by Greg Iles
“Hello, Harper,” Jan says in her cool voice. Her moving lips have the jerky quality of low-speed digital video, but the audio is clear. I pull on the headset mike.
“Hello, Jan.”
“Someone wants to speak with you,” she says. “Just a moment.” She looks away from the camera. “All right, go.”
Jan’s face remains on my screen, but after a harsh click, a static-ridden voice says, “Harper?”
“I’m here, Miles.”
“Did you find the Trojan Horse?”
“I found it.”
“Did those goddamn deputies confiscate your computers?”
“No.”
“Thank God. Or Daniel Baxter, rather. The locals knew he’d been using EROS to try to trap Brahma, and they didn’t want to risk crashing the system by screwing with your end of it.”
“What the hell were you doing using a real picture of Erin to mask your Trojan Horse?”
“It was the right thing, Harper. You know it. She’s not in any danger. Absolutely nothing we’ve done leads to the real Erin. She’s not even on the map.” He pauses. “You used it, didn’t you?”
I say nothing.
“Did the cops find the dummy disk I left in the coat?”
“Yes.”
He laughs sharply through the static. “Come on. You got him to download Erin’s photo, didn’t you?”
“Like I had a fucking choice?”
“Yes!” he exults. “I knew you could do it. What happened?”
“Brahma told me his whole life story going back three generations. It was like he’d been holding it in forever. And it’s some kind of story.”
“Well?”
“He’s a doctor, just like Drewe guessed. Third generation, actually. There’s way too much to tell, Miles.”
“Give me a summary.”
Looking down at my highlighted pages, I quickly sketch Brahma’s journey from incestuous birth to his marriage to Kali. I quote some of his more chilling passages, but Miles absorbs them all in silence. The only thing that elicits a shocked comment is Brahma’s hemophilia.
“Harper, you realize that most hemophiliacs born before 1985 got AIDS from tainted blood transfusions?”
“Brahma’s a doctor. Maybe he suspected early that there was a problem with the blood supply and acted preventively. Don’t ask me how. I think the disease had a lot to do with shaping his character, though. Hey, what’s Cellini’s Perseus? A painting?”
“A sculpture. The Renaissance version of Arnold Schwarzenegger. Mikhail Baryshnikov with better muscles. He’s holding a sword and the severed head of Medusa.”
“Severed head . . . wow. Lenz will flip over this guy. Miles, I know there’s enough here for Baxter’s people to figure out who Brahma is. After I black out some of the stuff I had to say to get him to talk, I’m going to fax copies to Quantico.”
“They may not need it.”
“What? Why not?”
“I think they may have figured out who Brahma is.”
“What? How?”
“Maybe the organ donor registries. As soon as the FBI started checking donor networks, they turned up two kidnappings, both from the same registry. It’s called DonorNet. One was a long-standing missing persons case that had basically been written off. The victim disappeared about eight months ago in Florida. It was a man.”
“A man?”
“Yep. A guy named Peter Levy. The other happened the night after Rosalind May was kidnapped. Virginia Beach, Virginia. Jenny something or other. Drewe hit it right on the head.”
“And you think this somehow led Baxter to Brahma?”
“I don’t know. I do know that an hour ago Baxter asked Jan to temporarily shut down EROS.”
“Did he say why?”
“He said it was because the media has picked up on what we’ve been doing, because of Mrs. Lenz’s death. He told Jan that staying online any longer would be counterproductive, even to catch Brahma. The perception of risk to our clients would be too great.”
“The perception of risk?”
“Baxter’s words, not mine.”
“But with EROS down . . . and with potential hostages, they’ll need my information more than ever.”
“Maybe. But I think Baxter told us to shut down because he knows who Brahma is, and he’s trying to cover up the Lenz fuckup as thoroughly as he can, however late it might be. He threatened us with an injunction if we didn’t go off-line.”
“And?”
“Jan decided to comply. The risk of client lawsuits is pretty high at this point. When the FBI wanted us online, we could pass the buck to them. Now that shield is gone.”
“Miles, I’ve got to pass this stuff along. How many hemophiliac doctors can there be?”
“I don’t know. Go ahead and pass it on. But even if Baxter has a name on Brahma, catching him could be a whole different thing. Why don’t you fax me the printouts of your conversation? Fax them to Jan at EROS. She’ll get them to me.”
I hesitate. “I will if you’ll answer one question. The one you’ve been avoiding from the beginning.”
“What?”
“How did Brahma get into the system? How did he get the master client list?”
A flicker of interest on Jan Krislov’s inscrutable face.
“I don’t know,” Miles says simply. “I may never know. But every account Brahma hijacked is over a year old. He could have done everything he’s done so far by breaking into the system a single time over a year ago and downloading the list. And there’s just no way to check that now.”
“How good was your security a year ago?”
“As good as anybody’s.”
“Like what? A firewall?”
“Give me a break. That’s corporate pacifier stuff. I use traps, filters, alarms, other things.”
“Logs?”
“Yes.”
“You know what I’m thinking?”
“Yes.” Miles’s voice is strangely flat. “Brahma got physical access to a company computer, either in the office or in one of our homes, and printed out the list.”
“Right. Any break-ins at the office?”
“No.”
“Your house? Jan’s? The techs’?”
Krislov shakes her head. Miles says, “One of my techs had a burglary seven months ago, but that’s too recent.”
I’m mulling this over when he adds, “There is one other possibility.”
“What?”
“It’s a little uncomfortable to talk about.”
“People are dying, Miles. Spit it out.”
“Can you hear me, Jan?”
Krislov’s lips move jerkily, but I hear nothing.
“Okay,” Miles says. “You’re a widow. You date men of the age we’re considering as suspects. It’s possible that Brahma could have begun a relationship with you just to get access to your house. Your computer.”
Even before he stops speaking, I know he’s found the truth. His words seem to hit Krislov with physical force.
“That’s got to be it!” I tell him.
“Except,” he says quickly, “Jan doesn’t exactly date guys off the street. She dates corporate people, architects—”
“Doctors?” I cut in.
The static closes around me like a malevolent embrace. Jan’s lips are moving again, her eyes wide in anger or fear as she talks to Miles. It’s over a minute before he speaks again.
“You going to fax that stuff through, Harper?”
“One more question. How is your Trojan Horse supposed to work? Can it really nail Brahma by itself?”
“If he uses the EROS UUEncoder-Decoder software, there’s no doubt about it.”
“So how does it work?”
“Just be patient, okay? I don’t want to jinx it.”
“Shit. Then when is it going to happen?”
“I can’t predict that exactly. But it will.”
“Damn it, Miles!” I want to push harder, but I know it’s useless. “All right. Ju
st keep your head down.”
“Harper, wait. Did Brahma’s messages show any typos during the time you talked to him?”
“I didn’t notice any.”
“Not during the entire exchange?”
“No, but I’ll check again. You think he’s on the move?”
“I just want to be careful.”
“He can’t trace anything to my house, right?”
“No way. I’m just being paranoid. Even if Baxter hasn’t identified Brahma, the Trojan Horse will have sealed his fate by dawn tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow! Miles—”
“Tell Drewe thanks for letting me stay there,” he says, his voice full of hacker’s glee. “And fax your stuff to Jan. Ciao.”
The static ends.
I can tell from Krislov’s face that she wants to speak to me, but I am not interested. Our professional relationship will very soon be over. I terminate the video link, walk over to my desk, and get the number of Investigative Support at Quantico. My name gets me quickly past the operator, but instead of the person I asked for, I get voice mail.
“Dr. Lenz is on compassionate leave at this time,” says a sterile female voice. “His calls are being handled by Dr. Weaver of the Behavioral Sciences Instruction Unit. If you need further assistance, please remain on the line.”
When the operator comes back, I tell her I want Daniel Baxter. She says he’s unavailable. Two minutes after I tell her it’s life-or-death and the EROS case, Baxter comes on the line.
“Cole?” he shouts, like a man in the pit of a mine. “Talk fast, I’m in a hurry.”
“I heard you’re shutting down EROS. Is that right?”
“Yes. Speak up!”
“How do you plan to catch the killer without it?”
“The old-fashioned way.”
“What?”
“We know who he is, Cole. Our UNSUB is no longer UN.”
So Miles was right. “How? I mean, who is he?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“Well, I just talked to him.”
“You mean the killer?”
“Yes. For over an hour, via EROS. He thought I was a woman. I’ve got pages of stuff, practically his whole life story.”
“I’ll be damned. You have any idea where he was when he was talking to you?”
“No. But if he was at home, my guess would be New York, or some other large city that has brownstone houses.”
A brief pause. “That’s consistent with what we know.”
“I really think you should look at this stuff I’ve got.”
“Cole, you’ve been a big help and a pain in the ass. But the game’s over. We’re about to arrest the guy.”
A charge of excitement races over my skin, but my experience with Brahma tells me such statements are premature. “Let me ask you something, Mr. Baxter. You don’t have to answer unless I’m right, okay? Is this man you’re arresting a doctor?”
“How did you know that?”
“I know a lot more than that.”
“Fax everything you have to Quantico. We may need it if we have hostages, and we’ll definitely use it to build the case against him.”
“I’ll do that if you tell me one thing. How’d you figure out who the guy is? Was it the organ donor stuff?”
Silence. Then Baxter says, “I knew that had to be you. You and Turner, right?”
“No comment.”
“It wasn’t that. It was flight records. He flew to all the crime scenes.”
“Commercial flights?”
“Private. A Beechcraft Baron. Ever since you linked the murders, we’ve been checking everything that moved in or out of each murder city near the death dates. We finally found a private plane that had flown into tiny airports near three of the cities.”
Baxter pauses so long that I think we’ve lost our connection. Then he says, “Okay listen, Cole. The plane is owned by a doctor from New York. We’ve got him under surveillance now. Hostage Rescue is going to arrest him as soon as I land, to eliminate any chance of a barricade situation. Did the UNSUB reveal anything to you that might have bearing on a plan like this?”
A doctor from New York. Miles’s home territory. “He’s got a woman helping him. An Indian woman. In our conversations he called her Kali, but I can’t be sure that’s her real name. I’m almost positive she’s the real killer.”
“Good. What else?”
“Is this doctor a neurosurgeon, Mr. Baxter?”
“No. Why?”
“What kind of doctor is he?”
“He’s an anesthetist.”
“You mean an anesthesiologist? An anesthetist is just a technician.”
“Anesthesiologist, right. He’s an M.D.”
“Is he married?”
“I can’t tell you anything else. This thing’s about to explode in the media. I want this guy hog-tied and any hostages freed by the time RBJ open their mouths tonight.”
“RBJ?”
“Rather, Brokaw, and Jennings. Gotta go, Cole. Fax your stuff through.”
“Wait! Is Dr. Lenz okay? He doesn’t seem like the type to take compassionate leave.”
“I made it compulsory. His wife’s murder put him over the edge. Now that’s it. I’ll see you at the trial, if there is one.”
And he’s gone.
If there is one. A sudden memory sends a chill across the back of my neck. I am sitting in the New Orleans police station telling the FBI that I know who the killer is: David M. Strobekker. And I have the strangest feeling that this New York doctor Baxter thinks he’s about to arrest or “take out” will turn out to be as dead as Strobekker was. But of course he can’t be.
Baxter said they have him under surveillance.
Chapter 35
Blackness explodes into light and pain, a burst of brightness cored with shimmering dark. I spring up from something soft, sure I’m in a nightmare until the light resolves into a figure standing in a doorway with one hand on a light switch.
Drewe.
“Are you okay?” she asks.
I rub my fingers hard through my hair to get the blood flowing. I’m on the den couch again. “I guess I fell asleep. I don’t even remember how I got in here.”
She smiles tightly and moves down the hall toward the kitchen. Still disoriented, I follow and sit down at the table. Drewe stands at the sink, drinking water from a glass. There’s an aspirin bottle on the counter. With a quick movement she puts it back into the cabinet over the sink.
“Headache?”
She nods but doesn’t speak.
“Bad day?”
She opens the refrigerator and takes out a diet Dr Pepper. Looking at the drink can, she says, “Is Miles still here?”
“No.”
“So he wouldn’t tell the FBI anything.”
“That’s not it. The police showed up right after you left this morning. He barely got away.”
She’s looking at me now.
“It doesn’t matter anyway. The FBI called. They’ve identified the killer. They’ve probably arrested him by now.”
“Really?” Marginal interest.
“He’s a doctor, just like you guessed.”
She nods, looks back down at the Dr Pepper can. “Drewe, what’s the matter?”
She shakes her head silently.
“Drewe?”
The sight of my wife bowing her head into her hands to hide tears is something I haven’t seen in a very long time. I come to my feet, my stomach churning with anxiety. “What’s going on? Did somebody die? Is it your parents?”
She shakes her head violently.
“What then?”
She drops her hands from her wet face and stares at me as though pleading for an explanation. “Patrick beat up Erin.”
“What?”
“Patrick hit Erin! Last night. More than once.”
“But . . . why? What happened?”
“She won’t tell me. I stopped by their house on my way out of Jackson. I saw the bruises
the second she answered the door.”
I cannot think. White-hot rage blots out all reason. Before I know what I’m doing, I’ve snatched Drewe’s car keys off the counter and started for the hall.
“Where are you going?” she asks, grabbing my arm.
“To rip that son of a bitch a new asshole.”
“Harper, don’t! That’s not the way!”
“It isn’t?”
“What would it solve?”
“He won’t hit her anymore.”
“You don’t know that. If I wanted revenge, I’d tell Daddy what happened and he’d drive to Jackson and blow Patrick’s head off. Then where would Erin and Holly be?”
I stop trying to pull free. “Where is Holly? Is she okay?”
Drewe drops her arm and retreats back into the U of the kitchen. “Patrick wouldn’t hurt Holly. You know that.”
“I don’t know anything. Where is she?”
“Home, I’m sure.”
“Is Patrick there too?”
“I assume he’ll go there after he finishes his rounds.”
“Drewe, what the hell is going on?”
“I don’t know. They had an argument last night, the worst yet, but she won’t say what it was about. All I know is that Erin believes the beating was her fault.”
“Nothing justifies beating your wife.”
Drewe meets my eyes with a piercing gaze. “Erin says she deserved it.”
How quickly anger can give way to fear. This can only be about one thing.
“Harper,” she says quietly. “I think she’s having an affair.”
I have stopped breathing. My effort to look normal is wasted. Drewe has turned away and begun poking listlessly through the refrigerator, seemingly oblivious to the thunderclap reaction in me.
“Did she tell you that?” I ask.
“No, but it’s the only thing that makes sense. We all know how she used to be.” A plate of leftover chicken rattles on the counter. “The only thing I can guess is that after three years of trying to be faithful, she found she couldn’t. What else could make her feel guilty enough to stay with Patrick after he beat her?”
You don’t want to know.
Drewe shakes her head again. “Still . . . Patrick is the last man I would expect to lose control over something like that.”