Deception Read Online Free
Author: John Altman
who could have been beautiful, as her mother had often said, if only she didnât look so serious. Looking at the photograph now, Hannah supposed she could see her motherâs point. Her eyes were like black diamonds, hard and piercing.
But was this the face of an international fugitive? It was difficult to believe.
Even more difficult to believe was the fact that the passport had passed inspection. To Hannahâs eyes, her work looked patently faked. The blue-and-red pattern behind the personal information was pixelated, the best sheâd been able to do on her color printer at home in a rush. The signature Vicky Ludlow looked too tight, too carefully calculated, as if she had never signed it beforeâprobably because she hadnât. Worst of all, she had chosen a date of issuance of April 2002; this should have been one of the new passports, the postâSeptember 11th passports, with a digital image and secret enhancements. It wasnât. But the customs agent had been too busy looking at her legs to pay very close attention.
She wondered if evidence of the forged passport remained on the computer in her apartment. She had reformatted the entire hard drive. As far as she understood, any data on the drive would be impossible to recall. Yet she had the nagging feeling that traces remained, somewhere, and that a trained technician would be able to find them.
If, that was, worse came to worst.
There was always her father, of course. If worse did come to worst, then her father could possibly get this ⦠little problem ⦠taken care of.
Except she would rather die than swallow her pride and go begging to her father.
She set down the passport and picked up the address book. For a moment she was tempted to open it, to find Frankâs number and demand some answers. But perhaps his phone was tapped and the FBI was sitting by it, waiting for her call. Or would it be U.S. Marshals? Or the Postal Inspection Service, or some office of the Inspector General?
She put down the address book, found two Xanax, and swallowed them. Her hand moved, without her realizing it, to stroke at the pale scars that crossed the inside of her left wrist. In times of stress, her hand tended to move toward those old scars unconsciously, instinctively.
Suddenly, she felt queasy again. A realization took her with almost physical force: Why, she was nearly penniless. Not since the days fresh out of college, following her first falling-out with her father, had she been nearly penniless. Even in the worst of her debt, sheâd had credit on which to fall back. Now, if she truly had been caught, her credit would be as frozen as the stateside account. Now she needed to face reality: the prospect of going hungry, going cold.
No. Frank would not turn on her.
This was a vacation. Nothing more.
She lay down on the bed, and closed her eyes.
Then she thought of her plants, and her eyes opened. She hadnât made any allowances for the plants. It would have been an easy matter to ask Craig, the doorman at her building, to go up and water the plants once in a while. Craig did nothing all day except sit behind his desk and stare at a tremendous pile of books that he never quite got around to reading. He could have taken care of the plants easily. Yet she hadnât thought to ask. Now it was too late. By now, the plants were probably dying.
By now, they might even be dead.
At that moment, Hannah Gray almost envied them.
TWO
1.
Daisy smiled up from behind her desk, and held forth a small stack of message sheets.
Keyes glanced through them as he moved into his office. WHILE YOU WERE OUT , the sheets read. First was a message from Rachel. He crumpled it into a ball without reading any further. Let her talk to the goddamned lawyer, if she needed to talk to somebody. He was in no mood for her today.
The next few messages would demand his attention, but there was no great urgency. He set the sheets on the corner of his desk. The
But was this the face of an international fugitive? It was difficult to believe.
Even more difficult to believe was the fact that the passport had passed inspection. To Hannahâs eyes, her work looked patently faked. The blue-and-red pattern behind the personal information was pixelated, the best sheâd been able to do on her color printer at home in a rush. The signature Vicky Ludlow looked too tight, too carefully calculated, as if she had never signed it beforeâprobably because she hadnât. Worst of all, she had chosen a date of issuance of April 2002; this should have been one of the new passports, the postâSeptember 11th passports, with a digital image and secret enhancements. It wasnât. But the customs agent had been too busy looking at her legs to pay very close attention.
She wondered if evidence of the forged passport remained on the computer in her apartment. She had reformatted the entire hard drive. As far as she understood, any data on the drive would be impossible to recall. Yet she had the nagging feeling that traces remained, somewhere, and that a trained technician would be able to find them.
If, that was, worse came to worst.
There was always her father, of course. If worse did come to worst, then her father could possibly get this ⦠little problem ⦠taken care of.
Except she would rather die than swallow her pride and go begging to her father.
She set down the passport and picked up the address book. For a moment she was tempted to open it, to find Frankâs number and demand some answers. But perhaps his phone was tapped and the FBI was sitting by it, waiting for her call. Or would it be U.S. Marshals? Or the Postal Inspection Service, or some office of the Inspector General?
She put down the address book, found two Xanax, and swallowed them. Her hand moved, without her realizing it, to stroke at the pale scars that crossed the inside of her left wrist. In times of stress, her hand tended to move toward those old scars unconsciously, instinctively.
Suddenly, she felt queasy again. A realization took her with almost physical force: Why, she was nearly penniless. Not since the days fresh out of college, following her first falling-out with her father, had she been nearly penniless. Even in the worst of her debt, sheâd had credit on which to fall back. Now, if she truly had been caught, her credit would be as frozen as the stateside account. Now she needed to face reality: the prospect of going hungry, going cold.
No. Frank would not turn on her.
This was a vacation. Nothing more.
She lay down on the bed, and closed her eyes.
Then she thought of her plants, and her eyes opened. She hadnât made any allowances for the plants. It would have been an easy matter to ask Craig, the doorman at her building, to go up and water the plants once in a while. Craig did nothing all day except sit behind his desk and stare at a tremendous pile of books that he never quite got around to reading. He could have taken care of the plants easily. Yet she hadnât thought to ask. Now it was too late. By now, the plants were probably dying.
By now, they might even be dead.
At that moment, Hannah Gray almost envied them.
TWO
1.
Daisy smiled up from behind her desk, and held forth a small stack of message sheets.
Keyes glanced through them as he moved into his office. WHILE YOU WERE OUT , the sheets read. First was a message from Rachel. He crumpled it into a ball without reading any further. Let her talk to the goddamned lawyer, if she needed to talk to somebody. He was in no mood for her today.
The next few messages would demand his attention, but there was no great urgency. He set the sheets on the corner of his desk. The
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