The Duplicate

Chapter Thirteen

Trip starts to pace the kitchen floor, his fist clenching and unclenching at his side. My eyes trail him, back and forth, watching each lithe, almost catlike step he takes. Even now—pacing the kitchen—he looks dangerous.

Suddenly, a deeper, more masculine hum halts him. 

"Ralston," Trip says.

There is a pause, followed by a short reply from the other line—like a name, a question.

Trip's fist clenches tighter. "Don't bother tracing this. This conversation won't be long."

This time, there is a longer pause as neither Trip nor Detective Ralston, I presume, makes a sound. Finally, the Detective speaks. And Trip listens, beginning to pace again, slowly, very slowly. "Next time you'll be cleaning up more than just a mess." Pausing again. Listening. "And what? Talk? I think we're past that now, don't you agree?"

Whatever the Detective says next sends Trip's eyes flickering up at me.

"Alive," he says.

My heart starts to thump hard, relentlessly against my chest. I watch Trip turn to pace the other way. The buzzing goes on, and I strain my ears, trying to catch a word—just one word. But I understand nothing.

Trip gives a small, furious shake of his head. "Don't try to fucking handle me, Ralston. I know how it's done. It doesn't work on me." More humming. "Then maybe you should listen to what I am saying. Anyone you send won't be coming back to you. I can promise you that." Humming. "I've done much worse."

For a moment, no sound comes from the other side.  

Dax and I exchange another glance—mine a bit more panicked now. The tension Trip pours into the room feels like static electricity, searing, vibrating the whole kitchen. He turns again so I can see his face. His eyes touch on me for a moment. They slide over my nervous expression, that is, until the Detective speaks up.

And Trip slows to a stop.

Silent, the Detective waits for a response. In vain.

Trip says nothing, only grits his teeth.

Buzzing. Buzzing. More words that I can't decipher.

Trip's jaw sets, and when does speak, his voice is cool—much too calm, too controlled for those smoldering eyes. "Stay out of my way, Ralston. You haven't seen my edge yet."

With that, Trip ends the call. The moment he does, he looks as though he wants to throw the phone, break it—just to break something—and once again, I am afraid he might turn all that anger on me. Or Dax.  

Dax's leg has started to spring up and down again. Apparently, he fears the same.

But Trip doesn't launch into an assault on either of us. Instead, he turns his back on us, raises his arms, and links his fingers on the nape of his neck, phone still in hand. With Dax and me looking on in apprehension, he breathes a sharp, heavy sigh, an attempt to expel some of that rage.

The clock tick, tick, ticks.

Dax's leg bounces. Thump—thump—thump—thump.

"The Database," Trip says after a while. He hasn't moved. "What will it take to get in, Dax?"

"A lot."

Now Trip drops his arms and turns to scowl at Glasses. That answer won't do.

Dax's big, round eyes dart all over the kitchen behind his lenses. "Well, there—there's a nasty security system. It might take weeks, if not months, to design the proper program to hack into it. Not to mention, it's not easy to actually get to a computer that has access to the Database. It's not like you can just walk into a Government Facility and—"

"Yeah, I know that." Trip waves him off in irritation. He's already heard that speech from me. The little amount of smugness that rises in my chest is immediately squelched as Trip moves towards the table, tossing the phone atop it. His grim look keeps me in check. "What does the security system entail?"

"There are two layers." Dax counts on his fingers. "One: the first thing it requires is a fingerprint from someone who has access to the Database. Two: there is a password. Each system is solid, with insane encryption. Cracking it would be extremely difficult."

"Difficult," Trip clarifies, "but not impossible."

Shaking his head, Dax stares up at him in dread. "You're not listening to me. It might take weeks—maybe months—to design the proper program. By that time, I bet you, Ralston is going to figure out where you are, and I am going to die."

"With only one security layer to crack it won't take that long."

Glasses blinks, face scrunching up in confusion. "What? What are you talking about?"

"If I can get either a fingerprint or a password, you'd only have one layer to deal with." Trip stares down at the table, thinking this through. "Which system would be harder to crack?"

"Um-uh..." Blinking a few times, Dax says, "Well, I'd say the fingerprint. That system is more complicated. But how are you going to get a fingerprint from a Government Official?"

Trip doesn't answer. I can tell from his expression he doesn't know. Not yet. He's thinking.

"I need a list of Government Officials who live within the city," he says finally. "I also need a list of every computer that has access to the Database. You can do that, can't you?"

Dax bobs his head. "Yeah, yeah."

"Go do it."

Obediently, Dax jumps out of his chair. I wouldn't be surprised if Dax snapped a salute with a Yes, Sir! Right Away, Sir!  He doesn't, but he does in fact stumble over his chair. 

Mentally, I shake my head.

From Martie, our waitress at the diner, to Eye-brow-piercing-guy at the gas station, to Glasses here—Trip has an affect on everyone he comes in contact with. Somehow he knows exactly what to do and say to make people act according to his needs. He knows how to shut people up, cool them down, or intimidate them.

He knows how to manipulate.