He's been glaring at his coffee mug for about an hour now.
His arm rests across the small, dull kitchen table. His knuckles are white from clenching his fist. Taut, the muscle in his jaw works as he grits his teeth, slowly, thoughtfully. If he has noticed me watching him, he doesn't show it.
"You know..." I say, sounding loud after such a long silence. Only the sound of Dax clunking away on a keyboard has been carrying down the hall from the computer room.
My voice draws Trip out of his trance, makes him blink up at me as if he's forgotten that I am sitting across from him. I suppose he hasn't noticed me watching. He's been somewhere else—in some other space and time.
"Maybe you should lay off the coffee," I say, gesturing at the mug and the goose painted on the side and the paisley border of flowers surrounding the bird. Dax swore it was his grandmother's set of mugs. "The caffeine doesn't help with anxiety."
Something, unease perhaps, sparks across Trip's gaze. He glances away and with effort, unclenches his fist. Wrapping my fingers around my own warm coffee mug, I take a sip and watch him roll his shoulder in an attempt to unwind his muscles. He doesn't succeed.
"What's bothering you?"
"Nothing." He spits the word.
I go back to sipping my coffee.
We sit in another silence. The second hand on the boring, black and white clock behind Trip tick, tick, ticks, each second seeming to pass faster than the one before it.
Footsteps sound down the hall, and Dax appears around the corner of the kitchen. "It's done," he says, placing my cell phone on the table in front of Trip and then backing away—far away—all the while chewing his thumb nail and trying to look anywhere but at the devil sitting at his kitchen table.
"That was quick," Trip says.
"Yeah. Yeah." Dax nods vigorously. But then he sees the suspicion clouding Trip's expression. He didn't mean that as a compliment. "No, no. That type of phone didn't give me a lot of trouble."
"For your sake, it better work." Trip's icy eyes fix on Dax's face. And I wonder if Trip knows just how deep those eyes affect people.
Dax shudders and fidgets as Trip stands from his chair. "It will work. Definitely. The trace is blocked, and so is the number. Nothing will show u—"
"Sit down."
"Okay." Dax quickly clamors into the chair, so quickly he almost misses the seat and falls backwards onto the floor. With much clattering, he is finally able to settle in the chair without killing himself.
Stone-faced, Trip grabs the phone and, punching in numbers on the touch screen, turns his back on us. He approaches the kitchen counter. Dax and I exchange glances—his more panicky than mine. His leg bounces up and down under the table. It's an annoying sound. Thump—thump—thump—thump.
"Yes. I need to speak to Detective Ralston."
My attention turns to Trip again. He is talking into the phone now. I can only hear the buzzing of another voice on the line. No words, no sense. Just high-pitched buzzing. A woman's voice possibly.
"I have information," Trip says, "involving his case."
Thump—thump—thump—thump.
Trip turns to throw a harsh look at Dax.
Instantly, Dax stops his leg from bouncing.
More buzzing comes from the phone. And then silence.
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.