Mortal Fear

What? you ask nervously. Who?

Don’t be frightened. He—or she—is standing silently—or sitting—somewhere in the room, but only watching. How, you ask? Simple. He’s wearing a night-vision headset I brought to the hotel during the afternoon. You giggle nervously, but I’m not joking. This person can see us right now and will watch us when I finally find you.

You don’t believe me? Let down the top of your dress.

A few seconds later, a whispered voice from across the room says, Beautiful.

I can almost feel your heart stutter from the shock. Stay calm, I say reassuringly. This person is merely an observer.

All right, you stammer, far from your normally confident self. But who is it? you wonder. Who _is_ it?

Maybe it’s your sister, I say.

You bastard, you hiss.

Maybe it’s a bellboy I paid a hundred bucks to come upstairs and watch a beautiful woman having sex. Do you want to go on? I ask.

Yes, you say softly.

Even if you are seen?

I can do anything in the dark, you say. Even if the whole city is watching.

And so we begin the hunt. How do you feel now?

ELEANOR RIGBY> >toi bbusy otype<

HARPER> Please do your best to evade me, I tell you. But you should know that I’ll be getting a bit of direction from our guest. He/she will whisper “warmer” or “colder” ever so often.

You do not answer.

And so I begin the hunt.

The first thing I hear is silence. Blood beating in my ears. The suite is large. I move deeper into the bedroom to give you room to move. Then I wait motionless for two minutes. I sense you becoming more tense with each passing second. You cannot hear me. Very softly I remove my clothes. I feel the air along my body, especially on the places usually covered. I go down on all fours, allowing my body to cover more floor space, increasing my odds of touching you if you try to slip past me. I move slowly at first.

Colder, whispers our guest.

I change direction. Where _are_ you? I ask in a singsong voice.

Warmer, says our guest.

Instinct tells me my back is a few feet from the far corner of the room. You are not behind me. Slowly and soundlessly I work my way across the carpet, pausing occasionally to listen and to try to feel any movement of air against my skin.

Nothing.

There’s not much floor space left to cover. Could you have climbed onto one of the beds? No. I’d have heard you.

Wait. A rustle of cloth ahead of me. A few feet away.

Is she naked? I ask.

No reply.

I freeze. There is water running in the bathroom, the sound like a distant cataract in the silence. I rise and move quickly toward the sound—too quickly—and bash my head against the door frame. I’m in the bathroom now, but you aren’t. Steam coats my face and body like jungle humidity. When I reach to shut off the tap, I scald my hand. Yet even as I curse, I realize I smell you. In the blackness. The female smell. Strongly enough that I suspect you have left this as a calling card.

This is not turning out the way I’d planned.

As I move out of the bathroom, something swishes past me in the dark. Strangely, it seemed larger than me. Then I hear the bathroom door close. I try the handle but it’s locked. Are you really inside? Or is this a diversion?

Where is she? I ask the darkness.

No answer.

Warmer or colder? I ask.

Nothing.

Then, through the bathroom door, I hear new sounds. A woman, softly moaning. A man rhythmically groaning. First I think you are teasing me. Confused, I feel my way to the wall and break a rule. Switch on the light.

My assistant is gone.

The noises are louder. It sounds as though you are using my draftee in the bathroom and have locked me out. This isn’t what I had in mind at all, but you sound like you’re having the time of your life. I ask what you are doing but he answers insolently, She can’t talk with her mouth full. Suddenly I am angry. I kick the door twice near the knob and it splinters open, flooding the bathroom with light. At first glance I feel relief, seeing that you still have your linen dress on. But a millisecond later the positions register: you’re sitting on the edge of the tub and you have your hand around him and are working diligently (though your eyes are locked on mine) and he seems very close to release. It’s the least I could do for him, you say, but what you’re really saying is that you have no intention of letting me manipulate you with some kinky game like this, and I’m standing there with a stupid look on my face while you finish him and he groans and you look into my eyes with barefaced defiance while he squirts copiously and again and you run your hands under the bath tap while he slips out the door of the room but not before he gives me a look like, You must be an idiot to share this lady with _anybody_. And then you lift the linen dress over your head and say, Take me to the bed, please.

So I do. This is finally lovemaking, as you are.

ELEANOR RIGBY> :) Shriek of ecstasy. I’m done. I know that was quick, but I was reading some pretty steamy threads before you queried. At least your fingers won’t be too sore.

HARPER> I was just getting to the good part. The part I’ve really fantasized about.

ELEANOR RIGBY> Sorry. You shouldn’t have let me near that insolent voyeur/bellboy/stranger. He was huge in my hand, by the way. I don’t like that in intercourse, FYI, but since I was merely servicing him manually, I liked that my hand wouldn’t nearly go all the way around the thickest part of him.

HARPER> You’re embellishing my scenario.

ELEANOR RIGBY> Certainly, dear. Don’t feel threatened. He was huge, but dumb as a doorpost—as well as being hard as one .

HARPER> Feeling better, I take it?

ELEANOR RIGBY> Lovely. Although I consider that subject sacred, to be honest.

HARPER> What?

ELEANOR RIGBY> Our first f2f meeting. I would never want a third person present for that.

HARPER> Sorry if I tainted your fantasy. I should have realized.

ELEANOR RIGBY> No, it’s fine. But you are my secret friend, Harper. That is sacred to me. You have no idea.

HARPER> I do have an idea, Eleanor. You know that.

ELEANOR> Well, don’t be a stranger. It was too long between rendezvous this time. Meet me tomorrow.

HARPER> We’ll talk soon. And alone this time.

ELEANOR> I like that better. Bye.

HARPER> Bye.

I thrust my chair away from the keyboard and focus on the sculpture of my father’s coat. Why would I thrust someone between myself and Eleanor like that? I suddenly want to warn her again, but I know Miles is looking over my virtual shoulder.

And then I realize something very disturbing.

The bellboy in the bathroom was Miles.

What the hell is going on in my brain? And how long has that son of a bitch been spying on my email? Everything’s under control, I hear myself saying to Bob Anderson.

Who do I think I’m kidding?

I’ve been lying in bed less than five minutes when it hits me: Miles has made a far more serious mistake than reading my email. And I’ve got to tell him about it. It’s an hour later in New York, but I don’t really give a damn. He’s usually awake all night anyway, monitoring Level Three.

After four rings, he answers “Turner” in a voice that makes it clear he does not like being bothered by mere human beings.

“How long have you been spying on my email, shithead?”

I hear a soft laugh. “Don’t worry. I hardly ever look. But since you started talking to the FBI, I figured you might be getting antsy about warning some of your online friends. Which you definitely do not need to do. They’re in no danger.”

“We’ll skip that argument for now. I want to know how you’ve been reading my mail. I’ve never been able to access yours.”

Another laugh. “But you tried, right? There are a couple of system privileges you don’t have, Harper. One is called super-postmaster. It’s like the postmaster privilege, but it gives you access to sysop mail as well. Even Jan’s mail.”

“What if Strobekker got the victims’ real names by hacking into a sysop account? Into super-postmaster?”

Miles hesitates. “I don’t think that’s possible. But I’m still assessing the system. It would have taken only one deep penetration to get the master client list, and it could have happened months ago. That makes forensic analysis of the disks very difficult.”

“But you don’t know it was only one penetration. If he’s in the system now, and he has the super-postmaster privilege, that means he could have read your messages to me, which would tell him the FBI was onto him.”

There is a long silence. “Brahma is not in the system now. But even if he were, he could only have read my messages during the interval between my posting them and your picking them up. Unless you saved them to a file. Did you do that?”

“No. I printed hard copies and deleted them.”

“What time did you do that?”

“Just before I talked to Eleanor.”

“So stop worrying. And get off my case. All it would take is basic postmaster for Brahma to read your warning to Eleanor.”

Miles is right. “You just stop looking over my shoulder, goddamn it.”

“I can’t guarantee that.”

At least he’s honest. “Miles, I want the super-postmaster privilege and any others I don’t know about.”

“I can’t give you that. Jan has already blocked your access to the accounting database.”

“What?”

“What did you expect, Harper?”

“Listen to me. If Strobekker or Brahma or whoever is still roaming our system, I’ve got to know I can see everything he can. If I can’t, I’m off EROS as of now.”

“Let me think about it. The FBI phone traces are going nowhere, but I’ve been going back over some of Brahma’s old email—”

“How did you get that?”

“I pulled it out of your computer.”

“What?”

“Don’t get your panties in a wad. It was necessary. I’ve got other sources too. The thing is, Brahma’s using an anonymous remailer for his email.”

“What does that mean in practical terms?”

“Regular email is traceable. You can look at the packet headers and get a user name, or at least take back-bearings and get a rough physical location. But Brahma doesn’t use the EROS-mail feature. He sends his email to our servers via the anonymous remailer, which is in Finland, and then through the Internet. The remailer strips off his address and adds a random one. I spoke to its operator about a half hour ago.”

“Have you told the FBI?”

“Oh sure, we’re like Boris and Natasha here, man.”

“Can they get info on Brahma from the remailing service?”

“There’s a precedent for getting cooperation from the police in some countries in extreme cases, but the guy who runs this service sounded like a wild man. A real anarchist. He’s probably destroying all his records right now.”

“That’s why Brahma chose him.”

“Obviously. Brahma’s a clever boy, Harper. Too clever for Baxter’s techs, I fear.” Miles is clearly enjoying himself. “We’ve still got FBI agents camped out up here. They’re guarding our file vault like it’s the tomb of Christ, waiting for the time lock to open and give them the master client list.”

“Great. Now we’re back to where we were when you changed the subject. Give me the super-postmaster privilege or I’m shutting down my EROS interface.”

He doesn’t answer for some time. Then he says, “Type S-I-D-D-H-A-R-T-H-A after your password at the sysop prompt. Got it?”

“Siddhartha as in the Herman Hesse novel?”

“As in the Buddha. But that’s close enough.”

“I think you’ve gone weird on me, man.”

“I always was, Harper. You know that. Ciao.”

And he is gone.

I sit thinking in the soft glow of the EROS screen.

Siddhartha? Brahma?

I don’t know or care much about Eastern religions, but Miles certainly seems to. And though I do not know the significance of this, or whether it has significance at all, I am suddenly reminded of Drewe’s speculation about Oriental medicine and the use of bizarre trophies to restore vitality. I always related such things to Japan, and Buddha fits with Japan, though the Buddha himself was Indian. Brahma and Shiva make me think of India too. I remember from my meeting in New Orleans that the only murder victim who was not Caucasian was Indian. Also that an Indian hair was found at one of the crime scenes. I see no tangible links between these facts, yet I know too well that my knowledge of such things does not even rate as sketchy. They could easily be connected just beyond my myopic mental vision.

Life would be much simpler if the FBI could follow a trail of digital bread crumbs back to the lair of the killer. But Miles has little faith that this will happen, and something tells me he is right. That we have yet to make out even the silhouette of the creature behind these murders.

I hunted when I was a boy. I gave it up the day my cousin put four Number 6 shotgun pellets into my right calf. It was a late February afternoon, and we’d gotten separated. I was following what I thought was a rabbit into a thicket. My cousin heard a noise and thought fate had handed him an out-of-season deer. I don’t blame him for shooting. Five seconds later and I might have shot him. Neither of us could see what we were after. That’s the way it goes sometimes. But I’ve often wondered what would have happened had it been something other than rabbits we were chasing. A bear, say. Something that would have seen me lying there bleeding on the ground and come over to finish the job. That’s the way it goes sometimes too. It all depends on the quarry you choose to hunt.

ELEVEN

Dear Father,

Panikkar telephoned early this morning, saying he had to see me. I feared the worst, and I was not far wrong. When he arrived I was in the basement, settling Jenny in. After I came up, I found him waiting in the study with Kali. Panikkar told me that he and Bhagat had “endured all they could”—his words. I expected next to hear him say that he had gone to the police, who would arrive at any minute.

How wrong I was. Instead of delivering a sermon of moral outrage, he demanded more money. He must have thought I was ripe for fleecing, with the procedure so close. The mendacity of man is his undoing. I was prepared to pay, but when Panikkar mentioned the amount it stunned me. As I tried to explain my position, I saw movement in the shadows behind him. Like a mantis Kali swung her thin brown arm over his shoulder and plunged her dagger into his belly.

There was nothing I could do. It was plain from the spray that the first stroke had pierced the abdominal descending aorta. Before I could utter three sentences she had eviscerated him, while Panikkar stared at his butchered belly in horror. True to her name-sake, Kali removed his head and hung it by the hair from her belt. I realized how dangerous this development was, of course, but it was oddly satisfying after all Panikkar’s grousing. Thank God it was him, rather than Bhagat. Anesthesia is a nice luxury, especially for the patient. In future I can do the typing myself.

I feared that when Panikkar did not contact Bhagat with news of our meeting, Bhagat would go to the police. But Kali knew what to do. She called Bhagat and told him the procedure would be performed tonight as planned. Bhagat asked to speak to Panikkar, but Kali told him Panikkar was busy with me in the basement. She said Bhagat could collect the bonus that Panikkar had negotiated, but only after the procedure was completed. When Bhagat expressed anxiety, Kali told him to park outside the rear door. Panikkar would assure him that all was well.

When Bhagat pulled up, Kali switched on the interior light and held Panikkar’s severed head up to our door window on a pole. From outside, all Bhagat saw was Panikkar’s face [which was never very animated anyway] and a beckoning hand. The fool parked his car and entered with a smile.

Kali sat him down and explained in their language what had transpired, all the while with Panikkar’s head hanging from her belt. The expression on Bhagat’s face defied description. Not a word passed his lips. When he rose to leave, Kali informed him that the procedure would proceed as scheduled. He had two hours to rest before getting into his scrubs.

Panikkar be damned. Tonight I go in.

TWELVE

I come awake expecting to see fine blue lines of daylight around my heavy window blinds, but there is only darkness.

My telephone is ringing.

I have to get up to answer it. Sweat cools on my skin as I feel my way across the air-conditioned office to the phone.

“Hello?”

“Is this hopper school?” asks a whisper of a voice.

“What?”

The whisper gets louder. “Is this Harper Cole?”

“Yes. Who the hell is this? If you’re a cop, call me in the morning.”

“I’m not a cop.”

The voice sounds nervous. Nervous and young. “I’m sleeping. What do you want?”

“This is David Charles. Do you remember me?”

“No.”

“You talked to me a couple of times on the phone. I’m one of the techs at EROS.”

My eyes click open. “Yeah, I remember you.”

“No, you don’t. That’s okay. I’m one of Miles’s assistants.”

“What can I do for you … David?”

“I’m not sure. I just thought I’d better talk to you. You know the FBI is up here, right?”

“Yes. Trying to do phone traces?”

“Yeah. The atmosphere is really tense. They’ve got agents guarding the file vault, and Miles is acting really weird. He’s pretty paranoid about the government.”

“I’m listening.”

“Well … the thing is … your access to the accounting database was cut off, right?”

“Yes. Jan Krislov ordered that, if I’m not mistaken.”

“You are. Miles did it. I mean, he told me to do it.”

I feel a strange giddiness. “What are you trying to tell me, David?”

“Well, I just thought you should know. About two hours ago, I realized that another blind-draft account had been terminated for insufficient funds. It happened this morning. It belonged to a woman—”

I feel my mouth go dry.

“—named Rosalind May. She’s from Mill Creek, Michigan. At first I didn’t think anything about it. But then I realized she was on a list I saw in Miles’s office.”

Shit.

“It was a list of blind-draft women who haven’t been logging on but are still paying their fees. There are about fifty of them. Anyway, I decided to check and see whether May had logged on at all in the last few months. She seemed to lose interest about three months ago. But then I saw that she’d logged on every night for five nights, starting last week. She dropped off again two nights ago. And then today her secret account was overdrawn. Like she needed to make a deposit but wasn’t around to do it. You know?”

Yes, I know—

“And the thing is … Miles hasn’t told the FBI yet.”

“Jesus.”

“And since he hasn’t told them,” Charles says hesitantly, “I don’t feel too good about walking up to these suits and volunteering the information. You know? I figured since you first reported the murders, you might know how to handle it.”

The weight of this information is too great to absorb quickly.

“Harper?”

“You were right to call me, David. I’ll take care of it.”

“You will? Wow. Okay, man.” The relief in the tech’s voice is palpable. “Look, I gotta go. Miles is all over the office right now. I don’t think he’s been to sleep in like fifty hours.”

“Try to get him to rest,” I say uselessly.

“Yeah, okay. I will. And, uh … try to keep me out of this, okay?”

He hangs up.

I switch on my halogen desk lamp and dig through my wallet for Daniel Baxter’s card. I dial the number before I have time to second-guess myself.

“Investigative Support Unit, Quantico,” says a crisp female voice.

“I need to speak to Daniel Baxter immediately.”

“Your name?”

“Harper Cole. It’s about the EROS case.”

“Hold, please.”

A Muzak confection of old Carpenters tunes assaults my ears for nearly two minutes before Baxter comes on the line. An out-of-tune violin is still ringing in my head when he says, “Cole? What you got?”

“It’s five A.M.,” I say, looking at my desk clock. “You work all night?”

“It’s six A.M. here. What you got? I’m pretty busy.”

“You’re about to be a lot busier.”

Baxter catches his breath. “Spit it out, son.”

“I just learned that another blind-draft account went to zero. It was terminated today. It belonged to a woman.”

“Jesus Christ. Not this soon. You got a name?”

“Rosalind May. Mill Creek, Michigan.”

“Rosalind like in Shakespeare, or Rosalynn like Rosalynn Carter?”

“I don’t know.”

“How’d you find out about it?”

I remember David Charles’s plea for protection. “Worry about that later. Can’t you just check the name?”

“I’ll do it right now. Anything else I should know?”

“No. As soon as you find out anything, please give me a call. I mean immediately. You owe me that much.”

“I’ll buzz you. I’m going to call the Mill Creek P.D. right now.”

I get up from the halogen glow and walk down the hall to check on Drewe. She left the bedroom door open when she went to bed, a good sign. As she snores softly, I discern her face in the moonlight trickling through the window. Her mouth is slightly open, her skin luminous in the shadows. I don’t know how long I stand there, but the muted chirping of my office phone snaps me out of my trance and I slip quickly back up the hall to get it.

“This is Harper.”

“It’s bad, Cole.”

My blood pressure drops so rapidly I grab the desk to steady myself. “She’s dead?”

“Worse.”

“What? What’s worse than dead?”

“Rosalind May has been missing for fifty to sixty hours. That’s Rosalind with a D. Two nights ago she was dropped off at her home by a date at eleven P.M. Sometime during the night, she apparently let someone into her house or else voluntarily left to meet them. She hasn’t been seen since. In my experience that’s worse than dead. It means very painful things.”

“Oh, God. You think it was our guy? Strobekker?”

Baxter hesitates. “I don’t know. I’d say yes, but there’s one thing that doesn’t fit. One very big thing.”

“What?”

“Rosalind May is fifty years old. She has two grown sons. All the other victims were twenty-six or under.”

“Except Karin Wheat,” I remind him. “She was forty-seven.”

“Yeah. And one other thing.”

“What?”

“This UNSUB left a note. The police didn’t find it until last night. One of their detectives decided to poke through her computer—”

“There was EROS software on the drive?” I cut in.

“No. Just like the other cases. Anyway, this Michigan detective was poking through her computer, and he found a WordPerfect file he couldn’t read.”

“It was encrypted?”

“Not digitally. It was in French.”

“French? You’re sure the UNSUB left it?”

“You tell me. The translation’s about a paragraph long, but the end of it reads: ‘The dawn is breaking on a new world, a jungle world in which the lean spirits roam with sharp claws. If I am a hyena I am a lean and hungry one: I go forth to fatten myself.’ Mean anything to you?”

The skin on the back of my neck is tingling. “Yes. I mean, I recognize the passage. It’s Henry Miller.”

“The porn author?”

“Miller wasn’t really a porn author. Not as you think of it. But that’s not important. The passage is from Tropic of Cancer.”

“How do you know that? Nobody here did.”

“Dr. Lenz must not be there. He would have known it.”

“You’re right. He’s out of pocket just now.”