A Killer App

I critique my fifteen-second video. Deepfake Andrew Fyke looks as wrinkled and decrepit as the real-life old fart. Virtual Fyke just needs to blink a bit more as he teeters at the top of the stairs. The deep shadow I placed behind him suggests someone or something lurks there.
I add a few more blinks and close the video to craft my text to J.T. It needs to achieve the perfect balance between outrage and pathos to convince J.T. to do what her social media pal, me, can’t—push Fyke down the stairs.
Rand Creek’s Home Owners’ Association office sits on the second floor of the clubhouse. Earlier, I spoofed an email from the HOA’s lawyer asking Fyke to meet him there at nine tomorrow morning to review covenant change procedures. When Fyke finds the office locked and no lawyer waiting, he’ll leave by the back stairs. Always uses them. That’s where J.T. comes in.
My minion believes I’m a wheelchair-bound oldster, who shares her outrage about sexual perverts allowed to roam free. Our shared mission? To protect grandkids visiting Rand Creek from pedophiles like Fyke.
Is Fyke a pedophile? Beats me. Never met the man in person. Have zero interest or knowledge of the old codger’s sex life, past, present, or future. Simply need him to disappear—incapacitated or dead—doesn’t matter.
I use AI—Artificial Intelligence—to prepare a text that touches on all of J.T.’s hot-button issues, then attach the videoclip of Fyke at the top of the stairs. A like-minded friend supposedly captured the video.
“Look how easy it would be to give this perv a deserved shove. He’ll be there all alone at nine a.m. tomorrow. How I wish I could give that push. Dear Lord, no telling how many children would be saved.”
If J.T. had a brain, she’d realize the Fyke video is fake. A photographer would have to be Spiderman to get that camera angle. Luckily, deep thought isn’t one of J.T.’s attributes.
Did I need to create the deepfake video? Probably not, but it offers J.T. a nice mental rehearsal. Shows her how easily she can become that vengeful shadow, give Fyke a fatal push.
All my correspondence with online idiots is encrypted and delivered via burner phones. I’ve even arranged for the attached Fyke video clip to vanish soon after J.T. views it. My somewhat hokey homage to Mission Impossible. Too bad I couldn’t incorporate a burning match and theme music.
To pull off the disappearing trick, I sent J.T. a free app to open videos. Told her it was much better than what she’d been using. Didn’t mention I added an instruction to the app. It knows to delete video files with my custom tags after they’re opened.
How many times will the real Fyke blink before he plummets down the stairs?
I’ll never know. Like the puppeteer voicing Mission Impossible’s off-screen assignments, I’ll be far away from the action. I prefer to direct God-like from the ether.
Should the mission fail, I’ll disavow any knowledge.
Then again, should the mission succeed, I’ll disavow any knowledge. 
TWO
KYLEE
THURSDAY MORNING

As I drive along Hilton Head Island’s bustling main drag, Grant and Mimi, my nineteen-year-old passengers, argue about a dystopian movie’s outer-space aliens. Grant thinks they’re flawed heroes. Mimi disagrees.
Their passionate debate makes me smile. Not that I’ve seen the flick or ever will. My taste runs to romantic comedies and mysteries with hopeful endings. Working for Welch HOA Management, I have enough close encounters with folks who could be mistaken for alien lifeforms.
Grant is the son of my employer, Ted Welch, who’s also my lover. That’s a recent, unexpected complication. Growing up, Ted and I were Keokuk, Iowa, neighbors. Back then, Ted was my late brother’s best friend and a pest. Who’d imagine we’d reconnect in the South Carolina Lowcountry four decades later.
Since the teens have quit chatting, I glance at Mimi in the passenger seat and peek at Grant in the rearview mirror. Want to see if they’re hypnotized by their newest hobby, calling up the newest AI chatbot on their smartphones and competing to prod the AI to hallucinate. That’s what the industry calls it when an interactive AI goes off the rails and spouts nonsense, threatens a user, or declares undying love.
From what I understand, the one thing these AI chatbots never do is speak in tongues or misuse punctuation. Their command of whichever language they’re asked to employ appears flawless, even if the content is gibberish. “Time to quit playing with your smartphones,” I say. “We’re almost to the Rand Creek gate. I’ll ask the guard to prepare security passes so you two can come and go as needed.”
Grant speaks up. “Better let security know I’ll be taking aerial photos. Drones freak some people out.”
“Good idea. Show your commercial drone license to the guard when I introduce you.”
Grant worked for his dad last summer, but Mimi’s been on board less than a month. Both students are rising college sophomores on summer break. Grant’s a cadet at The Citadel in Charleston, while Mimi’s studying ornithology at Cornell University. The two began dating last summer and bonded in earnest during last Thanksgiving’s kidnap ordeal. Given the unpredictable course of young love, I had qualms about Ted hiring the pair to work side-by-side all summer. But they’re great kids, and Ted’s having a devil of a time recruiting good—okay, any—employees. His woeful pleas about being short-handed are the sole reason I’m still on the payroll. Not how I envisioned spending my days after retiring from the Coast Guard. My seventy-nine-year-old mother, Myrtle Kane, is another Ted pushover. He’s sweettalked Mom into part-time receptionist duties.
At the Rand Creek gate, a friendly guard prepares security passes for Grant and Mimi and alerts the in-house TV channel to stream a message that any new drone sightings are authorized.
Mimi oohs and ahhs when we pull up at the Rand Creek clubhouse. “Wow, it’s Tara on steroids.”
A fair appraisal of the mega-mansion’s impractical Old South plantation vibe. Most owners in the 3,000-unit complex for the fifty-five and over crowd would never dream of huffing and puffing up the building’s front twin curving staircases. A sedately-sloped handicap ramp around back gets ninety-nine percent of the traffic.
Mimi pauses to frame a photo of the ornate entrance. A birder, she’s honed her photo skills capturing the aerial antics of our feathered friends. Taking still photos of Rand Creek buildings and amenities to revamp the community’s website should be a piece of cake.
“Who are we meeting?” Grant asks as Mimi snaps off more shots.
“Jocelyn Waters, the president,” I answer. “Haven’t met her, but based on the Island Packet’s profile piece, she’s a big-shot Realtor. Owns Be Shore Realty & Rentals, and has an interest in several local restaurants and bars. She’s a major player in local politics.”
After we enter the main floor of the mansion from the back ramp, I lead the way down a wide, marbled corridor to a nondescript door. If you’re not averse to a little exercise, the door hides a back stairwell that offers a quick route to the top floor. Its well-concealed existence harkens back to servant passages, installed to ensure the master’s retainers come and go unobtrusively.
As we near the stairwell, a faint keening sound puts me on alert. An animal in pain? I cautiously crack open the door, letting light filter inside the dim vestibule. It takes a second for my eyes to adjust.
“Good Lord!”