The Killing Harvest

by Don Donaldson

  Sarchi felt like saying, “Just look at the damn thing,” but she merely nodded.

  Kelsey flicked a switch on some equipment that sat on a shelf above the computer, then picked up a microphone. He opened the back cover of the book and let the song play into the mike, filling the computer screen with vertical black lines.

  He let the song go through one cycle, then closed the book and put the mike away. He hit a button on the keyboard and used the mouse to pull down a menu. Rapidly, he displayed the sounds in several different ways, so intent on his analysis that he seemed to forget Sarchi was there.

  Finally, he stopped at an image that consisted of ghostly dark smears. He studied this version with great interest for a while, working his way from screen to screen. Then he turned to Sarchi and said, “You see these repeating squares?”

  She followed his finger to a clear part of the screen above all the smears.

  “This is not from a voice or a musical instrument.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “Digital pulses of sound at a frequency not commonly encountered in daily life.”

  “So you’re saying it shouldn’t be there.”

  “Definitely not.”

  30

  BEFORE LEAVING THE Speech and Hearing Center, Sarchi had Kelsey check the song for the same anomaly in the book she’d been sent. It was there, too. And she’d bet it was in every other copy that existed. But what did it mean? Kelsey seemed satisfied just to have her out of his hair and didn’t bother asking her for an explanation. But she was sure planning on asking Helper for one if she ever got Ircle to function.

  Forty minutes after leaving Kelsey, she arrived home with enough knowledge from Ella to join her first IRC channel on the undernet. On a whim, she picked one called KICK and watched a lot of nasty sentiments against various minorities scroll by from a large number of participants. Unable to resist and wanting to practice, she typed Jewish merchant bankers rule and sent it. She was promptly kicked off the channel.

  She then joined a benign group discussing whether tattoos were works of art or disfigurements. Feeling strongly that they were the latter, she contributed freely. During this practice run, she tried the Who Is command several times on the nicknames scrolling by and discovered that in addition to learning the “real name” the person in question signed on with, it also gave the city they lived in. Since she hadn’t entered any such information for herself, she concluded that the software used for IRC automatically knew the city each participant’s computer signal was coming from.

  Deciding she’d had enough of tattoo talk, she changed channels. By some mistake, she found herself on two channels at the same time.

  Two at the same time . . .

  The germ of an idea with hazy possibilities popped into her head.

  She signed off IRC and turned her attention to nurturing this thought. Under her care it grew into a wondrous thing. Longing to share the idea with John, she tried him again in McKenzie. Still no answer. This time she left a message for him to call her.

  So she’d carry on alone.

  She reopened the Ircle program and practiced setting up her own channel. When she could do that, she closed Ircle, logged off her Internet connection, and called Sharon’s pager in New Orleans.

  She answered as promptly as always, and Sarchi presented the plan she’d devised. Sharon readily agreed to her part, and the trap was set.

  UNABLE TO WAIT any longer for her boyfriend, Steve Oakley, Sharon McKinney threw on her coat and took the elevator down to the apartment house lobby, intending to go by herself. But as she went out the front door, Steve came hustling toward her.

  “Sorry, I got out of surgery late, and then my research tech was having a problem.” He turned and hurried to keep up with Sharon.

  “I told you I have to be there at six forty-five . . .”

  “I just lost track of time.”

  “Can you get us there in ten minutes?”

  “If I know what’s good for me I will.” He looked for a smile, but Sharon wasn’t ready to forgive him.

  They piled into Steve’s car, and he got them moving. “What is it you’re supposed to do at this place, anyway?”

  “A favor for a friend.”

  “And I’m there to . . .”

  “Make all the other women jealous.”

  Steve smiled with relief. “I’m baaaack.”

  “Don’t gloat. It’s only because I’m easy.”

  “That’s what attracts me.”

  Sharon tapped the clock on the dash. “Eight minutes, Oakley.”

  He shot through a light that turned red even before he entered the intersection.

  “I hear thirty isn’t such a bad age,” Sharon said. “I’d like to be alive to find out.”

  “Not me. I want to go out with my student loans still unpaid, make some people genuinely unhappy at my demise.”

  “Don’t say that even jokingly.”

  “I talked to my mother last night,” Steve said. “She’s expecting us for Thanksgiving.”

  “I told you I didn’t want to go there this year.”

  “I know, but she looks forward to it so much.”

  “Like a wart that just keeps coming back.”

  “She likes you.”

  “Then why did I overhear her last year telling you about an article describing the psychological trauma being abnormally short inflicts on kids?”

  “Okay, so on that one point she’s concerned.”

  “I don’t want to go there.”

  “I already told her we’d come.”

  “Then untell her.”

  “C’mon, it’s just for a day and a night.”

  Sharon didn’t speak again until they arrived at Tropical Joe. “Just let me out by the front door,” she said coldly.

  “Okay. I’ll find a place to park.”

  “Don’t bother. I’ll take a cab home.”

  “Sharon—”

  “Go find your mother a woman who’ll give her normal-sized grandkids.”

  She got out and went inside without looking back. As Oakley pulled away, he believed the worst thing about a woman’s body was that sometimes it came with a mind attached.

  SARCHI OPENED IRCLE, logged onto the undernet, and tried to go to channel ZZ3, but it didn’t exist yet. This was good, because it meant their target hadn’t arrived at Virtual Joe. She set up a channel named T1 and waited for Sharon, checking every thirty seconds or so for the existence of ZZ3. After a couple of minutes, Sharon joined her on T1.

  Sarchi typed Everything okay? in the message box and sent it.

  Where do they keep the men who haven’t talked to their mothers in twenty years? I’d like to order one, Sharon sent back.

  Pay attention now, Sarchi typed. And watch who comes in. I’ll let you know when the target arrives.

  Target, Sharon said. I feel so clandestine.

  Just keep your eyes open.

  Man or woman?

  Don’t know.

  In one of the cubicles on risers in the back of the place, Lee-Ann decided it was time. She closed the game of solitaire she was playing and opened her IRC program. She then created a channel named ZZ3.

  In Memphis, Sarchi tried again to connect with ZZ3. This time it was there.

  She selected T1 and typed, Target has arrived. Who came in?

  That would be the last she’d communicate with Sharon for a while. Now, her attention had to be on ZZ3, where Helper had already sent her a message. Did you get the book I mailed to you?

  Sarchi typed, Yes.

  Did you find the friend who also has a copy?

  Yes. Who sent it to her? Was it you?

  It wasn’t me. Do you understand the book’s significance?

&n
bsp; Not entirely. I think the song in the back somehow makes kids sick. Is that right?

  In her cubicle at Tropical Joe, Lee-Ann was surprised at how much Sarchi knew. She was doing very well, but had apparently not found the clue Lee-Ann had hidden in the book. Do you know how kids communicate in secret?

  By invisible ink, Sarchi wrote. I found the message and looked up the Timmons papers in Acta Neurologica. But I can’t get copies of them for several days. Are they important?

  Yes.

  What will I find in them?

  Part of the answer.

  Why can’t you just tell me? Why are you making things so difficult?

  Don’t push. I’ll tell you what I want you to know.

  Not wanting to anger this person to where they would sign off prematurely, Sarchi typed, Sorry.

  The answer is in two parts. If you understand everything we’ve discussed so far, there would still be much hidden from you.

  How do I learn about the other half?

  Be at the main entrance to the Westbank Medical Center in New Orleans at one o’clock tomorrow. Watch for a thin bald man carrying a red and white insulated container. Follow him to his destination.

  That doesn’t give me much time.

  Don’t miss this chance.

  Suddenly, the screen displayed the message, Helper has left ZZ3.

  Switching to Sharon’s channel, Sarchi typed, Target signed off. Who’s leaving? She expected a small delay while Sharon figured out who the target was. But then a message said, Sharon has left T1.

  31

  THE ONLY PERSON who had left the computer area was a plump blonde with short hair and a round face. Feeling that her assigned role in this operation greatly underutilized her abilities, Sharon decided she’d give Sarchi more than just a description of the woman.

  Sharon hurried to the cash register, where Lee-Ann paid her bill with cash. As Lee-Ann headed for the door, and the clerk behind the counter turned his attention to Sharon, Sharon said quietly, “Who was that woman?”

  But Sharon’s voice was not made for whispering. Giving no indication she’d heard Sharon’s inquiry, Lee-Ann left the shop, walked a few steps along the front window, then paused and looked back at the counter inside.

  The clerk mistakenly told Sharon that Lee-Ann’s name was Angela something. Thrilled that she’d learned Lee-Ann’s first name, Sharon wanted more—like the license plate number of her car.

  On the sidewalk, Lee-Ann was upset. Tropical Joe was her favorite place in the world to be. Even though she never spoke to any of the other customers, she viewed them as family and believed they felt the same way about her. She had always felt safe there. She’d never worried about communicating with the Seminoux woman through the Tropical Joe Wi-Fi server, because it seemed impossible that Seminoux might somehow use the coffee shop to figure out Lee-Ann’s name. It was, of course, essential that Lee-Ann’s identity remain hidden because it wouldn’t take much thought for a detective to connect the dots from Seminoux to Lee-Ann to Latham, to Greta Dunn, the woman Lee-Ann had killed in the hospital. But now someone had asked the clerk Lee-Ann’s name. And it just seemed too coincidental that it happened right after her IRC conversation.

  Oh-oh, the redhead was coming out.

  Lee-Ann resumed walking.

  SEEING ANGELA THROUGH the window, Sharon moved slowly to the door to give the woman time to get a little distance from the shop. When Sharon stepped onto the sidewalk, Angela was about half a block away and walking briskly. Sharon turned in that direction.

  PANICKING OVER SHARON’S whereabouts, Sarchi did an Internet search for Tropical Joe’s phone number and called them.

  “Tropical Joe, home of New Orleans’s finest coffee.”

  “Is there a young red-headed woman there, small and attractive with a deep voice?”

  “She just left.”

  “Was anyone with her?”

  “No, but she seemed to know another woman who was here—a chubby blonde named Angela.”

  “What do you mean she seemed to know her?”

  “Well, maybe that’s not exactly right. She asked me the other woman’s name like she recognized her.”

  “This other woman, do you know her last name?”

  “Not really. Say, we’re kinda busy, so I gotta go.”

  He hung up, but Sarchi stood with her phone frozen to her hand. Why was Sharon there alone? Why hadn’t she sent back information on who she’d seen? And this Angela—would Sharon allow herself to be distracted by on old friend just at the most important moment in their plan? Highly unlikely. Which meant Angela was Helper and Sharon had . . . damn.

  Feeling that she needed to get help for Sharon as quickly as possible, Sarchi called information on her landline phone and had them connect her with the New Orleans police emergency number.

  “This is Doctor Sarchi Seminoux in Memphis. A few minutes ago a friend of mine, Doctor Sharon McKinney, left a place there called Tropical Joe, a coffee shop on Magazine Street, and I’m afraid she may be in trouble.”

  “What kind of trouble?” the man on the other end said.

  Sarchi’s mind scrambled for a simple answer that would get results. She decided to lie. “When she left, a woman named Angela followed her. Angela has been threatening her for weeks, and I’m afraid of what she might do.”

  “If you’re in Memphis, how do you know all this?”

  “I was talking to a clerk at Tropical Joe on the phone, and he told me.”

  “Okay, I’ll send a car over there. But first . . .”

  Sarchi gave him her name, address, and phone number, then did the same for Sharon. She described Sharon and told him what kind of car she drove. She also told him as much as she knew about Angela’s appearance.

  “Will you call me back and let me know what you find?”

  “I can’t promise anything. Try to relax. Your friend’s probably fine. Goodnight.”

  “Wait . . . what’s your . . .”

  She wanted to get his name, but he was gone.

  AT THE CORNER, Lee-Ann caught the light and crossed to the other side, a favorable angle that allowed her to see that the nosy redhead was following.

  By the time Sharon reached the corner, the light had changed to Don’t Walk. Ignoring it, Sharon dodged the traffic and made it safely to the other side. But Angela had disappeared. She’d seen her enter the street straight ahead. So where was she?

  Halfway down the block, an illuminated sign marked a small parking lot where Angela had most likely left her car. The street was one way going toward the sign, which meant that when Angela came out of the lot, Sharon would be able to get her license number, if she wasn’t already gone. Sharon began to walk faster. Just another minute was all it would take to be in position.

  When the thick bottom of the Mad Dog 20-20 wine bottle crashed into Sharon’s skull, fragments of shattered bone tore through the thick covering of her brain, rupturing a large venous sinus. One particularly sharp piece of bone penetrated an inch and a half into her frontal cortex. Mercifully, Sharon felt nothing as she crumpled to the sidewalk and was pulled by the ankles into the alley.

  In the alley’s dark recesses, Lee-Ann knelt by the body and pinched Sharon’s nostrils closed while shoving hard on Sharon’s lower jaw to make sure she couldn’t breathe through her mouth. This time, there would be no replay of the Greta Dunn fiasco.

  Two minutes into Lee-Ann’s attempt to finish Sharon off, a rat crept from between two garbage cans and watched her, the one dim light in the alley making its eyes look electrically powered. Finally, finding the murder of Sharon McKinney of no more interest, it waddled off into the darkness.

  When there could be no question that Sharon was dead, Lee-Ann released her. Now she began to think about fingerprints. Could you take them from skin? Better to
be safe.

  She took off her scarf and carefully wiped Sharon’s nose and chin. She did the same with her ankles. Except for the bottom, which she’d never touched and which had some blood on it, Lee-Ann wiped the wine bottle clean and set it aside.

  Money. She should take whatever money the woman was carrying to make it look like a mugging. But to get it, she’d leave prints all over her purse. Maybe it’d be better to take the whole bag.

  Behind Lee-Ann, another light came on. She heard a key in a lock.

  Dewey Breaux, the seventy-eight-year-old owner of the Lafayette café, came out lugging a big black plastic bag. A flash of movement at the mouth of the alley drew his attention. But if there had been someone there, they were gone now. So concerned about how his overhead was eating up his profits that he didn’t notice the body in the shadows, Breaux dropped the bag beside his already overflowing garbage cans and went back inside to make sure the help wasn’t stealing food.

  As Lee-Ann walked back toward Magazine Street, where she’d parked, she realized she must never go to Tropical Joe again. And she likewise would never again contact Seminoux. She had nothing more to tell her, anyway. It was all in Seminoux’s hands now. If she didn’t get it, she was too dumb to be a doctor. The question now was whether Lee-Ann could get out of this unscathed.

  Lee-Ann abruptly stopped walking. Ahead of her, a motorcycle cop was putting a ticket on her windshield. Her first thought was how ludicrous this was. She’d just killed someone, and the police response was to give her a parking ticket. Forgetting her rule to never smile, she grinned.

  But a chilling thought erased the smile. If she ever came under suspicion for the redhead’s murder and they figured out when it took place, the parking ticket would prove she was here. Feeling very conspicuous now, she stepped into a darkened doorway.

  TWO BLOCKS DOWN Magazine Street on the other side of Tropical Joe, Eddie “Buck” Rogers eased his patrol car toward the coffee shop, looking for a short redhead and a plump blonde, hoping he’d find them prone on the sidewalk, having a catfight. There was just something so erotic about women fighting, especially redheads. But he saw no fight, didn’t even see many pedestrians.