Premeditated

1. Internet Café

Internet Café

June 10, 2016, San Mateo, CA

I woke a little earlier than usual, perhaps due to the heat wave we'd been having, or perhaps because during the night I had decided to commit murder. The more I thought about, it the more convinced I was that thinking of murder was the real reason, so I had better do something about it. Besides, I was awake now, and I never have been the type who could go back to sleep once awakened.

I got up and dressed, ate and started the engine to the car. It was going to be a long drive for coffee this morning—thirty miles—and it was in a section of the city that did not embrace strangers. Not that this place had such good coffee, but they had internet access that was “invisible,” guaranteed to be non-traceable according to the whispers I'd heard. I don’t know how they guaranteed that, but I needed it.

I headed down to Highway 101 and took it north toward the magnificent city of San Francisco, fighting traffic as I passed the airport and even more traffic as I looked at poor old Candlestick Park, now abandoned like an early spouse. I cringed as I thought that; why had that particular thought come to mind today of all days.

Cursing the long trip, I realized I could have gone anywhere with WI-FI access and been fairly safe from prying eyes, but it would have been a hit-or-miss type of operation and I couldn't be certain of the information I'd get. I needed this to be right the first time—no second chances in this type of work.

From what I'd been told this place guaranteed not only the anonymity but the quality of the information. It was worth venturing into the seedy underbelly of San Francisco if it got me what I wanted.

When I got to where I needed to be, I parked and locked the car, but I knew that if someone wanted that car it wouldn't be there when I got back. Keeping eyes alert, I half-walked, half-jogged, across the street and around the corner, stepping onto the sidewalk near the middle of the block. A short trip to the corner and an abrupt right turn had me next to the Morning Sun Coffee Shop.

I looked at my notes before entering the café, making sure to do things in the proper order. Any messing up, and I'd get nothing, or so I’d been told. Placing the note in the palm of my hand, I went to the counter and asked for a double-grande, private-buzz coffee, no cream or sugar.

The man in the booth nodded. “That’s our most expensive coffee, you know.”

"I understand," I said, and reached for my money. "By the way, do you know anything about the movie Double Indemnity?”

The guy looked at me as he made the coffee. "Can't say that I do. Why don't you tell me about it."

My body twitched, and a shiver tingled the tops of my shoulders. "It's about a woman who kills her husband for the insurance money. I believe it stars Barbara Stanwyck and Fred MacMurray."

A creepy smile appeared on his face. "Oh yeah, I know the one you mean now." He handed me my coffee, punched in what looked to be far too many numbers on the cash register, then gave me the receipt and a small key—the kind that looked as if it might open a pirate's chest of gold.

"That's $4.65 for the coffee, and $50 for the use of the computer. You're number eighteen.” He nodded toward the rear, where a sheer curtain and some hanging beads separated the room. It looked like a leftover from a movie set they used in the sixties. “If you like old movies, you should try this site,” he said, and scribbled what appeared to be gibberish on a piece of paper.

“Type these letters and numbers into the browser exactly as you see them, then hit the space bar. That will trigger an expansion into an encrypted web address that will take you to where you want to go. But be warned, it only works once, and in ten minutes, it will no longer work, so be quick and be accurate.”

I nodded, then I gave him sixty dollars, told him to keep the change, and headed toward the back of the room. There was no danger of spilling the coffee; it was barely half full.

Number eighteen was near the back. The booth boasted a red vinyl cover with white fluff peeking out from a few tears in the back. The corresponding booth was similar, and a table covered in light-brown laminate sat between them. It looked as if it had come out of a 1950s diner, but that was okay; I liked diners and always had.

An episode of Happy Days came to mind, and at any moment I expected to see the Fonz or Richie Cunningham sit at the booth next to me. I set the coffee to the left side and inserted the key the man at the counter had given me into a slot in the wall. A laptop slid out like meals do on those sci-fi shows set in space. I stared for a moment. This was not Richie Cunningham’s diner.

Diner booth

The laptop opened like any other. I don’t know what I expected, but whatever wild thoughts had been lurking in my imagination were disappointed. I navigated to the site as directed and browsed through a listing of old movies from the thirties to present. The instructions had said to go to the Double Indemnity link and click, and then enter the password, which was the receipt number from my coffee purchase. I hesitated but finally got the nerve.

It loaded lightning-fast—even before I finished my sip of coffee. Something in my gut produced a shiver that raced through my body. I turned my head quickly—unobserved, I hoped—to see if anyone was watching.

Was anyone listening?

I stood and peeked above the booths, but all I got were antagonistic looks from others, who, like myself, were secreted into their own booths tucked into dark corners behind a wall of sheer curtains. Paranoia. I had heard the word used, and knew its meaning, but I had never experienced it before this morning.

Satisfied that Russia, Red China, or other countries with advanced technology weren’t watching me, I continued, pulling the laptop closer to shield it from prying eyes. Cameras! The thought struck me like cold water on my face in the morning. I looked behind me, up, around, then checked the back of the booth.

Calm down. Truly, this was paranoia.

The site I navigated to sat before me waiting to be entered. It didn’t flash red or have gates with pointed spears. No warnings or contracts I had to agree with. Just a black screen with a green button. I wanted it to frighten me, perhaps a warning that said “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.” Something. Anything.

But it was just a green button. At that point I almost gave up. Quit, and said the hell with it. But then I thought of the suffering for more than twenty long years...and I hit the return key.

Blank screen

I closed my eyes for a second, but opened them again quickly in case I missed an instruction. It took an eternity for the site to load. At least it seemed as if it did. It couldn’t have taken too long, because I held my breath the entire time, and I can’t hold my breath for long.

I wrapped my arms around the computer and stared at the screen. The shiver that raced through my body earlier returned with a vengeance. It was now a gong pounding in my head. This was warning enough. The words jumped off the page and, though there was no sound, I felt certain everyone in the place knew what I was doing and could see the information I sought.

Welcome, Killer

Welcome Killer screenshot

Breath left me. I sat erect and inhaled. There, it's done. How it was done I don’t know, but just the act of going to that site did it. I had no more worries. Not now. Probably not until the time came to do it. I plugged in my little USB flash drive and prepared to download material. To do this right would take a lot of planning and that required hard copies. When I was done with the research, I pushed the laptop back into the wall. It clicked into place, and then I dropped the key into a slot in the wall beside it.

I'm sure I looked as guilty as I felt when I left that place, but that is probably normal after you make plans to kill the person you’ve loved for more than twenty years.