He soon found himself inundated with stories, many of which he recognized for the bullshit they were; some of them were reminiscent of Dungeons and Dragons, Doom, and Helsinger's Pit, all games he had played as a child. People out there weren't taking him seriously.
“Oh, yeah, sure, get real,” ridiculed some of the electronic responses. “Hey, Cochise,” shouted another. “Way to go, Geronimo!” came a third.
One message he got was strange and crude. “Keep fucking around with this stuff, Mr. Squeegee,” someone responded to his electronic handle, with no clue as to where his request had originated from, “and you'll get a tempered steel arrow through your goddamned evil heart and another up your ass.”
A second vulgar message said, “We'll scalp your head and your prick, punk.”
Just the ramblings of assholes hanging out their entire lives on the Net, seeking identity, seeking validation, seeking kicks, highs, and even sex in a world of silicone and bytes rather than in a real bed with a real woman, he told himself, shrugging off the threats as childish bullshit.
He turned his mind instead to Darlene and the problem of having discovered that he liked her too much to go on lying to her. Still, he feared what she'd think now if he told the truth, once she learned he was just a computer support person in the department working for Dr. Sanger, and not a detective at all. It was a quandary that had been taking up much of his time lately, and there didn't seem any solution but to tell her the truth, but when, where, and how? he wondered.
He surfed off the Net and got back to his duties. But halfway through a routine case study Dr. Sanger wanted all her notes organized on, his screen went blank. There was no explanation for the interruption. A few bleeps and grinds later, a handful of words suddenly flashed across his screen.
The flashing few words were scary words. They read:
You'llpay dearly, withyourheart'sblood. ……..
Randy swallowed hard. It was one thing to be threatened by computer nerds on the Net; it happened every day. But this was different. Someone had hacked their way into his system. They knew who he was, where he was, and the threat, using the words heart's blood, was a little too close to home, with all these crossbow murders Dr. Sanger and Stonecoat were investigating.
Just as suddenly as the message appeared, it disintegrated into black and the program he had been working on re-appeared.
Randy steeled his nerves and tried desperately to trace the break-in, but whoever it was, he was clever, leaving false trails and no true tracks. Now Randy felt electronically vulnerable for the first time in his life. He felt vulnerable in the real world, too, looking around himself for any sign of intruders who might storm in. He wondered if the place was bugged. He knew that his computer was being monitored.
“Damn,” he cursed. He had a great deal of work to do, and he must do it quickly. He began to make disk copies of all the investigative work he'd done thus far for Dr. Sanger in relation to the crossbow murders. He named the file Crossfire, labeled the two disks he'd filled, and collected them up. He gathered the rest of his things and made his way to the door, prepared to leave the office, taking the disks with him. His feelings of paranoia were running rampant, while one voice in his brain kept saying, “Hey, man, you wanted intrigue; you wanted to be Detective Pardee, asshole.”
Maybe it was just another prank from good ol' Terry and Stephen downstairs in programming and research. Those jerks had too much time on their hands. Yeah, perhaps it was just those two clowns. Maybe he was just overreacting.
But before he turned the doorknob, before he walked out, he decided to take one more step, just for insurance. He returned to his desk, placed the computer disks in a Jiffy Pak, labeled it in longhand, and walked it down to the mailroom. There he found Barney, the affable mailroom guy, and he got the proper postage on the envelope addressed to Dr. Sanger's home.
Barney said he'd shove it in the outgoing mail, but Randy said that he needed to put another item inside, just a note, so he'd take it with him.
Barney waved him good night. Outside the station house, he found the nearest mailbox and mailed the package to Meredyth Sanger, a small voice in his mind saying, I hope this isn't my last natural act on this planet.
“Don't be so dramatic,” he told himself aloud, dropping the package into the slot.
Still, as he walked to his car, he couldn't shake the feeling that people who normally didn't pay him any attention were interested in his every footfall. When he climbed into his car, he snatched out the two disks out of his jacket pocket—he'd only pretended to mail them—and when he put the keys into the ignition, sitting there in the sauna left by day's end, he hesitated, staring at the key. He foolishly wondered if anyone might have placed a car bomb below his little '84 Le Mans. He pleaded with himself to cut it out, to stop this nonsensical paranoia. He wondered if he had the stomach for this James Bond crap.
He bit his lip, grimaced, and manfully turned the key and cranked Lucy—the name he'd playfully given his car after a squat little Aunt Lucy—and expected it to explode in a ball of flame in his face, but nothing of the kind happened.
Maybe it had just been those goof-offs in programming. Sons of bitches...
Dr. Sanger used Lucas's telephone in the Cold Room to ring Randy, but she'd apparently just missed him. She cursed the time. Where had the day gone? She and Lucas had returned to the files here in the Cold Room to look for the tenuous threads between the cases they suspected were related.
But it was late and they'd been frustrated by the lack of connection between the judge, the doctor and the stockbroker.
“It's time to give it up here. Damn,” she muttered. “I hope Randy has more for us from his computer searches.”
“He's bound to. Do you know where he lives?”
“I've got his address, but if all the information is upstairs in the computer, that's not going to help us much.”
“How safe is it, in the computer, I mean?”
“It's coded; has a lock on it.”
“Do you know the code?”
“Yeah, sure I do.”
“Let's have a look-see, then.” They found their way to Dr. Sanger's office. The lights were out, and with a dark, rumbling storm blanketing the city now, the place was like a cave. But there was a light on. Randy's computer screen.
“Randy? Are you still here?” she called out.
Silence was their only response. A window in her office was open, the rain seeping in. Outside, a fire escape revealed nothing. They turned on lights and went to the computer screen. It was blank, filling now with an automatic screen saver, fishes in a coral sea.
“This is just not like Randy, to leave his computer on, and to leave my window open.”
“Maybe it wasn't Randy who left it on.”
“Well, if he rushed out in a hurry...”
“We should locate him.”
She nodded, a ball of gnawing, gloomy concern forming in the pit of her stomach. “Yeah, let's do that.”
764LTl:C42119Category……….42 -. -Topic 49LOG ….. Message 440 ……. Sat. July 30, 1996…….2:10:21
Questor 1... Helsinger's Pit…
Q1: There is a further threat. A new enemy has risen in perdition this realm, These are two
enforcer demons—male and female. They must be stopped. Do all necessary to protect the brothers and sisters and children of Helsinger. Reply this board after evil is wiped out-God's speed to you. Questor 1.
END TRANSMISSION. Category 42, Topic 49LOG... 2:13:26
Category 42 ….. Topic49LOG…… Message 441... …Sat. July30,1996……3:55:20
Questor 2…… from the Pit……
Q2: Understood. Will take care of perdition's problem.
END TRANSMISSION! Category 42, Topic49LOG …….3:57:02
Category 42….. Topic 41L0G ….. Message 442... Sun. July 31…... 1996... 8:10:01
Questor 1...
Time to take out all threats. Set trap and exterminate the mice. No more fun and games
. Eliminate the leaders of our enemy. See message drop, new station.
END FINAL TRANSMISSION THIS EMAIL .
TWENTY-TWO
Once at home, Randy snatched a frozen pizza from the freezer and slid it unceremoniously into his microwave, careful to follow the convoluted but well-remembered instructions on the box. He fed his fish, petted his cat and stretched out on his sofa, the disks having been safely tucked away. Maybe later he would bring up the stored information on his machine, have a closer look. Maybe he'd struck a sensitive nerve with someone, but he was damned if he'd noticed anything of worth in all the material flowing through earlier in the day.
Still, he might've missed something.
He turned on the TV, listened to a little MTV. He was nearly dozing when something awakened him. It sounded like a gunshot, but it was just the cat, who'd somehow gotten into the metal trays and pots and pans below the sink. He must have left the pantry door open for Muriel to discover.
Muriel had frightened herself and came racing out of the kitchen. At first he thought she'd been frightened by something other than inanimate objects, but no, Muriel was true to form.
As he began to wash and dry pans and trays that Muriel had left marked with her fur, he heard the noisy elevator moving up the shaft, which was adjacent to his apartment.
The damned thing went up and down all night. There was nothing unusual in hearing it now, but for some reason, tonight it sounded more ominous. He listened to hear what floor it would stop at. hoping it would stop on the floor below or above, but no, it stopped on his floor.
This was followed by silence, pure and deep and foreboding, filling Randy with an ancient gloom he must surely have shared with ancestors who stalked saber-toothed tigers and woolly mammoths. He could only imagine who was out there, who had gotten off the elevator. There was not a sound, no footsteps, no laughter or talking, just the damnable silence.
They were coming for him. He just knew it. And him without so much as a cap pistol for protection. Damn, he'd electronically painted himself into a corner, a corner where he could get seriously hurt, maybe busted ribs, maybe worse, maybe killed, maybe... maybe...
There came a knock on the door.
He pretended to not be home as Muriel welcomed the guest with a startlingly high-pitched cry.
Another knock and Randy was sweating in the kitchen, his pizza beginning to smell from the heat.
“Randy? You in there?”
God, it was Dr. Sanger's voice. “Open up! We've got to talk.”
She'd never seen his place, never been here before. It was a shambles. Damn, why hadn't she called to give him some warning? “Dr. Sanger,” he called out. “Just... just a minute.” He futilely went about picking up, giving up after a few tosses.
He pulled the door wide to find Meredyth with Lucas Stonecoat beside her.
“Hi, Randy,” she said, smiling. “I'm sorry I didn't get back to you today, but when I called you were gone.”
“That's all right, Dr. Sanger. Hi, Detective... Officer Stonecoat.”
“Why don't you call me Lucas.”
“All right, Lucas.”
“We came into the office and found your monitor on, Randy.”
“What? No way, I shut it down. I never leave it up, Doctor, never.”
“And a window was left open in Dr. Sanger's office.”
“No, no way, I swear.”
“We got a little worried about... things,” she said.
“You don't know the half,” Randy replied.
“Meaning?”
Randy gave them a complete rundown on what had occurred late this afternoon. He located the disks and showed the others.
“Better get your dinner,” she warned. “It'll be burnt.”
“Looks like we've got work ahead of us,” said Lucas. “Why don't we order out for three? I'm buying.”
With that, they settled in around the computer and brought up the material Randy had copied to disk. After a time, they began taking turns, watching the screen as the material scrolled by.
“There,” said Meredyth, pointing.
The others joined her. 'They all belonged to the Houston Hunt Club. They all contributed heavily to a number of charities, church organizations.”
“All rather harmless enough in and of itself,” suggested Lucas.
'They both contributed to the Church of the Sepulcher, located in a poor section of Houston, Texas, where a monastic order of brothers did all in their power to help out troubled youth. And they both likely knew the pastor there.”
“Maybe he gave them both last rites?” Lucas wondered aloud.
“And look, they both went to the same college, Texas Christian University...”
“But they attended different years.”
“I wonder where Timothy Little attended college,” Meredyth pondered aloud. “Geezus, man... wow, what do you think?” Randy was asking.
“There's another cross here,” said Meredyth, pointing to the screen.
Lucas leaned in to read it for himself. 'They shared the same doctor?
“Coincidence?
“ Or plan? Remember, whoever filleted the bodies knew anatomy, and whoever got close enough to tuck Mootry in was likely a trusted friend.” Lucas began to pace the room, trying to consider all sides.
“Meantime, someone's getting damned nervous about what we know. Someone broke into my office and was rifling through Randy's computer.”
“Why weren't these simple connections made on the earlier investigations?” Randy wondered aloud. “Why weren't they in the Cold Room files?”
“Removed?” suggested Meredyth.
“Maybe this was the connection that got Felipe and Covey put away so permanently.”
Meredyth looked from Lucas to Randy and back again. “You think it's now our turn?”
“We could call a halt to it. Tell Lawrence we've got zip. Go our own ways, maybe live longer,” he suggested.
“Hell, Lucas, we can't do that.”
'To buy time, we can, until we know more.”
“Besides,” she suggested, “who's to say that Phil Lawrence isn't behind the cover-up?”
“We've got to be smarter than Covey. He gave them the wherewithal to silence him. We can't be so careless.”
The elevator disturbed the silence now creeping over them, and for a long and sullen moment, they all stared across at one another, each sizing up the weighty aroma of paranoia they all inhaled. It was a potent and sensuous thing they shared, spooning up great gobs like an acrid and pasty oatmeal. Lucas located his gun and stepped to the door, where the pizza deliveryman pounded on the other side and shouted in his best business voice, “Delivery for Lucas Stonecoat!”
After gulping down Pepsi and pizza, Lucas agreed to submit to a hypnotism session with Meredyth Sanger. Randy agreed to remain as a witness to the session. Meredyth's voice was soothing, like a prairie wind, he thought, and he easily allowed himself to fall under her direction. He was soon relaxed; in fact, he could hardly recall a time when he'd felt more relaxed. Under hypnotism, he felt none of the usual bodily constraints or relentless pain that stalked him under normal circumstances.
But all freedom from pain was lost when he found himself reliving the events of the mugging he had suffered. He saw it all through a teasing fog and heard through a filter that created a slow motion of all speech. He didn't hear himself as he mimicked the voice of the man he had judged to be Fred Amelford: “You get yourself free of this case you're pursuing, son, or you and your girlfriend are dead. You understand that, kimosabe?”
“l-I-I...” He couldn't nod for fear the razor-sharp knife would cut a major artery, and now his body was frozen stiff on the couch where he lay. He couldn't find the words in his suddenly parched throat. He imagined what the world would be like tomorrow without him in it.
“That's what we think, son, exactly. Now, you just come to your fucking senses, boy,” the supposed Amelford voice continued.
Lucas felt a huge, doubled-
up fist chop away at the base of his skull, just as it had happened, and he sensed that the knife was lifted away from his throat in the same fluid motion. He guessed that one of his assailants had had combat training. His last thoughts were twofold: The attack on him was the work of two assailants, and Meredyth was in danger as well. But Stonecoat was in a black world now, the concrete walk his pillow. The words of his second attacker filtered through Lucas's fogbound mind now, the words of Jim Pardee, he assumed, tumbling out in broken slow motion. “We should just kill the bastard here and now.”
“No, not—now—and—not—here.”
A sudden, teeth-jarring kick struck Lucas in the side. On the couch where he lay, he flinched in pain. “Why're— we—screwing—with—him?”
The other man answered, “That's—'nough. We—do— it—the—way—we're—told.”
“Damn... damn... It's—a'ways—hell—Sanger's— way, isn't—it?”
“Orders—is—orders.”
“Our—lives—on—the—line.”
“Damn it. Partner, we're—all—in—this—together.”
“Bas-tard!”
Stonecoat felt another sharp pain in his ribs when one of the apes viciously kicked out at him again. He flinched where he lay on the couch. He fought the pain every step of the way, then fell into complete unconsciousness. But now, under hypnosis, he could contemplate his own unconscious state. It was strange, like being on locoweed.
Then he was brought out of it, thinking it hadn't worked, that he was incapable of being hypnotized, and that only a moment's time had elapsed. He hadn't heard a word or felt a thing during the session, according to his conscious mind.
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