Leslie's Journal - Allan Stratton [35]
The tackle box. The one thing I didn’t empty. Jason doesn’t fish. Maybe when he was a kid. But not now. It should’ve been stored away years ago. Unless he needs it for something. A hiding place. A place where a card the size of a dime could get lost in a pile of hooks and lures.
I run back upstairs. Grab the tackle box out of the closet. Spill the contents. Spread everything over the floor. I nick my thumb on a hook. Never mind. I see it. There. Beside a sinker. The memory card. With enamel paint for camouflage.
I race to the computer on Jason’s desk. Stick the card in a card reader. An icon comes up on the screen, untitled. I click. Up come dozens of files with dates and first names. There’s a file named “Leslie.” Click. And there I am, sprawled with my legs open. There’s close-ups, too, and other stuff that makes me sick.
I open the other files. They’re of girls I’ve never seen before. They aren’t in the downstairs rec room. They’re posed someplace else. One of them isn’t even in a house. She’s outside, at what looks like the end of an old woods road with bushes and trees and shadows all around. It’s night, and the light’s coming from in front of her. I’ll bet it’s from the headlights of Jason’s mom’s car.
There’s something familiar about these pictures. The way we look. Our age. Our hair. The way we’re posed.
A sound fills the room, a kind of moan-roar coming from inside me. I start to rock. But I can’t weird out. There’s things to do. Like find out if Jason’s copied our files to his hard drive.
I search “Leslie.” Nothing comes up. Great. The porn’s just on the memory card. I’m not surprised. I remember Jason’s taunt: “You think I want anyone finding out about my hobby?”
I wonder how safe he plays it. I go to his Internet history, but he’s cleared it. Is he hiding something? A blink and I’m at Bookmark Favorites. Not much to see: Yahoo, YouTube, Facebook, some standard game sites and something called “L.P. Peek-a-Boo.”
Major sweat flash. “L.P.” My initials! I click.
At first I don’t understand what I’m seeing. The http address is my cell phone company. The left of the screen is full of ads. The middle is the Google Earth map. It shows Jason’s street, centering over his home, with his house number underneath. Jason’s name is at the top, next to my cell number. My cell phone’s registered in his name, so fine. But why would he want to see a picture of his house? What’s this site about?
I read the grid at the bottom of the screen: “Movements in Last Hour,” “Last Day,” “Last Week,” “Last Month.” I click “Last Hour.” Up comes a pop-up map showing my route from school to here.
Oh god. I get it. The GPS chip in my phone has a tracking function. Jason’s house is showing because that’s where I am now. All those times he’s asked where I am, it’s all been a test. He’s already known. He’s stalked me on his computer.
Well, not anymore!
I slip the memory card in my pocket, and pitch the computer out his second-floor window. It smashes on the backyard patio stones, takes two bounces, and cannonballs into his swimming pool. Now that’s what I call a computer crash.
As for my cell—I run to the hall bathroom and flush it down the toilet. Stalk that, you asshole!
Time to go. I’m losing it for real. I stagger down the hall to the top of the stairs.
I can hardly see. But I can hear all right. And what I hear is the front door opening.
Twenty-Three
I duck into the master bedroom, the nearest room available. Downstairs, the front door closes. Whoever’s there puts something heavy on the floor.
“Jason?” It’s Mrs. McCready. “Jason, are you home?” A pause. “That’s strange.”
What’s she talking about? Of course. There’s no alarm warning. I turned it off. Now what should I do: stay put or come out and hope for the best?
Just as I’m about to give myself up, I hear the sound of cans clattering and Mrs. McCready humming her way to the kitchen. Groceries. If she’s gone to unpack them, she’s not upset; she must figure she forgot to set the alarm