategories, Jane's eyes scanned until she found what she wanted. She reached into a box and grabbed a stubby pencil. She scribbled numbers on a scrap of paper she pulled from another gray cardboard box.

  Jane headed up the stairs to the collections and browsed the book spines, yanking eight books and carrying them to a study room. Investor's Business Daily Guide to the Markets. The Intelligent Investor. Beating the Street. She stopped when she came to the fourth book: Game Theory Applied to Stock Investing. Jane flipped to the title page, and her blue eyes widened upon reading the byline: Dr. Jack Anderson, University of Minnesota.

  Jane turned to the professor's glamour pic and bio on the back flap. BA, Beloit College. PhD, University of Minnesota. Mathematics professor and researcher.

  She scanned the blurb: Are the markets a game? Who are the players? Can game theory be applied to investment decisions? Dr. Anderson's interest in markets began with early internships on Wall Street. Peer-recognized as the foremost expert on game theory as it relates to trading and . . .

  Jane was grateful she was sitting down. She recalled the misdirected love emails she'd received instead of Jack's wife. The man had a heart and a conscience.And the brain she needed right now.

  Jane shoved the book under her coat. Hoping it wasn't too late, she ran briskly down the stairs and out the emergency exit. Nobody saw her, and if an alarm sounded she decided not to hear it. It was nearing five o'clock, but on a Thursday a widower like Jack Anderson would likely stay late at his office across the Mississippi, on the east bank of the campus. Jane hopped a bus to get across the river, and she hurried to the School of Mathematics at Vincent Hall. Another staff member was coming through the door as she entered the building.

  "Excuse me, I'm looking for Dr. Jack Anderson's office."

  "Third floor."

  "Thanks." Jane nodded and hurried past.

  She took the stairs and wandered up and down until she found his nameplate on 354A. The door was shut. She knocked. No response. A man approached her from behind.

  "You looking for me?"

  She turned and saw nearly the man in the author headshot, but this one had reading glasses perched on his Roman nose. Jack Anderson was a man with a Norwegian name and a classic Mediterranean look. His thick dark hair fell to his collar; his dark eyes were somber.

  When she fumbled for words he filled the space. "You're in my Probability class, Ms --?"

  Jane gave a slight nod. "Can we talk for a minute?" She pulled the book from under her arm. "I've been reading this, and I have a couple questions."

  Dr. Anderson brightened. "Welcome to the Casbah." His wedding ring clicked against metal as his left hand opened the door and flipped on the lights. "I'm pleased. Most students don't look up my book."

  "Sorry to come by this late."

  "No problem. Time is the one thing I have plenty of." He bent and pulled papers off the floor. "You all slide these problem se
ts under the door when I'm not here," he explained. "It's a trip hazard." He rose and extended a free hand. "You are?"

  "Jane." She pulled off her glove and put out her trembling fingers. After they shook briefly, she set her purse and bag on the floor, slid the book onto his desk, and then removed her coat, and hung on the back of the guest chair as Anderson slid into his seat behind the cluttered desk.

  "Are you more interested in probability or winning in the stock market?" He leaned forward in his chair and absentmindedly tapped a pen on a yellow pad of paper.

  "Actually, neither." She pulled at a lock of hair on the top of her head and began nervously tugging. "Dr. Anderson, have you heard the news about Valley View Web Designers?"

  "No. I've been in my office all afternoon." He looked confused.

  "Someone murdered every employee at their office in Woodbury." She watched the shock register on his face. "Except me."

  "If what you say is true, shouldn't you be talking to the police?"

  "I can't. The people who killed my coworkers are planning to do something very bad to the stock market. I overheard their conversation." Jane reached down, dug in her purse, and brought forth the printed transcript of the chat room conversation. "Before you decide I'm a nutcase, please look at this."

  Jack took a better look at her before he set the pages in the only clear spot on his desk. He spent a minute reading through the printed dialogue.

  Jane watched as disbelief danced across his features.

  "What the fu -- excuse me. How did you get this?"

  "I printed it straight off my screen two days ago. I was doing research for a client and I came across a chat room online. I'd installed the same chat software before, so I had the backdoor admin password. At first I thought it wasn't real, like it was a game or code or something. After I thought about it overnight I called the Minneapolis FBI office. Nobody ever called me back. Today I was out -- up north with a client -- when everyone was killed. As I was driving down here I was listening to 'CCO, and they said they are trying to find me. They're acting like I'm a suspect."

  "Why? You don't fit the 'going postal' profile."