And then Jennifer did a surprising thing, which she could not have explained but which shrieked in her head as necessary and important and to do without delay.
She cautiously placed the gun on her lap and raised her hands up and began to undo the hood covering her head. She did not know it, but this had all the Hollywood romanticism of the brave spy facing the firing squad and refusing the blindfold so that he could stare death in the eye. The hood was fastened tightly, and she painstakingly struggled to untie the knots that held it in place. Some wayward thought about not going directly from one kind of darkness into another ricocheted within her. It was slow work because her hands trembled wildly.
* * *
It was Linda who first spotted what Number 4 was doing. The two of them, like virtually all their subscribers, were riveted to their monitors, watching the slow yet delicious pace of Number 4’s end. It was inevitable. It was tantalizing. The chat rooms and instant messages about the last act were filled with subscribers typing furiously about what they were watching. There was a frantic electronic din of responses. Exclamation points and italics were abundant. The words flowed like water bursting through a dam.
“Jesus!” Linda said. “If she takes that off . . .”
In a world dedicated to fantasy, Number 4 had inadvertently injected a reality they had to deal with. Linda had not anticipated this, and she was suddenly tossed into a sea of fear and waves of concern.
“I shouldn’t have uncuffed her hands,” Linda said angrily. “I should have been more explicit.”
Michael moved to the keyboard and grabbed a joystick. He was about to kill the main face front camera, but then he stopped.
“We can’t cheat the clients,” he said abruptly. “They are going to demand to see her face.”
All he could see was the rage that would follow if Number 4 did as they expected her to but he and Linda concealed the last act with clever camera work and oblique shot angles. “Not good,” Michael muttered. “They will want it to be absolutely clear.”
“Do we . . .” Linda started, but she stopped. “They got a flash when she thought she was going to escape. There might have been a second or two before the feed got switched to the behind view . . .”
“Yeah. And the responses were pretty clear. They hated covering up her eyes. They wanted to see,” Michael replied.
“But . . .” Linda paused a second time. She could see all the ramifications in what Michael said.
“This is a big goddamn risk,” she whispered. “If the cops ever saw this—and Michael, you know they goddamn will, sooner or later—they can freeze the image. Do an enhancement on the picture. They’ll know who they’re looking at. And that might, I don’t know how, but it might some way make them think of whom to look for.”
Michael was absolutely aware of the dangers in letting clients see who Number 4 actually was as she died. But the alternative seemed worse. All the other numbers had died more or less anonymously, their true identities concealed right through the end of the show. But both Michael and Linda were thoroughly familiar with the passion and sense of intimacy evoked in clients by Number 4. They cared about her. So much was at stake as Number 4 continued to struggle with the binds that held the hood in place.
“She doesn’t realize,” Linda said slowly, “she could probably just rip the thing apart. It would be faster than what she’s doing. That might be good. Visually, I mean.”
“Wait. Keep watching. She might figure it out. Stay ready. We might have to cut that main camera feed fast. I don’t want to, but we might.”
Michael kept his fingers on the right keys. Linda was at his side. He considered taping the final scene at the farmhouse, then broadcasting it later, after they had disposed of Number 4 and covered all their tracks. But he knew this would infuriate the subscribers. Safe in their own homes in front of their computer screens, they desperately wanted to know. And that required them to see. Michael felt his muscles tighten with tension. No delays, he thought. We’ll just have to deal with things as they happen. The uncertain turn energized as well as concerned him. He glanced at Linda and imagined that more or less the same thoughts were pummeling her. Then he turned back to watch Number 4 as he and Linda fastened on what they could see and what they were sending out into cyber world.
He took a deep breath.
For the first and only time in Series #4 Michael and Linda were hesitant. It was as if the uncertainty that had trapped Number 4 throughout the show had finally caught up with the two of them. Their own confidence wavered and, also for the first time, they bent to the screen without any insight as to what was actually going to come next.
* * *
Mud caked on his clothes, covered his hands, and made the handle of his 9mm seem slippery. The rich smell of the earth filled Adrian’s nostrils as he snaked forward, foot by foot, heading patiently toward the farmhouse. The sun beat down above him, and he thought that, if anyone looked out of any window, even his low profile might be spotted. But he crawled forward inexorably, covering the open space as efficiently as he could, his eyes focused on his destination.
He did not stand until he reached the corner of the barn, where he was able to duck behind the wall, concealing himself from the house. He was breathing heavily, not from exertion but from the feeling that he was plunging headlong into an irrevocable fight that pitted his illness against all his failures as a husband, a father, and a brother. He wanted to turn to his ghosts and say he was sorry, but with what little sensibility he had he knew he had to keep going. They would come with him regardless of what silly apologies he made or didn’t make.
Everything within him told him that the lost Jennifer was only yards away. He wondered if any rational person would have reached that same conclusion as he crept to the edge of the barn and peered cautiously around.
He could see the back of the farmhouse. There was a single door that he guessed would lead into a kitchen. In front, at least according to his pictures, there was an old porch that once upon a time had probably seen a swing or a hammock but now was just another roof that leaked.
There was no sound. No movement.
Nothing that indicated anyone was inside.
If it weren’t for the old truck parked in front, he would have thought the place abandoned.
The doors, he knew, would be bolted and locked. He wondered whether he could use the butt of the 9mm to break in. But noise was his enemy and frontal assault . . . his brother had already explained that was a mistake. The idea that he would get so close only to fail frightened him.
Adrian kept inspecting the house, and then he saw what might be possible access. Off the kitchen was a set of rickety wooden steps with a banister that appeared broken. But just to the side, right above the ground level, there was a small dirt-stained window.
His own house had the same narrow single pane of glass that allowed some light to circulate into the basement.
Adrian made a calculation: If the man and the woman who stole Jennifer are like most people, they will remember to lock the front door and the rear door and they will throw the sash locks on the living room and dining room and kitchen windows. But they won’t have remembered the basement window. I never did. Cassie never did. I can break in there.
It would take a fast sprint across open yard. As fast as he could muster.
Alarm system? Not in such an old house, he lied hopefully to himself.
Run hard, he warned. Then he would throw himself down by the foundation of the house and try to work the basement window open.
It wasn’t much of a plan. And if that didn’t work he didn’t know what he was going to do as an alternative. But he took some comfort in the idea that he’d spent his academic life not prejudging the results of experiments. He had lectured endlessly to generations of graduate students to never anticipate the result, because then you won’t see th
e real meaning in what takes place and you won’t see the excitement in things unexpected.
Once he’d been a psychologist. And when he was young he’d been a runner. He gritted his teeth, took a deep breath, and launched himself forward. Adrian ran, arms pumping wildly, toward the farmhouse and the small ground-level window.
44
They were still moving fast down a two-lane narrow back road when Mark Wolfe spotted Adrian’s car abandoned in the school bus turnout. Terri Collins braked hard when the sex offender burst out “Hey! That’s it!” but still she swept past the old Volvo and had to make a tire-squealing U-turn before pulling in next to the car.
Her legs quivered as she jumped out from behind the wheel. Too much anxiety, too much forced speed; she felt a little like someone who had swerved to avoid an accident.
Wolfe lurched from the passenger seat and stood beside her.
There was no sign of Adrian. Terri approached the Volvo carefully, inspecting the ground around it in much the same manner she would gingerly examine a crime scene. She peered down through the safety glass. The inside of the vehicle was cluttered with typical debris. An ancient Styrofoam coffee cup. A half-finished bottle of spring water. A newspaper that was months out of date and a Psychology Today that was over a year old. There were even a couple of long-neglected parking tickets. The car was unlocked and she pulled the door open and continued to check the inside, hoping an item left behind would tell her something she didn’t already know.
“Looks like he’s been and gone,” Wolfe said slowly, elongating each word. He used a fake southern accent to cut through the tension. The sex offender laughed sharply.
Terri stepped back. She turned and stared down the road. The look in her eyes asked the question Where?
As if to answer, Wolfe trotted back to the detective’s car and seized maps and the cell phone. He did a quick survey and punched some keys before pointing down the tree-lined roadway. It was like giving directions from shadow to shadow.
“Down there,” he said. “That’s the place he’s heading. At least, according to all this it is. You can’t always trust what they tell you. It sure as hell doesn’t look like the place a really sophisticated webcast would originate.”
“What do you think they’re supposed to look like?” Terri asked.
“I don’t know,” Wolfe replied. “California strip malls? Big city photo studios?” Then he shook his head as if he were responding to an argument that hadn’t been made. “Of course, maybe not for the type of broadcast these guys are making.”
Wolfe followed Terri’s eyes. “I guess the old guy went on foot,” he said.
Terri Collins could see that as well. She peered forward and saw the battered mailbox that marked the entry to the farmhouse, just as Adrian had earlier.
“Maybe he decided to sneak up on ’em,” Wolfe said. “Maybe he actually knows what he’s doing and just hasn’t let on to you or me that he does. One way or the other, he doesn’t exactly know what sort of greeting he’s going to get up there, but whatever it is it won’t be real friendly.”
Terri did not reply. Every time Wolfe made an observation that mirrored her own, or was accurate to any degree, she felt a mixture of disgust and anger. That they were on the edge of territory he just might know better than she did infuriated her. She rapidly turned away from the sex offender and started calculating in her own head. She faced more or less the same dilemma that Adrian had.
She hesitated. She took the cell phone from Wolfe’s hands. There were well-established procedures for this sort of thing. Her department was forever putting out expansive memos underscoring correct legal approaches to crimes in progress. Investigation should have been processed and evidence collected. Reports needed to be filed. Her boss should have been informed. Warrants should have been acquired. Maybe even SWAT should have been contacted—if there even was a local SWAT team. She doubted it. Getting a well-trained team to this location would require numerous phone calls and lengthy explanations, and even then they would have to come from the nearest state police barracks, which had to be thirty minutes, maybe more, away. There was rarely any need for special weapons and tactics in rural New England. And when they arrived they would need to be briefed. There’s a retired and possibly nutty university professor with a loaded gun somewhere around here. She doubted they would think this was much of a reason for body armor, high-powered automatic weapons, and military-type planning.
So, no SWAT, she thought. And she had no idea if the local police even had more than one patrolman on duty, and he might be miles away. She knew she was way out of her jurisdiction and she ought to have local assistance. In fact, she knew that legally she had to have local assistance.
Nothing she was doing fit into any procedure she had been trained for. If Jennifer was here, if Adrian was assaulting some criminals holed up in a farmhouse, then she should be following a well-defined, mapped-out approach. Just steaming up to the front door might be every bit as dangerous as whatever it was that Adrian was doing. She was caught in a tangle of indecision. Missteps were inevitable, she expected to be second-guessed, but she realized that she had committed herself to doing something. She just needed a moment to figure it out but every moment that she took might be the last moment available to her to act.
She cursed loudly. “Goddammit!”
Lost in all this decision making, assessment, and impossible choices, she barely heard the distant popping noise.
Wolfe did, however.
“Jesus!” he said abruptly. “What the hell was that?”
But he knew the answer to his question.
Adrian moved crablike, crouched over, pinning his back to each board on the exterior of the farmhouse. He could feel sweat gathering on his forehead and dripping down under his arms. It was like being caught in a spotlight; the heat and glare were overpowering. He clutched the 9mm in his right hand and crept along until he reached the basement window. He was acutely aware of sounds and he sniffed the air like a dog. He thought he was more alive in that moment than he had been in weeks or maybe even longer.
He dropped to his knees in the soft ground and set the gun down. Inwardly, he was pleading with whatever god there was that watched over old men and teenagers. Please let it be open. Please let this be the right place.
He worked his fingers up under the edge of the window frame and tugged. It moved a quarter inch.
Adrian slid sideways, facing the window, trying to get a little more purchase on the frame. He pulled again and he heard a half-creaking, half-splintering noise as the tired, decayed old wood gave way. Another half inch.
His fingernails were instantly torn and he could feel sharp pain in his hands. Wooden ridges had cut his fingertips and he looked down and saw that blood was already welling up from scratches and cuts. For an instant, he closed his eyes and told the pain to disappear, that he had more important things to do than to feel hurt at that moment. He decided that no matter what happened he would ignore all discomfort from that point on.
He grasped hold of the window a third time and leaned back, using every ounce of strength he had. He heard the wood crack, and then it came free, and he skidded back as he fell over. He scrambled to his feet and grabbed at the frame, lifting it up.
The window was narrow and small. It was no more than a foot high and twenty inches wide.
But it was open.
Adrian bent over again. It had not occurred to him that he might not fit through the small space and for a moment he tried to measure his shoulders against the opening. He told himself that whatever it was he would force himself through. Round peg, square hole, it made no difference. He looked down into the basement, his eyes adjusting to the variegated lights that poured in over his shoulders. His first impression was that the basement below him was dark, abandoned, and smelled of damp age. But as he swept his vision through the corners he saw l
ines of high-tech wiring snaking through the ceiling. None of the wires was coated with the dust that everything else was.
He looked harder and he saw that there were walls built out from a corner. The front wall had a single cheap wooden door with a bolt lock on it. It looked like a flimsy, rushed construction project that had been stopped well before the painting and decoration stage.
It was a cell. It reminded him of a larger version of the boxes he’d used with lab rats.
Adrian groped around and grabbed up his automatic. Cautiously, he pushed his legs through the small opening. There was no way to prop it open, so it bumped up and down on his back as he tried to lower himself through, knocking against his shoulders and then his head. Someone wiry, a gymnast or a circus performer, would have launched himself into the basement without difficulty. Adrian, however, was neither. He struggled to keep his balance, trying to lower himself like a mountain climber that had run out of rope.
His toes stretched into the void. He swung a few inches to the right, and then the left, trying to find something that he might be able to drop to, but his feet flailed the air uselessly. He could feel his grip sliding on the window frame. He did not know how far down the floor was, perhaps only a few feet, but it felt like he was balancing above a crevasse that fell a thousand. Gravity pulled at him, and he took a deep breath and dropped.
He hit the cement floor hard, his ankle buckling beneath him, and pain shot through his leg.
But the crash of his fall and his sudden gasp of pain was obscured by a sudden high-pitched scream of animal agony that came from behind the bolted cell door.
The final knot fell apart, and Jennifer realized that the hood was loose. It was only a matter of lifting it up and removing it.
She hesitated. She no longer cared if she was breaking any of the rules. She no longer feared what the man and the woman might do to her. There was only a single option remaining. But she was caught in a tangle of thoughts that somehow she didn’t want to see her world in her last seconds. It would be like standing on the edge of her own grave and peering down into the dirt-rimmed hole that welcomed her. This is where Number 4 dies. As expected.
What Comes Next Page 42