by Jack Kilborn
“Dr. Jones didn’t tell me about—”
“Have you seen the news?” Tom interrupted. “They pulled a dozen bodies out of that house. We need to find the killer.”
The nurse seemed to wrestle with it, then said, “He’s in room 703, to the right.”
Tom nodded. Thirty seconds later, he was staring at a mummy. The man who’d bitten him was swathed in so many bandages, he looked like he’d come straight from a Hammer film. Tom couldn’t tell if his eyes were closed or not, so he moved closer.
“Are you awake?”
The man’s eyelids fluttered. His voice was weak. “Where… am I?”
“The hospital. You’re safe now. What’s your name?”
“Wal… ter.”
So this was Walter Cissick. And being locked up in his basement for years explained why he’d never renewed his driver’s license.
“Who did this to you, Walter?”
Walter said something under his breath. Tom leaned closer.
“Can you repeat that?”
“Era… knees…”
“Erinyes,” Tom repeated, recognizing the Greek term. “But what’s his name?”
Walter didn’t answer.
“Where is your son, Walter? Where’s Dennis?”
“Erinyes…”
“Did Erinyes take Dennis?”
“Penance. Sinners… must be… punished…”
Tom recalled the bedroom he’d crawled into. “Do you have a daughter, Walter? Or some other girl living with you?”
“Crown…”
“Crown?”
“Crown… of spiders…”
Tom didn’t seem to be getting anywhere. Either Walter was still drugged from surgery, or just flat out insane from years of captivity and abuse.
“Walter, I need you to tell me who did this to you. Do you know where he is?”
“Ken… dal.”
“What about Kendal, Walter? Has the killer targeted another woman named Kendal? Another webcam model?”
“Detective Mankowski.”
Tom turned and saw Dr. Jones in the doorway. Standing behind him, arms folded across his chest and looking smug, was the nurse.
“I’m trying to save lives here, Doc.”
“So am I. Yours. Get back into bed. And while you’re in bed, do a Google search for Fournier gangrene and decide if you’re going to start listening to me or not.”
Tom allowed himself to be led back to his room. After getting back into bed, he accessed the Internet on his smart phone.
Some things you just can’t unsee.
He decided to follow the doctor’s orders. Then he wiped some sweat off his brow, leaving the back of his hand on his forehead to check for a fever.
As usual, it was impossible to tell if you had a high temperature when your hand was the same temperature as the rest of your body.
Tom’s phone rang, and he was in such a hurry to answer it he dropped it on the bed and got it lost in the flimsy blanket. Once he found it, Tom saw it was Roy, not Joan.
“Hey, Roy. That Iraqi computer geek hung up on me.”
“Hello, Detective Mankowski. It’s the computer geek. And I’m Iranian-American, not Iraqi. I’m calling because I was able to access the computer at the crime scene. You were right about Wikipedia. The password was Demeter, another name for one of the Greek goddesses associated with the furies.”
“Sorry about the—”
“Not being able to tell the difference between someone with Iraqi heritage, and someone with Iranian heritage? I’ve lived in this country for all of my adult life, Detective. Your ignorance is commonplace. The amount of prejudice I’ve encountered, especially since 9/11, is—”
“I was sorry about the geek comment,” Tom interrupted.
“Oh. Well, I don’t mind being called a computer geek. I am a computer geek. It’s not as if you called me a computer nerd.”
“I don’t remember the difference.”
“Well, there’s a big difference. Like the difference between someone from Iraq, and someone from—”
“Did you find something on the computer, Firoz?”
“Ah, yes. I found something. And nothing. The nothing was because he was using a Tor browser.”
“I don’t know what that is.” Tom wiped more sweat form his brow.
“Tor is short for The Onion Router. It’s a way to surf the Internet anonymously. It conceals a user’s location by using a peer network of several thousand relays. So the NSA, or anyone else, can’t track you. It also keeps no record of your browsing history, so if you’re on the dark web—”
“The dark web?”
“The darknet, Detective. It uses the public Internet, but isn’t searchable with normal engines. Instead of dot com or dot net, they are dot onion. You’ve heard of Silk Road?”
That Tom knew. “It was an Internet black market. You could buy illegal goods and services. The Feds shut it down.”
“The black market never goes away. Where there is a demand, someone will find a way to supply it. So, because of Tor, I don’t have our suspect’s browsing history, and I can’t think of any way to track him down. He has administration rights for the Fight the Feeling domain, but that is also password protected. I haven’t been able to figure it out yet.”
“Well, at least you tried. Can you put Roy on?”
“Roy is in the garage. I didn’t call you to talk about what I didn’t find, Detective. I called to tell you what I did find.”
“Okay,” Tom said, wondering why Firoz didn’t start with that info.
“His computer is hooked up to twelve security cameras throughout the house. It’s a very sophisticated, high-tech set-up. The cameras are miniature, and wireless.”
“Do they record?” Tom asked, one eye on the doorway as the nurse came in.
“Yes. The files are on an encrypted hard drive, but I’m going to try a cold boot attack and—”
“I’m being operated on in a minute, Firoz. Can you get to the point?”
“The point, Detective Mankowski, is that the suspect no doubt has access to these cameras on his phone or laptop. Which means he knows we’re here. He could even be watching us, right now.”
CHAPTER 33
Erinyes is furious.
He tries to ignore the cops trampling through his house like a herd of elephants, because watching them paw through his things, his house, his life, is maddening. He doesn’t want to look, but can’t help himself, and with every glance his blood pressure escalates. One of the smarter ones even accessed his computer. It’s the ultimate invasion of privacy, being stripped bare and exposed and helpless before a bunch of godless strangers.
They think I’m evil.
I’m no more evil than the police are. Or judges. Or priests.
I punish bad people. And by doing so, I save them.
I’m not a criminal.
I’m a god of vengeance.
Why don’t they see?
Out of everyone in the world, I am the only true innocent.
Erinyes rubs his foot, wondering if any bones are broken from Kendal’s stomping. He’d forced himself to limp away from her, because his rage hit a fever pitch and became so overpowering he likely would have killed her right there.
That would be sloppy. And wasteful.
She is a Kendal. Kendals deserve special attention.
Erinyes closes his eyes, centers himself.
It’s just hormones. Making me act emotional.
Focus.
Do what you were put here to do.
The house being compromised doesn’t affect plans very much. Erinyes has everything he needs in the van. He’d assumed the tricky part would be getting Kendal from the clinic to the vehicle, but was able to work out the logistics rather easily. Instead, the tricky part turned out to be properly subduing the sinner. He hadn’t been fast enough with the ether mask.
Lesson learned. Erinyes switches on the stun gun, then pats his lab coat pocket to make sure the ball gag is the
re; Kendal’s screams are becoming annoying.
“Doctor?”
Erinyes turns. Sees a man in a tan security uniform standing at the end of the hallway. Campus police.
“This building is closed for remodeling,” he says.
Erinyes twists slightly, hiding the stun gun with his body. “I’m in the middle of a mammogram with a patient.”
“Why is she screaming like that?”
Erinyes considers his options. The man is large, but fat. Probably not in shape. Probably armed. His left hand is empty, his right hand obscured by his belly.
Erinyes begins to walk toward the security guard, letting the irritation he feels show on his face. “Look, I don’t have time for this. My patient is obviously in pain, and I need to see to her.”
The cop has something in his hand, and raises it.
A gun?
No. A walkie-talkie.
“Got a guy in here, says he’s a doctor, and a woman screaming. Request back-up.”
Erinyes quickens his pace. He’s only a few steps away. “I have my ID right here,” he says, getting ready to lash out with the stun gun.
“We’re right around the corner,” squawks the radio.
Then Kendal screams, “Is someone there?! Help me!”
And the rent-a-cop draws his gun. Erinyes shouts, “She’s in danger! Help her!”
The cop looks to Erinyes, then down the hallway, then back to Erinyes. “Stay here!” he orders, then jogs toward Kendal.
Erinyes doesn’t stay there. He heads the other direction, into the waiting room, grabbing his bag and tugging on a trench coat. He’s two steps outside the clinic before more security arrives.
“What’s going on?” he says as they pass him by.
Close call.
When he visits Kendal again, he’s going to have to be more careful.
More careful, and better armed.
CHAPTER 34
“Here’s to not needing men,” Joan said, raising her shot glass.
Trish clinked, then the women downed the whiskey. Joan savored the alcohol bite. It wasn’t on par with the 23 year old Pappy Van Winkle she kept at her home in LA, but for a restaurant pub chain that had pictures of its food on its menu, it was surprisingly smooth.
The fact that it was her third in sixty minutes may have also contributed to her appreciation of the taste.
“So… was it nice?” Trish asked, picking at her cocktail napkin.
“What?”
“The ring.”
“Really? We’re supposed to be all girls-night-out-and-to hell-with-the-boys, and you’re asking me about the ring?”
Trish shrugged. “I’ve never had a guy propose before.”
“Proposals are bullshit. Marriage is bullshit. Pair bonding is bullshit. Do you know how many species are actually monogamous?”
“How many?”
“None,” Joan said. “All animals cheat.”
“Swans are monogamous,” Trish said.
“They aren’t. Ethologists just haven’t caught them cheating yet.”
Trish frowned. “I heard they were monogamous.”
Joan had been hoping for some female commiseration and some good-natured mutual man-bashing. Instead. Trish seemed really sad.
“Aren’t you angry?” Joan asked.
“No really. I think I was expecting it.”
“Why? You’re gorgeous.”
“For a woman with testes?”
“For a person,” Joan said.
“What if Tom cheated on you?”
“He is. With his job. He’d rather spend time at work than with me.”
“Isn’t his job important?”
“Every job is an important job,” Joan said. “I make movies that make millions of people happy. You help people get tax refunds.”
“Most of my clients are too wealthy to get refunds,” Trish said. “And I hate dealing with them. A bunch of rich, entitled, greedy little bastards.”
“Even if you loved your job, would you put it first in your life, over your relationship?”
“What if we were surgeons?” Trish asked. “And we were on call 24/7 in case some terrible accident occurred?”
“That’s different,” Joan said. “Doctors save lives.”
“So do Roy and Tom.”
Joan raised her hand for the bartender—who was cute but too young—for two more shots of Blanton’s.
“Trish… what I’m saying is that if our guys choose something, or someone, else over us, it’s not worth stressing over.”
“So you’re not stressing?”
“I’ve dealt with A-listers threatening to walk off a two hundred million dollar picture five weeks into shooting because their hairdresser got their bangs wrong. I am not stressing this.”
“He just proposed, Joan.”
“I’m not looking for a husband. I’m looking for a guy who cares about me. And if Tom would rather chase after scumbags than spend time with me… well, maybe I would be better off with someone else.”
Joan didn’t like how it felt saying that out loud. And Trish, apparently, wasn’t listening, because she was checking her cell phone.
“Roy still hasn’t called,” Trish said.
“Why are you even keeping your phone on? I turned mine off.”
“What if it’s an emergency?”
“Like this morning? I go running to the hospital, scared out of my mind, because some asshole gave Tom a little bite on the arm?”
“You are Tom’s ICE, right?”
“Ice?”
“His In Case of Emergency contact. The person that someone else would call if anything happened to him.”
“I think so.” Joan wasn’t sure.
“Then you should keep your phone on.”
“So I can check it every five minutes to see if he called? No thanks.” Joan waved for the bartender again.
“I bet he called.”
“So what if he did?”
“I’m just saying it would be nice to have a man who called repeatedly to apologize when he screwed up.”
“Roy doesn’t call you when he screws up?”
“He used to. Until now.”
“Did you even tell him you’re upset?”
“No.”
Joan had to willfully stop her own eye roll. “Trish, how can you expect him to apologize if he doesn’t even know you’re mad?”
“I’m not expecting an apology. I’m just expecting… I dunno… a text saying he loves me? A message saying he wants a booty call? But why would he, when he’s getting his ass at the Hilton.”
The bartender brought two more whiskeys, and winked at Trish.
He didn’t even glance at Joan.
“Did you see that?” Joan just said. “Flirting with you. Didn’t even look at me.”
“That peach-fuzz bartender?” Trish snorted. “I’d break that kid in half.”
They raised their glasses and shot again.
“So how was it?” Trish asked.
“The bourbon?”
“The ring.”
Joan could picture it. White gold. Yellow diamond.
“It was perfect,” she said. “Completely my style.”
“Check your phone. See if he called.”
Joan shook her head. “No way. I played the wait-by-the-phone game when I was in high school, hoping my crush would ask me to prom.”
“Did you go to prom?”
“No. Asshole never called. But I’m friends with him on Facebook now. Works at a submarine sandwich shop, has an ugly wife, posts four times a day about his Yorkie. I dodged a bullet there.”
“Is he happy?”
Joan frowned. “Yes.”
“Is that the bullet you’re trying to dodge? Happiness?”
Wow. That was sure on the nose.
“Way to kill my buzz, Trish.”
Trish reached out, put her hands on Joan’s. “I want my man to call me so I can be sure he loves me. You seem like you don’t want yours to cal
l you so you can prove… what are you trying to prove? That you don’t need anyone?”
“I don’t need anyone.”
“Then why do you need Tom to give up his job for you?”
Joan didn’t have an immediate response to that. And the liquor wasn’t helping.
“Turn on your phone,” Trish said. “See if he called.”
“Because that will show he loves me?”
“Yes.”
Joan shook her head.
“I bet he called you at least ten times.”
“No way.”
“Let’s bet. If Tom called you ten times or more, you call him back.”
“And if he didn’t?”
“Then we’ll both turn off our phones for the rest of the night.”
“Deal.”
They shook, and Joan whipped out her cell. As she powered it on, her stomach began to churn.
What am I nervous about? That Tom called more than ten times, and she’d have to talk to him? Or that he didn’t?
“Ten missed calls,” Joan said, staring at her screen.
Trish grinned. “See?”
“Nine are from Tom. One is my assistant.”
Both of them were quiet for a beat.
“Nine is still a lot,” Trish said.
It was a lot. But for whatever arbitrary reason, it didn’t seem like it was enough.
“Bet’s a bet. Phones off.”
Joan and Trish powered off their cells, and then Joan tried to get the bartender’s attention again. She had a strong feeling they were going to be there for a while.
CHAPTER 35
“Air aneeds?” Officer Ledesma said. He couldn’t have been much older than Kendal, and he didn’t have that world-weary dullness to his eyes that most cops had. Kendal sat across from him at his desk.
“That’s what it sounded like he said. Air aneeds or air aneece.”
He typed something into his computer.
“And you never saw his face?”
Kendal sniffled. Her boob still hurt, and she was still extremely upset. Over an hour had passed since the campus cop had saved her, but Kendal’s heart rate was still double.
“I only saw the woman. Nurse Demeter.”
Kendal didn’t want to cry again. She’d cried in the squad car on the way to the police station. She’d cried in the Evanston PD lobby, waiting for a detective to speak to her. And she was about to cry in front of the detective, who was being really nice to her.