No Footprints by Susan Dunlap Page A

people who do it anyway! And she was. There was a file titled passwords . Halfway down, under modem was ‟bank: R$mp$n$–g5ng5r.” I’d owe the gods big time for this.

    I was in! I could see her account history for the entire year. It told me nothing I couldn’t have guessed. Slowly, and surely painfully, she’d made deposits of two to three hundred dollars swelling the balance till it reached $6,753.93. There’d been monthly checks of $200.00 to the Ginger Rampono Fund but no withdrawals until two weeks ago when she’d written a check to Central Cyclery for $6,532.99 and another, dated Monday, to Rampono Fund for $220.00.
    The Ginger Rampono Fund?
    I Googled. ‟Ginger Rampono was orphaned four years ago at the age of eleven. She was a passenger in the car when her mother was killed in one of the city’s most dangerous intersections. Without relatives, Ginger has been placed in foster care. This fund has been set up to help with the kind of expenses foster care does not cover and to offer her a better future.” The image accompanying it was a picture of a thin, brown-haired child in jeans and a sweatshirt. The look on her face said: You’re making me do this, but you can’t make me like it. She was all but sticking out her tongue.
    It did make me like her.
    I got out my phone and tapped in the number. The message recording was in a woman’s voice, a soft voice, but breaking up. I moved to the window hoping the problem was dead spots in this building, hit redial, and waited, using the time to check the layout outside—garbage cans, fence, grimy stucco building beyond. ‟You’ve reached the office of Jessica Silverman, manager. I’m in the office Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, from—”
    The blow came out of nowhere.

16
    I’ve had worse hits when stunts have gone bad. They say a knockout interferes with the circuitry so that the memory is never recorded in the brain. Maybe. But I remembered the crack on my skull, the sharp thwack and the muffled mess of noise, the green wave of incredible pain. I remembered lurching forward, grabbing for something to hold me up, and watching my hands slide down the window till I crumbled to the floor and hit my head again.
    The blow had come out of nowhere—
    Well, hardly. It had come from someone watching till I turned my back to the doorway, someone who knew where to stand and keep me in sight.
    Now, seconds? Minutes later? The bagpipes still blasted. My head throbbed, and a mishmash of colors swirled. I felt the carpet underneath my hand, my head. I was on the floor! Automatically I jumped up and stood tall. Injured? Not me! I’m ready for the next gag! Keep me on the payroll!
    The room was empty, the door open. I started to run down the hall. By the second step I was using all my concentration just to stay upright. Hands against the walls, I lunged forward. Blasts of bagpipe burst against my skull. I felt like I was in a war zone. ‟Hello!” I tried to focus, peering into the mire of the living room. Was he on the floor, out cold? Dead? ‟Hello!” I could barely remember what the guy looked like.

    I steadied myself then lunged for the sofa and balancing against its side stepped around to the back, expecting to find a body crumbled behind. Nothing there! ‟Hey!” The noise stopped. I shouted into the silence. ‟You! Byron!”
    â€ŸWhat?” he called from another room.
    â€ŸAre you okay?”
    â€ŸYeah. Why?” He was in the doorway, holding what appeared to be a half-eaten peanut butter sandwich. He looked just fine, like nothing had happened. He stared at me. ‟Jesus, you’re all bloody. Did you fall?”
    â€ŸYeah, I fell—after whoever you let in hit me!”
    â€ŸI didn’t let anyone—”
    â€ŸI’m not making up this blood. So, either you answered the door and—”
    â€ŸDoor’s open.”
    I turned.