Twenty-Three

Click and Clack were unusually active, which for hermit crabs meant they were moving. I flipped open my laptop, opened the Twitter site. I was up to fifty-eight notifications. I clicked the notification number. Someone knocked on my door. Jael strode in.

Tall and lithe with black hair and gray eyes, Jael Navas was the only friend I had who carried a purse and a Glock 17. Bobby Miller had introduced her to me as a bodyguard back when I was going through a nasty bout of office politics in my previous company. We’d since become friends. Usually we were the kind of friends who’d have dinner a couple of times a month, but sometimes we were the kinds of friends where the one with the Glock 17 protected the one who couldn’t shoot.

Jael said, “Have you seen the Internet?”

“You mean Twitter?”

“Yes.”

“I just opened it.”

We sat in front of my laptop, opened the notification screen. I now had more than a hundred messages mentioning me, @TuckerInBoston. All of them were discussing the notion that @TuckerInBoston had killed Peter Olinsky.

I recognized @PwnSec:

@PwnSec: RIP our friend @Runway, killed by
@TuckerInBoston #TuckerGate

The tweet contained a link to the 4chan.org picture of Peter’s murder scene.

“Jesus, they haven’t taken that down?”

Jael said, “There are comments beneath the picture that say it is not real.”

“It’s real. I was there.”

“You were there?”

“Yes. I found Peter.”

“And you didn’t call me before you went to his house?”

“I went there expecting his head to be attached.”

The @PwnSec tweet had spawned a long conversation about whether I could have, or would have, cut off Peter’s head. The damning bit of evidence was the same IRC post that Lieutenant Lee had latched on to, where I was speaking as Rosetta:

Rosetta: I’m going to fucking cut your head off.

Jael said, “A previous tweet says that you are Rosetta.”

“The previous tweet was right.”

“You threatened to cut his head off?”

“Don’t you start.”

“That is not like you.”

Not like me.

It seemed to be more and more like me lately. My anger had emerged when I had entered into a strange parenting troika with Catherine and Adriana, a pair of women who had not figured out what to do with me. It had escalated when Peter had hacked Maria’s Facebook page, spewing lesbian porn at her friends, and it had exploded when Peter opened the scab related to Carol.

“He accused me of killing Carol.”

“That is ridiculous.”

“After raping her.”

Jael’s lips tightened into a line. I’d seen that look a few times, and it had never boded well for those in her gunsights. But there was no one to shoot.

“He’s dead,” I said. “A twenty-year-old kid is dead, beheaded, and I can’t even get myself to feel sorry.”

“He hurt someone you love.”

“Still, he didn’t deserve this.”

“And you never got the chance to forgive him.”

More tweets appeared with my handle in them. They all had the #TuckerGate hashtag. I clicked on the hashtag to see all tweets related to #TuckerGate. There were more than five hundred.

The #TuckerGate controversy had exploded across Twitter. I scrolled through it, noting three strains of thought. The first was that I had killed Peter. The second was that I had killed Peter and the FBI was covering up for me, like with all the other people I had killed, including Carol. The third was that I was an innocent man. At least innocent until proven guilty.

@Eliza: .@TuckerInBoston has the FBI wrapped around his finger. #TuckerGate

@Epomis: Got any evidence of that? #TuckerGate

@Eliza: I got eyes. #TuckerGate

@Epomis: Oh well then, sure it’s obvious. #TuckerGate

@CapnMerica: It’s time for somebody to take
@TuckerInBoston down. #TuckerGate

“This is just hot air,” I said. “You didn’t have to come over here.”

Jael didn’t answer. She stepped forward, traced her finger down the track pad, and brought up a tweet I would have missed.

@Eliza: #doxed @TuckerInBoston is Aloysius Tucker and he lives here:

The tweet went on to provide a Google Map link to my house.

“Oh,” I said.

“Indeed,” Jael said.

“Still, it’s unlikely there’ll be a physical attack. These guys don’t do the real world.”

“Then there is this.”

@Tron: Hey, @TuckerInBoston, let us know when you plan to suicide … got to chill the champagne. #TuckerGate

I stared at the tweet. “These guys are nuts.”

“All the more reason for me to be here.”

“I don’t want to put you out over guys like this. They’re not going to do anything.”

“You just said they were crazy.”

“They are.”

“You cannot predict what crazy people will do.”

My phone rang. I put it on speaker.

“Tucker, you need to come over here for dinner,” said Adriana.

“Need?”

“Yes. Are you on speaker? Do you mind if we talk privately?”

“I’m here with Jael. Say what you want.”

“Just come over for dinner.”

“With Jael?”

A pause, a covered mouthpiece, a faint, “He wants to bring a friend.” Some murmuring, and Adriana was back.

“Yes. Fine. You’ll want the support.” She ended the call.