Threatening words

“Uh-oh,” Ibrahim said with a worried frown. “I do not like the sound of that.” I shrugged, reaching over to click away from the message. “Forget it,” I said. “I don’t like being threatened, and I’ve had enough of messing around online. It’s time to clear my name — in real life.”

But Ibrahim still looked concerned. “Listen, Nancy,” he said sincerely. “I do not think you should brush this off. Unfortunately, I do have some experience with threats of this sort.”

For a moment I assumed he was referring to what I — or, rather, my virtual self — had done to him. But before I could start apologizing again, he went on.

“My father, he is known for getting people riled up by speaking frankly about race, religion, Middle Eastern policy, that sort of thing,” he said, his usual happy-go-lucky expression replaced by a much more somber one. “He means no harm by this, of course.”

“Of course,” I agreed. “He’s only trying to make people think — challenge their assumptions and that sort of thing.”

George nodded. “Like an Iranian version of Martin Luther King or someone.” At my surprised glance, she shrugged. “What? I do read a newspaper once in a while, you know.”

“You do?” Bess sounded surprised, too.

George grinned. “Sure. The online version still counts, right?”

Ibrahim sighed, hardly seeming to hear our banter. “But you see, not everyone appreciates having their assumptions challenged, Nancy, and that is the problem.

In the past, his speeches have been picketed many times. We have had insulting and sometimes frightening letters mailed to our home, and had Homeland Security called on us for no reason.” He shrugged and glanced down at the floor, kicking lightly at the leg of the computer stand. “Once, a protester even jumped onstage during a speech and tried to punch my father in the nose.”

Wow. My own father, Carson Drew, was a successful and fairly high-profile attorney, and had seen his share of angry opponents and threats. But I couldn’t imagine what it would be like to deal with the sort of thing Ibrahim was describing. “I’m so sorry, Ibrahim.” Bess put a hand on his arm. “I hope none of those things have happened since your family came to River Heights.”

“Not yet,” Ibrahim said. “And I do hope it will be different here — this is a very nice town and everyone has been so kind to us. However, my father has just told us…” He glanced around the crowded coffee shop and lowered his voice. “You will not tell anyone what I am about to say?”

“Of course not,” I said while George nodded and Bess crossed her heart.

Ibrahim took a deep breath. “My father just told us he is planning to announce on Monday that he will give the keynote speech on Friday evening at the university to kick off International Peace Week.”

I’d heard about International Peace Week, of course. In fact, one of my volunteer groups was helping with the local event’s publicity and event planning, and I’d spent an entire afternoon a month or two earlier stuffing envelopes to ask for donations. I hadn’t heard that Professor al-Fulani would be the keynote speaker, but I wasn’t surprised. His message of tolerance and education was right up Peace Week’s alley.

“I appreciate your concern, Ibrahim.” I smiled sympathetically. “But I really don’t think one anonymous e-mail on an online game site rises to the same level as the issues your father has to deal with.”

Bess pursed her lips. “You’re probably right, Nancy,” she said with a hint of doubt in her voice. “But maybe you should mention it to your dad, just in case.”

“Or even report it to the cops,” George put in. “They take this online harassment stuff pretty seriously these days.”

I shrugged. “Maybe so. But one rude e-mail doesn’t exactly constitute harassment. Besides, my dad is totally preoccupied with some huge new case he just took on involving a major drug bust over in Silver Creek.” Glancing at George, I smiled. “And I can only imagine what Chief McGinnis might say if I came to him with something like this.”

Ibrahim looked a bit confused at that, but Bess and George both chuckled. Our local police chief isn’t my biggest fan, mostly because I have a habit of solving his cases more quickly than he does.

I stood up. “Anyway, I suspect this is nothing but overflow from the case we just solved. Let’s go pay a visit to Shannon and find out for sure.”

Leaving Ibrahim at the computer terminal checking in on his own BetterLife avatar, my friends and I hurried outside. My Prius was parked at the curb right in front of the coffee shop.

“Looks like my meter’s almost out,” I said. “I might as well drive.”

Bess and George exchanged an anxious glance. “Um, are you sure you don’t want me to drive?” Bess asked, gesturing to her own car parked halfway down the block. “I don’t mind.”

“Yeah.” George fished in her pockets. “I probably have some change on me to feed your meter.”

I rolled my eyes. For some reason, my friends don’t trust my driving. And if George was actually offering to part with some of her own hard-earned money to prevent me from driving, she had to be even more nervous about it than usual. But I wasn’t in the mood to worry about my friends’ peculiarities at the moment.

“Don’t be silly,” I said, already pointing the keyless entry remote at the car. “Hop in.”

Soon we were tooling along toward Shannon’s house, which was located in a nice, leafy neighborhood at the edge of town. As I maneuvered through the Saturday-afternoon traffic, George slouched in the front seat and fiddled with my cell phone, which I’d left on the dashboard.

“That message from the Your New Reality guy was pretty weird,” she commented. “If you don’t want to go to your dad or whatever, maybe you should forward the e-mail to BetterLife’s community bulletin board.”

Bess leaned forward from the backseat. “That’s a great idea,” she agreed. “Maybe it would help convince people you weren’t the one who did that horrible stuff to Ibrahim.”

I rolled my eyes. “Great. A virtual solution to a virtual problem,” I quipped. The bulletin board they were talking about was a sort of virtual kiosk where BetterLife members could post news, notices, invitations, or anything else they wanted to share with the entire BetterLife community.

“Think about it, Nancy,” Bess urged. “You don’t want to let everyone go on thinking the worst of you, do you?”

“Actually, if this UrNewReality character is someone other than Shannon or Rebecca, it’s probably better if he thinks he scared me with that stupid threat, at least until I can figure out his real ID.” I shrugged. “Besides, who cares what a bunch of pixels on a screen think of me? It’s just a game.”

George and Bess traded a dubious look. “Oh, really?” George said. “Tell that to Shannon and her little friends.”

“True,” Bess agreed. “BetterLife overflowed into the real world before, and lots of people got their real-life feelings hurt over it, remember?”

I did. But I still wasn’t going to let that scare me. “Look, I see your point,” I told them. “But I’m still living in the real world, and as long as there aren’t real-life picketers outside my real-life house, I’m not going to worry too much about what people choose to do behind the anonymity of a computer screen.”

“Well, just don’t forget that not everybody draws such a sharp distinction between real life and online life anymore,” George warned. “A lot of people are really into this so-called game. For instance, you’re not the only one getting picketed lately — a bunch of BetterLifers have started protesting the paid subscription thing.”

“Really? I hadn’t heard about that,” I said, accelerating through a yellow light as I thought over what I knew about the upcoming launch of a new, upgraded, paid version of BetterLife. It was supposed to have exciting new features, more video capability, and all kinds of other cool stuff that most people claimed would make the free version all but obsolete. According to George, the creators stood to make billions from it.

“Wait,” Bess put in. “Do you mean people are protesting on the site, or in real life?”

“Both, I think.” George shrugged. “Definitely on the site — I’ve seen them doing that. But I heard a few diehards are camped out in front of Robert Sung’s and Jack Crilley’s houses.”

“Really? Why?” Bess sounded as astonished as I felt.

George shrugged again. “I don’t know. I guess they don’t like change. Or maybe they’re afraid it’ll cost too much. Some people just seem to feel like Crilley and Sung are selling out or something.”

I shook my head, not sure whether to be amused or amazed that people let an online game affect them so much. Either way, I felt a flash of sympathy for the two creators of BetterLife. Getting picketed online was bad enough; it had to totally stink in real life. Before I could comment, my cell phone rang in George’s hand.

She glanced at it. “It’s Ned,” she reported. Hitting a button, she put it on speaker and answered. “Nancy Drew’s secretary speaking. How may I direct your call?”

“Very funny. Give it here.” I held out my hand.

“Are you sure you can talk and drive at the same time?” George asked.

I grabbed the phone from her, leaving it on speaker. “Ned? Hey, sorry about that.”

I expected him to chuckle, as he normally would at George’s antics. But when he spoke, he sounded kind of tense.

“Hi, Nancy. I know this is a long shot, but have you seen Ibrahim lately?” he asked.

“Sure,” I replied, balancing the phone between my hand and the steering wheel as I turned onto Union Street. “I just left him at Barbara’s Beans. Why?”

“You did?” Ned sounded surprised — and maybe a bit disgruntled. Or was that my imagination? “Um, okay. Do you think he’s still there? Because it’s really important that I find him as soon as possible.”

“He’s probably still there. Why, what’s up?”

This time when he answered, Ned sounded downright grim. “His family wants him home immediately because his father just received a very serious threat.”

Дата добавления: 2017-01-14