Chapter 6- Cancellation
Donovan Liam Turnbull was, in fact, a branch manager at a regional bank which fed into a larger banking system.
Based on the information received at a top line scan from Mustang, the man lived and worked in Amarillo.
His parents, who were still married, lived in Pueblo, Colorado where he grew up.
There were no red flags on his life outside of the last six months when he’d removed all of his social media accounts.
“She's taken my life. I need help,” Helen repeated to herself as she took the first watch over Mr. Turnbull.
He had frostbite on the toes of both feet.
His nose had frost nip, and a couple of the fingers appeared to just have missed danger.
In the morning, she would ask about surveillance cameras, but evidently, Sour Grapes had none since there was no little red light flashing to indicate Mr. Turnbull’s arrival.
A chill ran up Helen’s spine at the thought of a civilian being able to track a Technician and show up at their home.
The bigger question of why was replaced with how. Then, the man moved.
“Bathroom,” he said.
“This way,” Helen said, rising, to show him to the water closet.
She had taken the watch because, in her estimation, Sour Grapes had enough on her hands with Bella.
The last thing she needed was to oversee the stranger’s care.
Even if he’d come looking for her, it didn't sit right with Helen.
Sour Grapes didn't sit right with Helen.
She was off in a distant sort of way. If there was anger in her, as evident in Passion Fruit and Lemon, it wasn't on the surface with this woman.
Even the anger which simmered under the surface with Bad Apple was palpable.
Knives in one pocket, a nine in the other, she waited in the chair for the man to return. The toilet flushed, water ran, and the door opened. He stepped out, swaddled in the blankets.
“I'm sorry to bother you, but I'm rather hungry,” he said. “It was a long day and a hard journey to get here. Can I have a bite to eat?”
“Sure,” Helen said, rising.
“My clothes?” he asked,
“Wet from the snow. They are washed and dried if you want to put them on,” she said.
“Please,” he asked, sounding contrite and humble.
Helen didn't trust it. As far as she was concerned, a snake was hiding in the house, and she needed a spade to lob off its head.
However, it wasn't her house, and she wasn't authorized for pest removal.
She pointed to the washer and dryer, and he dipped into the laundry room to don his shirt and pants.
A moment later, he surfaced in the kitchen to a tuna sandwich and a cup of tea.
“Thank you,” he said, biting into the sandwich. A small frown touched his lips, but he took another bite.
“Anything wrong with the sandwich?”
“I hate tuna,” he said, taking another bite.
“But you're eating it?”
“I'm hungry. I'm a beggar, and I can't be choosy,” he said. “I'm more grateful than anything I wasn't shot.”
Helen said nothing as she sat with the man, waiting for the dumb to come out of his mouth, especially considering the two white women in the home were in bed, leaving her on watch duty.
She fully expected him to think she was the housekeeper or personal security.
He said nothing, just ate the sandwich. When he was done, he looked up at her.
“I noticed the cream on my nose; you did that?” he asked.
“Yes. Jack Frost actually nipped at your nose,” she said. “He also may make you lose a couple of toes. I know your feet are hurting.”
“The feeling hasn't fully returned to them yet,” he said. “I can feel the throbbing and ache in my feet, but I walked a good distance from the far side of the lake since I left my car in Minneapolis.”
“Hmm,” Helen replied. “You need more food?”
“No, that will suffice,” he said softly. He took his dish to the sink, washing both the cup and plate and placing them in the drain. For a moment, he simply stood at the sink as if he were waiting for Helen to say something, ask something, demand something of him.
“Mr. Turnbull, rest tonight. Take a breather, and if it is any consolation, you're safe, at least for now,” Helen said.
He turned. His eyes were brimming with tears. The man broke. His body shuddered with the tears he cried, and Helen, unmoved by it, gave him the space to process whatever torment had made him Uber from Minneapolis to Mendota Heights on a prayer. That story would be up to Sour Grapes to hear.
“I will stay with you, watch over you as you rest,” she offered.
He nodded his head and dragged his aching feet to the sofa. He used one of the blankets he was wrapped in earlier as a pillow and the other to cover his body. Helen returned to the chair, watching, her mind filled with questions.
She'd seen this before but in reverse. A former Army buddy of Cherry's had shown up on their doorstep in the middle of the night.
She was running from an ex who didn't want to be an ex and continuously interjected himself into the woman's life.
She eventually got orders for Europe, getting her away from Japan, but the man had followed her to Germany.
The last Helen had heard, the soldier had taken an assignment in Guam on a secure base to get away from the lovesick pursuer.
Helen felt this might be a similar situation. She left the man on the couch to retrieve her Technician laptop. Thus far, she's only used it a few times. She booted up and entered her username and password. The prompt asked her what she needed.
She entered the name Donovan Liam Turnbull, Amarillo, Texas, born in Pueblo, Colorado and pressed enter.
The same information Mustang had provided her was the exact information it returned, providing childhood photos of his graduation, parents, and a couple videos of childhood vacations. Helen wanted to know more.
This time she requested dating information for Mr. Turnbull. A list of names came back, stopping at nine months prior at Aspasia Wellington Wells, of Lubbock, Texas, a social media influencer. Helen typed in the woman's name and the computer screen lit up.
“She has nearly ten million followers,” she whispered, watching the sheer number of reels. Then she noticed the woman's eyes. She spotted the rage. She felt the anger. Helen noticed the images in the background of Aspasia's postings. There were photos of Mr. Turnbull.
With ear plugs neatly wedged in her ears, Helen listened to the woman talk about relationships.
Aspasia plugged products for spicy date nights, saying the things her man enjoyed.
To Helen's shock, there was a video of an intimate moment between her and Mr. Turnbull, who appeared shocked to find Aspasia had been recording them in the act, only for the woman to roll over and plug the product with which she’d coated little Mr. Turnbull to make the soldier overperform.
“That's fucking disturbing,” Helen whispered.
From there, the postings took an ominous turn.
The image of Mr. Turnbull in the rear of the postings now had a bullseye on it.
The anger in Aspasia's eyes appeared to be nothing but unadulterated hate.
Helen watched a little while longer, afraid to see much more.
It appeared as if the woman had weaponized her social media followers against Mr. Turnbull.
Sour Grapes appeared at the entryway of the living room and stood looking at Helen. In her hand, she held a tablet, having found the same pattern and information Helen had discovered. Slowly, Helen got to her feet and met Tiffany in the kitchen at the counter.
“Ten million people she turned on him,” Tiffany said.
“It would appear, based on the reels, that after his shock at her recording them having hot and nasty, he broke up with her,” Helen said.
“Or at least tried to, and she didn't seem to want to accept no for an answer,” Tiffany commented. “Hell, the way he was putting it down in that clip, I wouldn't want to let him go either. If he wasn't so traumatized, I would put in a request for next.”
“Good grief, woman,” Helen remarked. “The better question is how did that unassuming banker find you.
.. the Technician? He didn't leave his car in Minneapolis and Uber his way to White Whoville and walk in a white out snowstorm, showing up at your door, near blind, to talk to a fucking anthropologist.”
“He's a banker, Helen. He followed my money,” she said.
“What? How the hell can he do that?”
Donovan was on his feet entering the kitchen. “It wasn't easy,” he offered, coming to the table.
“But you did it,” Tiffany replied. “Why and what do you want from me?”
“I want you to shut her, and people like her, down,” he said. “I can pay you. I will sell my house, if need be, to put a stop to her and other cyber bullies who ruin people's lives.”
Tiffany didn't like it, but she admired his spunk. “How do you know you have the right person? You took a major risk coming from Amarillo to Minnesota in February of all months. Again, how do you know you have the right person?”
“I followed your money,” he stated. “The activity on the dark web, major hacks, and attacks. Usually twenty-four hours or less, there is a generous sum of cash deposited in an account. I tracked the accounts, kept watch for three months, correlated the simple hacks with major impacts and watched the accounts where funds were being deposited.”
“And you found me?” Tiffany said.
“No, I found dead ends. Dead ends, roadblocks, and offshore accounts which made no sense,” he said.
“I looked at Shell Companies and Organizations which held dark money and found Bella Enterprises in St. Paul, Minnesota. I kept watch on Bella for another two months, which coincided with hacks, outages, and exposure of fraud-related enterprises.”