Mortal Fear (12 page)

Dear Father,

The procedure failed.

That is not wholly accurate. I was prevented from finishing by an unrelated accident. As Kali brought out the patient, she showed signs of hysteria. Unlike the Navy girl, Jenny, who adapted quickly, this one seemed not to have settled her nerves since we took her. Kali told me privately that Jenny had attempted to calm and reassure May during the night (quite ironic, considering the respective fates that awaited them) but the older woman would not be comforted. Id had to sedate her at gunpoint the first night to get her to sleep at all.

I took the precaution of using curare prior to Jennys euthanization, to prevent her screaming or making any other sounds that might alarm May. But it was no use. As Bhagat and Kali struggled to get May onto the table, she spied a few drops of blood that had resulted from Jennys procedure. She began to shriek and flail, using her bound hands like a club. Even Kali could not frighten her into submission.

It was then that I made my mistake. I imagined that if I explained the simplicity of the procedure, and the remarkable benefits that would likely accrue to her because of it, May would calm down. But my speech had the opposite effect. When she heard me explain the necessity of opening the sternum, her face went white and she gripped her left arm. Needless to say, I attempted to save her, but it was useless. In four minutes she was dead.

She died of a massive myocardial infarction, and no one could have been more surprised than I. There were no relevant risk factors in her history. As unscientific as it may sound, I believe the woman died of pure terror. When she flatlined, doubt assailed me like a shadow. Should I stop? Should I go on?

Then I thought of Ponce de Leon, thrashing through the bug-infested jungles of Florida, fighting the mosquitoes and the mud and the alligators and the natives and disease, searching, ever searching for the mystical mythical Fountain of Youth. How the image of it must have burned inside his brain, gushing with pure shining water, liquid with restorative power, holding out its promise to mankind, the possibility of revoking Gods harshest decree. And all the time that poor Spaniard was carrying the true fountain with him, inside his head, millimeters from the very space where his seductive vision burned.

We know that now.

Soon I shall stand alone at the pinnacle of the species, the only man with the courage to reach into the fountain.

Soon I shall spit in the face of God.

Its ten-thirty a.m. and I am tired of talking to cops. Houston cops. L.A. cops. Oregon cops. San Francisco cops. Mill Creek, Michigan, cops. Ive repeated the same story I told the New Orleans police and the FBI so many times that I know it like the Lords Prayer, and to detectives who seemed to be writing each word with the slowness of fourth graders practicing penmanship.

Stupid sons of bitches! I shout to my empty office. You never heard of tape recorders?

I feel a little better. Some of the cops I talked to want to arrest me, I could tell. Me, Miles, and the other seven people who have access to the master client list. All of them asked why we havent shut down EROS, and some yelled while they asked me. The Michigan cops were the worst, probably because theyre dealing with a kidnapping rather than a murder. I referred them all to Daniel Baxter of the FBI. Let them take their complaints to the Great Stone Face.

When the phone rings again, I grab it as if to smash it against my desk, but I restrain myself and put it to my ear.

Harper, its me. Drewes voice is tight with pent-up emotion.

What is it? What happened?

A lot of things.

A wave of heat rolls up my back and neck as an image of Erin flashes in my mind. Where are you?

Womans Hospital.

Can you talk? What is it?

The FBI, she says quietly.

What? They called you?

No. They called my bosses. They called my friends.

What?

And not just the FBI. A detective from New Orleans called the hospital administrator and asked permission to question colleagues about me.

Mayeux.
What kind of questions are they asking?

Embarrassing ones. Do I drink heavily. Do I ever bring you around the hospital, or even to Jackson. How you and I get along. Why dont we have any kids. Her voice cracks slightly at that. Harper, this is not acceptable.

I know, babe. Goddamn it. Ill try to see if I can do something about it.

Youve
got
to do something about it. My world isnt isolated like yours. The good opinion of these people is a prerequisite for keeping my privileges.

I get the message, Drewe. Let me make some phone calls.

Please do that. Im being paged.

And she is gone.

Let me make some phone calls.
I said it with such confidence. Who the hell was I kidding? Am I going to call a New Orleans homicide detective and say, Listen, shrimphead, leave my wife alone or take the fucking consequences!

No.

Am I going to call Bob Anderson and say, Dr. Anderson, it turns out I actually cant take care of your little girl so could you please call the governor and ask him to get the FBI off our backs?

Hell no.

Am I going to call the FBI and say, Could you please stop questioning my wife about this murder case? She doesnt like it.

Maybe.

I take Baxters card from my wallet, punch in the number of Quantico, and ask for Agent Baxter.

Special Agent Baxter is in the field at this time, says a robotic female voice. Would you like to leave voice mail?

I decide to wake her up. My name is Harper Cole, I say too loudly. I met with Baxter and Dr. Lenz about the Karin Wheat murder, and they told me to call
immediately if I remembered anything vital to the case. Well, I have.

Where are you, Mr. Cole? says a slightly less controlled voice.

Home. And I dont have much time.

The voice finally becomes human. Could you give me your number please? Mr. Cole?

Baxter has it, I snap, and hang up the phone. That ought to light a fire under somebody.

I sit down at the EROS computer, log in as SYSOP, and begin scanning the Level Two messages as they are posted. EROS traffic is basically unmoderated, which means we sysops do not screen or censor the communications of clients. This freedom is what allows Miles and me to run the busy service without much help. Certain types of communication are prohibited on EROS, and they are filtered by a simple but efficient program designed by Miles: he calls it Ward Cleaver. As messages are posted to the various areas of our servers, Ward automatically searches out all binary graphic files and references to children and deposits them in a special file called the Dumpster. (Actually, Ward lost his graphic filter three weeks ago.) At his leisure, Miles then attemptsusually with successto track down the originators of these forbidden files. He doesnt turn them over to the cops or anything. He just likes letting them know he can find them.

Theoretically, Im supposed to be monitoring the various areas of EROS on a round-robin basis, doing what I can to assist new clients and helping to foster a sense of on-line community. But in the past few weeks I have become rather casual about that duty. More than a few of this mornings messages are about Karin Wheats death. The themes are consistent: shock, denial, anger. Of course, none of the authors of these messages has any idea that Karin was an EROS client. They knew her only through her novels, which would interest most EROS clients, as they dealt with the darker side of the human psyche.

When my phone rings, I pick it up prepared to give
Daniel Baxter a piece of my mind, but instead I find myself listening to the flat vowels of Dr. Arthur Lenz.

Youve remembered something of value, Mr. Cole? he says.

Wheres Baxter?

Hes not available just now.

Where are you, Doctor?

Is that relevant?

Did you go to Minnesota to see Strobekkers body exhumed?

Do you doubt that I did?

I think you went straight to New York to try to crack Jan Krislov. Didnt you?

As a matter of fact, I personally observed the postmortem on David Strobekker.

Was he missing his pineal gland?

Oddly enough, no. Now, what was the purpose of your call?

Am I a prime suspect in these murders, Doctor?

Lenz pauses. Youre a suspect, yes.

Why?

You have access to EROSs master client list. That makes you a member of a very exclusive group.

Have you got access to the list yet?

No.

Maybe I can help you.

How?

Maybe I have a copy of the list.

Do you or dont you?

Its my turn to play coy.

What do you want? Lenz asks.

I want the FBI to stop hassling my wife.

Ah. Daniels agents can be clumsy on occasion. They are causing you problems?

Theyre bothering my wife at work.

I see.

And anybody who bothers my wife de facto pisses me off.

Yes.

What can you do about that?

Lenz says nothing for a while.

You realize I could go public with all this at any time, I tell him.

That would only aggravate the very situation you seek to alleviate. The disruption of your wifes life would increase exponentially.

Hes right, of course.

But perhaps I can be of assistance, he says. Its true that the various police departments involved in the caseparticularly the Michigan departmentare ready to have both you and Mr. Turner arrested. I, however, do not share their enthusiasm.

Get to it, Doctor.

I think perhaps we can help each other, Mr. Cole. If you will agree to help me in a limited capacity, I think I could have both Bureau and police pressure removed from your life.

What kind of capacity?

I want the master client list, of course. Can you get it?

Maybe.

Ill take that as a no.

Damn this guy
. Why take that as a no?

If you had a copy of your own, you would have destroyed it by now. And you no longer have access to the accounting database, which you would need to get a new copy.

How does he know that?

However, you still have something I want.

Whats that?

Your thoughts.

What?

And then he tells me. How long he has been planning this, I dont know. Maybe this was the whole point of putting pressure on Drewe. Of not throwing me to the Michigan police. Because Lenz wants exactly what they want. To fly me up to Washington so he can question me with no one else around. He says something about an informal version of his standard criminal-profiling technique, but I dont really listen. We both know the bottom line. If I want the pressure taken off, Ive got to play his game.

How soon do you want to do this?

Ill have a ticket for you waiting in Jackson, Mississippi. Its ten-fifty. Can you get to the airport by noon?

Noon
today
?

Of course.

If I drop everything and walk out the front door without a toothbrush
. Then I remember Drewes voice, tight with anxiety. Yeah, I can get there. You think theres a flight?

If there isnt a direct flight, youll find a connecting ticket. Ask for messages at the American Airlines desk.

Okay. Id better get going.

Just a moment. At the meeting in New Orleans, you mentioned that EROS is patronized by many celebrities.

I cant tell you any names.

Fine, fine. But what level of celebrities are we talking about?

Well... Karin Wheat was pretty famous.

Yes, but authors dont get the kind of adulation that Hollywood stars or sports figures do.

Not many sports figures on EROS, Doctor. The IQ level tends to run a little higher than that.

So what level of star are we talking about?

The top of the business. And not just actors. Directors, producers, agents, the works.

He digests this in silence.

Arent you any different from the paparazzi, Doctor? I thought you were trying to solve these murders, not root up juicy tidbits about Hollywood.

In all honesty, I find the whole concept of EROS fascinating. However, there is a point to my questions. Jan Krislov refuses to reveal anything about her clients. Thanks to you, I realize she is not grandstanding but prudently shielding people who have a great vested interest in protecting their public images. People who would not hesitate to sue Ms. Krislov and have the funds to pursue such a lawsuit to its bitter end.

No doubt about it. Hell, there are celebrity
lawyers
on that master client list. Jan Krislov is a lot of things, but shes no fool.

Do you have any more EROS session printouts? Lenz asks.

No more of the murder victims or Strobekker.

Ill take anything you have. Im following a rather twisted trail, and Id like all the signposts I can get.

Ill bring you what I have.

Excellent. Lenz says hell fax me directions to his office in case I miss the FBI agents he plans to have waiting at the Washington airport. Then he says, May I give you some unsolicited advice, Mr. Cole?

People do it all the time.

Youre an experienced futures trader. However, if I were you, Id clear my current positions. Dump all contracts until this mess is resolved.

Youre not me.

Quite. Well... Ill see you this afternoon.

While Lenzs fax comes through, I call Drewe in Jackson and explain what Im about to do and why. She warns me to be careful, then goes back to her patients.

I pack a briefcase with a toothbrush, five hundred dollars in cash, and a few EROS folders from my file cabinet. Before I leave the office, I almost pick up the phone and follow Lenzs advice. Getting out of the market now would cost me money, but thats not what keeps me from doing it. The truth is, I feel a simple bullheaded resistance to letting Arthur Lenz tell me what to do. If I lose a few thousand bucks because Im in a daze, so be it. Its happened before.

I am almost to the Explorer when I remember Lenzs fax. Running back inside to get it, I hear the phone. Its my office line. I debate whether or not to answer, then pick up.

Hello?

Moneypenny? This is Bond.
James
Bond.

What is it, Miles? Im in a hurry.

Brahma went back on-line five minutes ago.

Have they traced the call?

Yes and no. They took a chance and started at the second Jersey line they wound up at last time. AT&T long line. Anyway, the connection twisted all around the country, but they finally tracked it to Wyoming.

Wyoming?

Yeah. Place called Lake Champion. Its a tiny little nothing of a town.

I feel my heart pumping. So? Are they going to arrest him or what?

Not that easy, Im afraid. Youre not going to believe this. Lake Champion, Wyoming, is one of the last towns in America with electromechanical phone switching. Its like the Dark Ages. They actually have these complicated metal gizmos that spin around making physical connections, and there are rows and rows of them stacked on top of each other, from floor to ceiling.