by Cat Connor
“Who knows where we are right now?” I asked.
“Only me. In a few minutes I am going to ask you both to log into the chat room.”
I am sure I felt my blood freeze in my veins. The last thing I wanted to do was spend time in that godforsaken room looking for nicknames that would never again appear. “He’s using others. Could he be using others to locate us as well? If he’s as smart as you think, he’d have tailed both you and Aidan from the hospital. One of you is bound to have face-to-face contact at some point.” My eyes flicked up to Caine’s. “Do you think he followed the ambulance to the hospital?”
Caine’s eyes fell. He picked at his fingernails. “I think so. I think that’s how he got the agents I sent after you. He’s creating crime scenes all over.”
Mac took the laptops from the backpack. His dad popped his head around the door. “Need anything?”
“Extension cords,” Mac replied with a glance towards the door. “Where’s Mom?”
“Basement creating havoc,” he replied. “Be right back with those cords.”
“Thanks.”
I lay back on the bed. I had a sneaking suspicion that we would never get ahead of this jerk-off. Were we doomed to play the fiddle for a nut job, accompanying his insane killing spree, never free to live again? Half my mind seemed to agree that I had a right to feel sorry for myself while the other half admonished my self-pitying weakness and told me to get a fuc’n grip.
“Ellie? Earth to Ellie?”
I rolled over towards Mac’s voice and half opened an eye. “Uh huh.”
“We’re set. Waiting on you.”
But I don’t want to! I don’t want to go in there again. I don’t want to. I don’t want to check my mail. I just want it to stop, now! I’m not okay, dammit!
My internal voice chided me for acting like a four-year-old and insisted that I pull my act together and get my ass up; it didn’t work as well as it used to. My conscious self demonstrated a sudden disobedience that took me by surprise.
“I can’t.”
Did I say that? I must have. The room felt cold. I waited for the wrath of Caine to descend, bringing forth thunder and lightning.
Nothing like that happened. Caine asked for my password. The email alert sounded, and I wished I was deaf. I heard Caine read the email aloud, and I wished he’d be quiet. A growing feeling of ill-ease built inside me, familiar and yet took me a while to place it. Two things were missing and much missed: nicotine and caffeine. They would improve my borderline temper.
The email alert sounded again. The piercing chime irritated every inch of my body. Then a voice close by said, “Coffee, Ellie?”
I sat up and felt surprisingly good, not great, but definitely better.
“Better?” Bob asked.
“Yes, thank you,” I replied. I smelled coffee.
“Head aches a bit, I take it,” Bob said, sitting on the bed by me and passing me a mug of coffee.
“Not really, it’s pretty good,” I said and took a cigarette from the pack he offered me. For the briefest instant, I considered quitting. Then dismissed the thought as craziness and lit up.
“Go easy, you haven’t had one in a while.”
He was right. I sucked in the soothing nicotine-laced smoke. Much better. I finished my coffee and the cigarette, enjoying every flavor-filled second. Mac and Caine sat at a small table in the middle of the room. I joined them and tapped Caine’s shoulder. “Scoot.”
He stood up to let me sit in front of the laptop. “Sign into the chat room, Ellie,” he instructed, and then turned to Mac. “Can you sign in as someone other than Galileo?” I noticed Caine checked his watch as he spoke.
“Yes, I can. Do you want me to?” Mac replied.
“Please, I would like to see how this prick reacts when he thinks Ellie is alone.”
“I’m in,” I told them. “He’s here. You want me to say anything in particular?”
Caine twitched. “Pretend you’re talking to Rachel, tell her you don’t know where Galileo is, you haven’t seen him all day.”
I watched the glare Mac directed at Caine. “You’re playing with fire,” he warned then said, “I am in the room as Socrates.”
I made idle chit-chat in the room. In casual conversation I mentioned I hadn’t seen Galileo all day and hinted at concern for his absence.
“Mac answer her ... tell her he’s moved on. Perhaps he grew tired of her.”
“Jesus!” Mac replied. “You’re really pushing it.”
Seconds later both of us received emails from the Unsub; this time they were different. I read mine aloud, “‘I thought you understood you should be together.’”
Mac read out his, “‘No, no, no, this won’t do at all. I worked hard, you can’t ruin this now.’”
“Oh, shit!” Caine exclaimed. “Guess we know one thing that he wants now, and with more certainty. You guys together.”
I stared at Caine. “Mac needs to be here as Galileo. You’ve proved your point.”
“Doing it,” Mac said. He signed out then signed back in with his usual nickname.
Very quickly after that, my email alert chimed again. I opened my mail and read aloud, “‘You lied. You do know where he is.’” I paused and looked over at Bob. “His parting comment ... ‘Tell Mom and Dad I’ll drop by later.’”
Bob shrugged at me. His voice took on a no-nonsense edge as he replied, “Let him come.”
Caine checked his watch again. This time I called him on it. “What’s with the watch thing?”
“I’ve made it harder for this prick to trace your satellite blips. I figure he’s using tracking software and cruising till he gets a signal.”
Mac raised an eyebrow in Caine’s direction. “Explain!”
Caine twitched; it was almost a real smile. “There are twenty agents working in pairs scattered around Fairfax County, who all signed into different chat rooms within the same platform at approximately the same time as you two. The signals don’t need to be coming from the same room just within the same platform. Four of them are in Cobwebs now. They’ll all pop in and out of Cobwebs at different times.”
Mac smiled. “They’re using satellite right?”
Caine nodded. “They’re all using exactly the same set-up and satellite provider you two use. Which is a service used by the FBI. We checked that first; I wanted to limit the number of innocent people caught up in this satellite net. He would’ve been watching for your signals to pop up and now he has his screen covered in blips. With no clue about which two are yours. His screen will be covered in blips about now. He can cruise and track blips across the county. It should take him a while to find the needle in the satellite haystack.”
I surveyed the list of twenty-three people in the chat room; twenty-three people and one invisible killer. “What happens when he homes in on the correct signal?”
Several people left the chat room, and a few more came in.
“I am hoping to have a little chat to him about killing my agents,” Caine replied.
“This could take all fucking night,” I muttered. “Why not kill all the signals and just have our two out there? Get it over with.”
“I hear you, Ellie. I don’t want him to think I’m leading him. I want him to think we’re protecting you, not leading him to the slaughter.”
“Like I care,” I snapped. I knew I sounded bitchy and cranky, but tough, this had been dragging on and we were getting nowhere. “Giving a shit would be a large leap for me to make.”
I watched the room conversation for a little while. Halfhearted at best, it wasn’t riveting stuff, nothing at all attention-grabbing until I noticed the conversation stalled, and one party asked why he or she had gone so quiet.
Mac jumped in and typed: Maybe they’ve been disconnected, it happens all the time.
It was true, it happened so often we coined a phrase to describe it, “moofing.” We watched as a reply came from the other party in the conversation a guy called LostAdam, a regula
r: You’re right I did get disconnected, but it was my head.
I looked at Mac. He sucked in air. His eyes widened. I looked back to the screen and saw the reason. LostAdam recited a poem but it wasn’t his style. In fact, it was very familiar. I had that same horrible, cold, sinking feeling that had been with me on and off since Carter’s death. Something bad just happened. “Mac?”
Mac called Caine over, “Can whoever you have in the room find out where LostAdam is?”
“Problem?”
“See for yourself.”
Caine hunched down and watched as Mac scrolled back to show him the conversation. “That doesn’t sound good. What’s with the poem? It’s way too good to come from the sonofabitch killer. I’ll get them on it.”
Words wouldn’t form as I read and reread the poem. It was Mac’s poem, he wrote it for me. No one had ever seen it, unless that person had been in my office before the explosion.
I looked but there was only sun,
something not seen for so long.
Again I ask, what became of the dark?
When I awoke in the middle of my night.
“I wrote that poem,” Mac’s voice hovered just above a whisper. “I wrote it for Ellie. No one else has seen it.”
He looked to me as if to confirm what he’d said.
I nodded.
Caine said nothing. His mouth tightened into a hard line. He pulled a two-way radio from his jacket. Caine walked across the room talking to whoever was on the other end.
Some kid started posting a most dreadful poem in the chat room about cutting, ack! Why do they do this in our room? I typed before thinking and told her to suck it in and blow it out, the world didn’t revolve around her – not today, or tomorrow either.
Does the world revolve around a moron who likes to kill? Quite possibly. Still, I don’t get the whole cutting thing, what’s the point? Just seems like a way to make a big mess and I am sick of these kids coming into our chat room and spewing this crap. It’s a poetry room, people! Not a room for those with mental issues.
When I looked up, Mac frowned at me across the computers. “That was mean,” he said.
“It was the truth.”
“What sort of encouragement is that?” he asked.
“How many times has this kid posted similar poor-little-me shit?” My tone conveyed that he knew very well how often this happened.
“I know, she needs to toughen up and get over herself somewhat, but Ellie ... there’s a killer watching everything you type.”
“Life’s a bitch.”
Why do I spit forth my thoughts without censoring them? Why can’t I just use that social filter thing everyone else seems to be able to implement?
“Jesus!” I huffed, and typed into the chat box: Sorry kiddo, I shouldn’t take my bad temper out on you. Thanks for sharing your poem.
A mere second later I received an email from the Unsub. I read it aloud, ‘“Maybe she needs to be put out of her misery, she upset you. I fear Adam is truly lost.’”
“Caine, find that kid,” I yelled at him across the room. “And he mentioned LostAdam!”
Mac looked up and announced he was chatting with her. “She’s in Vienna. I have her address.”
Caine had his cell phone poised in one hand and radio in the other. “Give me her address. I have a couple of agents in Vienna.”
Mac read it out to him then told the kid to disconnect from the Internet.
I felt awful for endangering her life. I felt awful for many reasons. Who had access to my office? Who had read that poem? I went over and over the last time we had been in Mauryville. The Unsub had been there, but outside; there was nothing to suggest he’d been inside at all and I remembered seeing the poem hanging on the wall. Jesus! I stopped the churning in my stomach by swallowing hard. The kid sprang into my mind again. “What’s her name?”
“Crystal,” Mac replied. “She’s seventeen.”
Caine interrupted us as he and Bob headed for the door, “Stay on line. Bob and I are going to make coffee while we wait for the callback on the kid.”
“Okay,” I replied.
I could barely bring myself to look at the screen and struggled to understand why I had acted so rashly in the chat room. Even taking into consideration my well-known lack of tact, I had surpassed my own meanness. I stood up and walked over to the bed.
Distorted nursery rhymes ran through my cloudy mind. “‘Little Jack Horner sat in the corner, eating his Christmas pie, he stuck in his thumb and pulled out a plum, saying what a good boy am I. His mother smacked his head and made him cry. You’re not a good boy, you should die!’
“‘Jack and Jill went up the hill to fetch a pail of water, Jack fell down and broke his crown, and Jill went tumbling after. Mother laughed, she was to blame, Jill jumped up and spun around, don’t you ever touch him again!’” I fell back onto the bed. Mac’s hand rested on my head. I looked up at him a little surprised that he was there. I thought he was still watching the chat room.
“Where did they come from?”
“Where’d what come from?” I asked, matching his soft tone.
“The rhymes.”
“They’re in my head. How’d you know?” My eyes closed. I thought he could read my mind.
“You were singing.”
“Sorry.” Mystery solved.
“Don’t be, where’d they come from?”
“I used to make them up when I was a kid.” I tried to keep my voice even, it wasn’t easy, those weren’t memories I wanted to revisit. “Whenever Mommy Dearest did something to Aidan, I would write a rhyme. By the time I was twelve I had a whole notebook of them.”
“Are you all right?”
“Yeah. I’m just dandy.”
I’m okay. Another one bought the dust. How many dead now? Why are people dying?
I shoved all horror aside and focused instead on Mac.
“Uh huh,” he didn’t sound convinced. “Like to try that again?”
“Nope.” I grinned. “I’m thuper. Thankths for athking.”
“You casting aspersions on my sexual orientation?”
“Hell, no,” I replied. “I am well aware of your orientation.”
Mac’s hands encircled my neck as he pretended to choke me. “I should hope so too.”
“Perhaps I need a reminder, a refresher even.” I lifted my head to meet his and kissed him.
Sixteen
Run To You
Isat on the bed. It was nice to feel clean, and more human. I appreciated Mac’s help – it’s not easy showering and keeping a cast dry on one’s own. Time seemed to drag. Sunday night became the longest night on record. Mac ran his hands through his hair in an attempt to further tidy himself before opening the door for his father and Caine.
“Everything all right?” Bob asked. He looked from Mac to me and gave us both a wry grin.
“Fine,” Mac replied. “How’s the kid?”
“Safe,” Caine said. “How’s the chat room?”
“Don’t know. We just finished showering,” he replied.
“I’ve had a report back from two agents on Oakton – said they had an unsolicited pizza delivery about half an hour ago. Sounds like maybe he is narrowing the field.”
“Anyone else see anything?” I asked.
“Not yet. Aidan called my cell wanting to speak to you.”
“Is he okay?”
“I think so. Said he’s at home, hasn’t been back to your parents’ place.”
“Good.” I felt a sigh forming and pressed it aside. “Does he know where we are?”
“I didn’t tell him, nor did he ask. He only wanted to know that you were okay.”
“LostAdam?” I almost regretted asking because I knew it wouldn’t be good news.
“We found his residence in McLean. We think someone died at a computer in the house. He lived alone and possibly wheelchair-bound. His living room resembled a slaughterhouse. No body yet, either.”
Caine’s phone rang. He ans
wered it and walked to the other side of the room as he spoke in a low tone. I couldn’t make out what he was saying. He disconnected the call and turned to face us. “Another pizza delivery from a different pizza company. Tyson’s Corner was the location.”
He pulled a map from his inside jacket pocket and knelt on the carpet with the map spread in front of him. “Counting your two, there are eighteen more signals for him to trace scattered across the region.” Caine pointed to the map. “The farthest out being Reston. Eighteen signals, nine locations.”
“Do you suppose he’s driving about with the bodies in the trunk?” Mac asked.
I shuddered.
“Chances are,” Caine replied, “if he sticks to his signature he has to have them somewhere close to be able to leave them for you to find.”
Silence fell like a shroud over the room as a car alarm sounded. It was loud and felt close.
Mac looked at his Dad. “Is that one of yours?”
Bob shook his head. “Similar but not mine, the garage alarm would have sounded first.”
We heard Mrs. Connelly call out. Caine leapt to his feet. “Bob, we should see if Beatrice is all right.”
Caine seemed a little edgy to me. The way he leapt at the sound of Beatrice’s voice was unusual. I surmised that this was a very unusual situation, and we were all a little edgy.
Why should he be any different?
“She’s misplaced something,” Bob said, with a here-we-go-again tone to his voice.
“She sounds angry,” Caine replied, as he opened the bedroom door.
“Yep,” Bob said, and followed him out. “That’s how she always sounds.”
I knew Mac wasn’t about to go check on her with them. He leaned back in his chair, and made himself more comfortable.
“It could take hours before the sonofabitch gets to us.” Complaining didn’t help but I felt grouchy and borderline bad-tempered, with a lurking strangeness, suggesting none of it was real, that this was all an illusion or delusion.
“Yes, yes, it could.”
I yawned making Mac follow suit.
“Lay back, close your eyes and rest a bit. I’ll wake you when the Unsub sends us pizza.”
“I’m okay. Don’t fuss.”