Page 3 of Dozer

Besides...

Dexter is the first living creature I've spoken to in days and probably the only one I'll talk to until lunch. Unless the grocery cashier asks if I found everything I needed, assuming I remember I need groceries and don't just order them for delivery.

The mere thought of groceries makes my stomach growl. I should figure out something to eat. When was the last time I ate? Since being laid off, my routine has changed drastically. If you can even call it a routine. I sleep when normal people are awake and am awake when most people are deep into slumber.

I make a mental list of what's inside my refrigerator. Half a bottle of mustard, expired yogurt I should really toss, three energy drinks, an alarming number of cheeses, and a large jar of pickles.

"We're ordering takeout." Dexter lifts his head hopefully. "Don't get excited. I’m not sharing."

He looks personally betrayed. Laughing to myself, I settle into my chair, nudge Dexter just enough to reclaim a sliver of keyboard, and crack my knuckles.

The malware has a sense of humor.

Not a good one, nothing so sophisticated as wit, but it has personality, which is more than I can say for the last three jobs I've cracked open this month. Somebody built this thing to sit quietly in a shipping company's payroll server for eleven months before it did anything, and when it finally woke up, it didn't just steal the data. It left a note behind.

Told you I'd be back.

"Rude," I say, to no one, because the cat doesn't count as an audience. He's fallen asleep on my left arrow key, which is less than helpful. I nudge him off with my elbow. He resettles on the mousepad instead, tail over my wrist like that's helpful, and goes right back to snoring. I get to work trying to figure out this puzzle.

Hours later and the coffee sitting at my desk has gone cold. I drink it anyway, because standing up means admitting I've been sitting in this exact position for two hours, and it's currently — I glance at the corner of my second monitor — one forty in the afternoon, and I haven't eaten, and there's a very good chance I smell, which, could offend someone, but I’m not too worried about that, because I haven't left the townhouse in two days.

Two days.

I decide not to think about that too hard. Some records are better left unbroken and also unexamined.

I'm lines into the note's payload, trying to figure out if Told you I'd be back, is a threat, a brag, or just a guy who really likes his own writing, when my phone rings. I glance at the caller I.D..

Hunter.

My smile comes before I can stop it.

Then my heart drops to my stomach. It’s not a text, but a phone call. Hunter doesn't call unless something is the matter, that narrows the possibilities considerably.

Either, someone is dead, needs rescuing or with Hunter, he could need someone else dead.

Or — and statistically the most likely option — it's been approximately six months since his last unofficial wellness check, and he's decided it's time to determine whether I'm eating actual food or surviving exclusively on caffeine and whatever questionable snacks happen to be within arm's reach of my keyboard.

Hunter never gives me warning before his check-ins, he simply shows up in his Hunter way. He and Ryan were close and after his death, Hunter made sure to let me know I still had someone out there who cared about me. He simply appears from time to time. It’s like an overwhelming certainty that if I've gone too long without answering my phone, he'll somehow know and be the one to break the cycle.

I asked him once if former Delta operators receive psychic abilities after retirement. His completely serious answer was, "Only the good ones."

I still haven't figured out if he was joking. I answer on speaker while continuing to type. I am not going to let this dude best me. I will find him and the missing money.

"I'm eating.” That’s how I answer the phone. Might as well get it out of the way, because I know he’s going to ask. I mean, it’s not a lie. I am eating. Am I eating healthy? No. Three meals a day? Also, no. But, I am eating. Even if it’s mostly crackers, cheese and an occasional chocolate donut.

"Good to know." I hear the laughter in his voice.

"I beat you to it."

"I wasn't going to ask."

"Liar."

"I was going to ask if you'd slept."

"Also, yes." Not a lie. I do sleep. Maybe not regularly and maybe not eight hours at a time, but I do sleep. I mean, I fell asleep for an hour at this very computer yesterday before Dexter woke me.

Another pause.