by Rachel Caine
"Okay," I say. "Let's go inside."
Arden's work, it turns out, is stunning. I don't know a lot about art, but even I can tell that what she's creating here with paint and canvas is phenomenal--she's documenting destruction, breakdown, beauty. She's taken Markerville and made it astonishing instead of morbid. There are six canvases propped against walls to dry. She's working in the old post office/general store, which still has--against the odds--glass in the front window, and it gets eastern light. She has lanterns burning now, and she's found an old sofa that's reasonably clean. I think she sometimes stays here all night; there's a rolled-up sleeping bag and a tidy collection of camping gear. Arden's made use of the old rolltop desk--surely a collector's item--that hulks against the far northern wall, and it holds a laptop. No Wi-Fi out here, so she probably uses a disposable cell phone for a connection, and an anonymizer to go online. It's what I'd do.
Arden's already feeling better, in here; the sight of her paintings, her space, gives her steadiness and strength. She leads us to the couch, and she and I sit, while Sam studies the paintings. Arden keeps glancing toward him, but she focuses on me.
"What do you want?" she asks me anxiously. "Did they send you?"
"Nobody sent us," I tell her, which isn't quite true, but close enough. "We just thought you might be able to help us, Arden."
Her back straightens a little, and I don't miss the wary flash in her eyes. "With what?"
"Absalom." I drop the word deliberately, and I see the pure, stark panic flare through her. She holds herself very still, as if she might break. I take a chance, a blind one. "They've been after me, too. And him. We need to find out how to stop them."
The breath goes out of her in a rush, and she folds her arms over her chest. Defensive, but not against me. "I stay off the grid, mostly," she says. "So they can't find me. You should, too."
"I try," I tell her, and then I play another hunch. "When did you leave the group?"
This time, she barely even hesitates. I sense that she's been desperate to tell this story, and for simple human contact. Friendship, even if it's temporary. "About a year ago," she says. "I was never in the inner circle, you know. It was just a game at first. Trolling pedos. Taunting people who deserved it. Or we thought deserved it, anyway. And we got paid for doing it, too."
This time, I am the one who sits back, because this is something I've never considered. "Paid? By whom?"
Arden laughs. It sounds like a rustle of leaves in a dry, dead forest. "Like I'd know. Good money, though. And I was fine with it until . . . until I found out why we were doing it. It wasn't like they advertised it to the rank and file like me, but one of the higher-ups slipped and mentioned it."
I swallow. I feel desperately in need of water for some reason, as if I've been crawling through a desert. I'm in strange territory now. "I don't understand."
"Look, we certainly did it for the lulz, no question; we were good at it, too, which was why they recruited us for the special projects. I thought it was some kind of crusade, you know? Pure. But they sent us after people when they stopped paying blackmail money. They sent us to punish them into cracking open the bank again," she says. "We were just virtual leg breakers. When people dig in their heels, the hounds like me come off the chain. I know I'm a bitch, but come on." Arden laughs again. It doesn't sound any happier. "The idea somebody was making hard cash off ruining people--that's just wrong."
"It's better to ruin them for free?" I ask. I feel a little dazed.
This time, I get an apologetic shrug. "If you're doing wrong and you're on the Internet, you have to expect some of that, don't you?"
I like Arden, but this baffles me. It's a blind spot, an assumption that cruelty is fine in the right context. Doing wrong. Everyone's done wrong to someone. Even now, she can't see the toxic effects of having that easy access to a victim.
I have to start rearranging the whole image I have of Absalom. I've been thinking of them as manipulative fanatics, in it for the sheer bloody chaos of destruction, and some of them certainly fit that description. What Arden is describing, though . . . this is bigger. More cynical. Had Melvin paid them to go after me? How? He hadn't had access to cash in prison. Maybe he'd traded favors.
Dealing with dedicated, incredibly psychopathic trolls was one thing. Dealing with them when it was their job to come after me might be even worse.
"Arden." I lean forward, putting out all the good intentions and sincerity I can. "Why did Absalom turn against you?"
Her face contorts into a grimace, and she sweeps a hand up and down her body. "They found out," she says. "A lot of them hate women. All of them hate trans women. They started posting about me. I fought back. When they kept at it, I downloaded a bunch of their payment records from the server and told them I'd put it out public if they came after me. I thought it would stop them." She looks away. "I had a friend staying over that day. I went out to get us Chinese food. When I came home, my apartment was on fire. The whole building went up. Seven people died."
"And . . . you don't think that was an accident," I say. "I'm so sorry."
She nods and fights back another wave of tears. "They thought they got me, for a while. But I've been moving around, finding places to stay low. One good thing, I took up painting, and the gallery I showed them to says I'm pretty good at it. I need to sell these and get out of the country. Maybe it'll be easier somewhere else. Sweden, maybe."
"These files you took," I say. "Arden . . . do you still have them?"
I'm praying she says yes, but she gives me a sad look and shakes her head. "They were stored on a thumb drive," she says. "It went up with everything else. I don't have anything to hold over them now. I'm scared to death, Gwen. Aren't you?"
"I am," I tell her. "Are you sure you don't know anything that can help me find them . . . ?"
She thinks about it. Picks at a stray red hair on her jeans and lets it drift down in a ray of sunshine. Watches it fall.
"I know one thing," she says. "The asshole who was the angriest about me, I know where he lives. That was the last thing I found before I was afraid to push it anymore."
I glance at Sam. He turns to look at us and nods. "Then . . . would you tell us? Let us go after him for you?"
Arden folds her hands together in her lap and sits up straight. She meets my gaze, and there's defiance in there. Anger. Fear. But mostly, there's resolve.
"I wasn't a good person," she says. "I hated myself, and I thought the world was shit and everybody deserved what they got. I wanted to see everybody hurt the way I did. But I'm not like that anymore. And I'm sorry for all the people I went after online. I never meant--" She stops and shakes her head. "I know that doesn't mean much. But if you can get this guy, maybe that's a step in the right direction. You got a pen?"
I've left pen and paper in the car, but Arden just shrugs, goes to the rolltop desk, and pulls out supplies. She writes, walks back, and hands it to me. I blink, because I'm expecting an address.
"GPS coordinates," she tells me. "It maps to a cabin in Bumfuck, Georgia. But you be careful, Gwen. You be really careful. I was a terrible person, but this guy's evil. I get the creeps just thinking about him."
"Thank you," I say, then put the paper away. I get up and hesitate. "Will you be okay?"
Arden looks up at me. Her eyes are clear, her perfect jaw set. I recognize the look. I've seen it in the mirror. It comes when you own your fear and use it as fuel. "Not yet," she says. "But someday. Yeah. I will be."
I offer her my hand, and we shake. Sam comes closer, and I see Arden's body tense a little. She's gun-shy with men, and I wonder how much abuse she's already taken. But he just extends his hand, too, and she finally completes the gesture.
"You're really good," he tells her. "Keep doing this. And keep safe."
She gives him a faint, cautious smile. "I will. You, too. Both of you."
I call the kids from a pay phone that is sticky with sweat and other things and smells like spilled beer. Connor is a
s tight-lipped as ever, and Lanny adopts a cool, distant attitude that tells me how angry she is about me being gone. I hate it. I hate that I've had to leave them. It won't be long. This might be the break we need.
Maybe I'll let Sam go on without me, I think as I hang up. But though it makes me ache with guilt, I also know I probably won't. I need to stop Melvin.
Just a few more days.
It takes us another full day to get near the GPS coordinates Arden's provided, and I hope they're not random numbers she scribbled down to get rid of us . . . but she's right, they do lead us to the ass end of nowhere in Georgia, which is as remote as it gets. After some discussion, Sam calls in to his friend Agent Lustig, and we tell him what we know from Arden; Lustig says he'll check it out when he has the manpower.
We decide that might be never, and that we don't care to wait.
We sleep in the SUV for a few hours down on a logging road, and when Sam finally wakes me up, it's night. Chilly, too, and damp. There's a light freeze in delicate crystal lace over our windshield.
"We should get moving," Sam says. "See if this guy's home."
"Tell Lustig we're going in," I say.
"Mike will tell us not to."
"Well, then he can get his ass out here and stop us."
Sam smiles, dials the phone, and gets voice mail. He gives Lustig a brisk account of where we are and what we plan to do, and then he turns the phone off and puts it in his pocket. I silence mine, too.
"Ready?" he asks me. I nod.
And we go.
It's a hard hike up a steep, difficult slope, and if we hadn't known where we were heading, we'd have missed it entirely.
I kneel behind a screen of Georgia underbrush, in the shadow of a looming pine tree. It's a small cabin, two rooms at most, and it's well kept up. Gingham curtains in the windows. A neat stack of firewood waiting to make the place warm and cozy. Nobody's burning a fire tonight. No smoke coming from the chimney.
A light flickers on in the main room. Someone's home. Sam's made me agree to observe and report, and only go in if we're sure no one's inside; after Arden's warning, neither of us wants to be in a violent confrontation with a sociopath. So we're going to have to wait for him to leave . . . or come back later. As cold as I am, I'm in favor of the latter option, because it's murderously dark already, and there's a wind with a viciously icy edge to it that brings tears to my eyes. Every breath burns like a paper cut. And I'm sore and stiff, and I want to go home and hug my kids forever.
But I focus during the long hours that follow as lights flicker on and off inside the cabin, as the TV comes on and switches off. Leave, I beg the man inside, but that doesn't happen. In my mind, I run through what we'd like to get out of this. A handwritten list of the real names of other Absalom hackers would be nice. Never happen, of course. But I'd settle for online handles, which we might be able to get the FBI to track. Sam's friend in the Bureau could get us useful information. But at the very least, we've identified a suspect for Mike Lustig to grill. That has to count for something.
In the cabin, a radio is playing. Something low and quiet. Jazz, I think. Maybe it's stereotypical, but I expected thrash metal for a hacker. Coltrane seems out of character, somehow. I only really notice because the music shuts off, and about a minute after, the light goes out in the front window. From where I kneel, I can't see the side, but I can see the light that's being cast out over the ground in a golden spray. I see when it, too, cuts out.
Our mark is going to bed. Finally. I check my phone for the time. It's nearly two in the morning.
Sam is noiselessly rising to his feet, and I try to do the same. I'm athletic and strong, but creeping around in the dark forest isn't among my particular skill sets. I just try not to do anything obviously stupid. He makes a throat-cutting gesture; he wants to punt this and try again tomorrow. We have to find a time when our man isn't at home, to avoid any confrontations. I understand why, but it's so frustrating to be so close and not get answers. Any answers.
You don't want to hurt anyone, Gwen, I tell myself. That's my better angels talking. My demons are telling me that I absolutely do, that I want to put a gun to this man's head and demand to know what right he thinks he has to make my life, and the lives of my innocent children, a living hell. What kind of sick bastard takes the side of a cold-blooded psychopath who tortures and kills innocent young women? And gets paid for it?
I don't want to leave. I want to go in there and ask. But I know that Sam is right, and I'm fiercely and terribly emotional about all this. I want my ex-husband dead, because every moment he's out in the world is another moment he's hurting people. And coming for my kids, and for me.
I force myself to agree with a nod to Sam that, yes, we will break off our approach and come back tomorrow.
A blur of movement catches my eye, and I snap my head to the right, in time to see a small rabbit break cover and race across the open space in front of the cabin. Behind it comes a black cat intent on its prey. Neither of them makes a sound. Life and death, happening right in front of us.
The fleeing rabbit is about a quarter of the way across the clearing when suddenly a light flares on, blindingly bright, aimed to illuminate the entire semicircle at the front of the house. Motion light. I drop back into my crouch, and I can see Sam doing the same. I'm mentally kicking myself for missing the fixture, but it was hard to see until it ignited like a ball of white fire; it's set far back under the peak of the eaves, and when I raise a hand to try to block the glare, I think I can see that it's contained behind some kind of wire mesh.
Won't be easy to reach, disable, or fool.
The rabbit loses the race halfway across the yard. The cat pounces, and the rabbit makes a sound that's eerily like a scream as it's seized by the back of the neck. The little shriek cuts off when the cat viciously shakes it, biting down. Good, efficient murderers, cats.
Having killed it, the cat drops the limp bag of fur on the ground, bats it with a paw for a while, then strolls off. Leaves it where it lies.
I think of my ex.
The motion light clicks off again in another thirty seconds after the cat is gone, and I look over at Sam. He seems grim, studying the scene, and finally shakes his head. He's thinking this cabin is a very bad place. It has an aura of--I don't know how else to say it--darkness. I can imagine bad things being done here. I can almost feel the ghosts crowding around me. What has this faceless man done? Arden sure seemed terrified of him.
I wonder for the first time if our man is alone in this cabin. Does he share my ex-husband's tastes? Does he have a captive in there? If we walk away, who else might we leave to suffer?
There is no good answer here. We're in the wrong, legally; the info we have on this man is thin, and there's no proof he's done anything wrong. We're trespassing. Maybe stalking, since we've been watching this place for hours. We still haven't caught so much as a glimpse of the person who owns the place.
Something's been nagging at me all this time, and now, suddenly, it goes from a whisper to a shout. He should have looked out.
The security light had flashed on. If he was that paranoid about people approaching, he should have looked out.
I tell myself that maybe he's distracted, in another room, maybe on the toilet, but that still doesn't make sense. The cabin isn't that big. He still would have pulled the curtain, or opened the door and reactivated the security light to check the surroundings.
All those lights, coming on and going off since sunset. And it has a pattern. I see it now as I replay it in my memory.
It's all on timers. Jesus. There's nobody in there.
I could be wrong, of course, but I don't care. Watching that rabbit die, seeing that spray of blood fly in the air as the cat shook it, makes me remember the pictures that this man sent to me, him or one of his slimy little friends. Pictures that dishonor the victims of my husband's crimes, digitally map the faces of my children onto murder and rape victims, show them posed in degrading and horrible ways. This
man is a coward. He hides out here in the wild and torments my family, and I am right here, and I'm not going to walk away without letting him know he's not safe. Not from me. Not anymore.
Regardless of the motion light, I stand up, and I run for the front door.
The light blazes on again before I'm more than two steps out of cover, but I don't hesitate. I hear Sam moving behind me; he hasn't shouted my name, and I'm a little surprised he's followed. I know he'll be angry. We cross the open space and flatten out against the wall on either side of the front door. After what seems an eternity, the light clicks off again, and I have to blink away the bright afterimages.
"The hell are we doing?" Sam whispers.
"Going in!"
"Gwen, no!"
"Yes!"
There isn't time for a long debate, and he knows it. He sends me a look full of fury and frustration, but he pivots, balances, and slams his boot into the door just at the lock. The door shudders, but it doesn't open. He tries again. And again.
Nothing. The door's meant to withstand worse than us.
But the windows aren't.
I go around to the side. The window there is locked, but we're in this now, and I'm not about to hesitate. The glass proves to be breakable, even though it's thick and double-paned, and once I've shattered enough of it, I reach inside, flip the catch, and slide it open to climb inside.
I pull the gun that I've kept holstered until that moment. Sam's already got his own weapon ready as he slithers through behind me and rolls back up to his feet.
There's no sound. No light. I glimpse a lampshade and frantically feel around for the switch; it blazes on when I find it, and we're confronted with a couple of plush chairs, a hooked rug, a small table on which the lamp sits, some bookcases with a jumble of contents, a kitchen with a tiny stove and refrigerator that look like they date back to the 1950s.
There's no one here.
Sam's still moving. There's a door to our right, and he opens it and covers the room with his gun while I flip on an overhead light.
There's a twin bed. Neatly made with a forest-green blanket for a cover. Behind a small divider, there's a shower and toilet.