Mortal Fear (38 page)

Thats Baxter! I cry. I recognize his voice. Alpha is Daniel Baxter!

The first voice comes back:
Alpha, weve got a guy running down the walk, waithes turning back for the garage.
Then a new voice, eerily calm:
Alpha, this is Gamma Leader. I have a male adult in my scope. Looks like your shrink.

The voices merge into a babel of confusion.
All units, this is Alpha. Thats Dr. Lenz outside. Repeat, friendly personnel outside the house. What the hells going on, sir? Uncertain, Green. Hes in the Acura, Alpha! Hes burning rubber out of the driveway! Please advise! Green, follow the doctor but do not attempt to apprehend. Gamma Leader, this is Alpha. I am standing on the sidewalk. Stand down until the car is clear, then converge on the house and secure it. Green, dont let the doctor hurt himself, we dont know whats happening. Roger, Alpha, in pursuit. Hes turning onto Dolley Madison. Yellow here, Alpha. What about the UNSUB? Contact too brief, Yellow. No useful bearings. UNSUB could be anywhere. Stay sharp. Green, stick to the doctors tail. Were there, Alpha, turning onto Chain Bridge Road....

A flurry of street names fills the airwaves.

Does Lenz have any kids? Miles asks.

Yes. Im still too stunned to move. A son, I think he said.

Where does he live?

I dont know. Its not the kid, though.

Who is it?

Its his wife.

Miles looks at me. How do you know that?

When I was up there, we stopped off at Lenzs house for a few minutes so he could get some papers and clothes. She actually hit on me while Lenz was upstairs.

And?

Shes a bad drunk. Thats what the end of Brahmas message was about.

Christ. Where does she live?

Ten minutes from the safe house. Thats why Lenz chose that location.

The disjointed radio chatter is suddenly interrupted by Sid Moroneys voice. You guys got any idea what the hells going on up here?

No, Miles says into the phone, his eyes still on me.

I got traffic on the regular police band. They just dispatched two patrol units to an address not far from the stakeout. That anything to do with us?

Could be, says Miles. Dont hang up, Sid.

You kidding? Im putting the phone back to the receiver. Ill give you whichever channels have the most traffic.

The ensuing chatter tells a simple story of pursuit, very like an episode of
Cops
, but for the profanity of the FBI agents attempting to stay up with the racing Acura. After four minutes by my watch, we hear the denouement.

Hes stopping, Alpha. Six-fifteen Whitehall. Repeat, Six-fifteen Whitehall. Large residential house. The doc just parked in a closed garage. We have Fairfax County blue-and-whites arriving at the scene. What do you want us to do?

Green, this is Alpha. Im en route now. Get inside that house. One of you follow Dr. Lenz, the other tell the locals whats what. Move it.

Understood.

Green, make SURE the locals know Lenz is a white hat. Whoever goes in the house, give me play-by-play. Ill take over when I get there.

Alpha, this is Green. Im in the garage. Im ahead of the police. Its dark... my weapon is out. Im moving through a slightly open door. Its a laundry room. No sign of anybody. Wait... Alpha, somebodys yelling. Screaming. I think its a man. I have a man screaminghowling really. He... oh sweet Jesus... oh my God, we got a body here, sir. We have a female down. ShesJesus, shes on a kitchen table. Shes naked. The doctors giving her CPR, but... I think shes dead, Dan. Shes got to be dead because herher head. Jesus, Ive never seen one this bad

Terminate contact,
snaps a rigidly composed voice.
Ill be at the scene in less than a minute. Is that understood? IS THAT UNDERSTOOD?

Understood, sir. Sorry I lost my head... Green out.

Theres another long burst of static. Then Sid Moroneys voice drifts through my office in a hushed interrogative:

You guys heard that?

Miles doesnt answer.

Guys? Hey. Somebody just got wasted. A lady just got wasted. I, uh... wasnt expecting that. I think maybe you guys better tell me whats going on, huh?

Miles shakes his head and puts his mouth to the telephone. We didnt expect it either, Sid. We knew it was serious, but nothing like this. Dont worry, youre not in trouble.

The hell Im not. Ive already broken about fifteen statutes that I know of. Now what the hell is this about? You guys really working for a newspaper or what?

Yes, Sid. The
Times Picayune,
out of New Orleans. You can call the office and check us out. But please tell me first whats happening on the radio.

After a moment, Moroney says, Nothing on the FBI channel. I got some McLean P.D. stuff. Theyre reporting a one-eighty-sevena homicideat Six-fifteen Whitehall.

Did they mention a name?

They dont do that on the radio. Female Caucasian is all. Theyve alerted paramedics. Some patrolmans asking for brass on the scene, complaining about the FBI. And um... uh... I think thats about it for me, guys. Next time call somebody else, okay?

Thanks for your assistance, Mr. Moroney, Miles says with overdone formality. Then he hangs up.

This is bad, he says.

Only now do I realize that Miles was consciously disguising his voice on the phone, adding the drawled Southern rhythms he worked so hard to eradicate during the past few years. Bad? I echo. Its a goddamn nightmare.

I meant the telephone call. It wont be long before Baxter finds out we were monitoring what happened.

You mean that
I
was. We were using my phone.

I may have to split, he says, rocking in place like a nervous sprinter. Weve got to accelerate the plan.

What? Were out of this shit, Miles! As of now.

What do you mean?

I mean no more games. No more Erin and Maxwell. You saw Brahmas note to Lenz. Hes knows exactly whats up.

Just because he caught on to Lenz doesnt mean he suspects you. Have you sensed a single false note in his communications with you?

I pause. No, but

Any subtle humor at your expense?

Not yet, but

Its totally different! He believes in Erin. Why is anybodys guess. But he does.

Miles, youre missing the main point here, and that scares me.

What main point?

How did Brahma find Lenz?

His mouth remains half open.

Through the telephone system, right?

Miless brain is operating at a speed I cannot begin to comprehend. I say nothing while he works out the possibilities. Finally, he says, Unless new information on
Lenzs decoy plan was entered into FBI computers in the last thirty-six hours, Id have to say yes.

So he can trace us too.

Miles stares at me without speaking, his face masklike in its lack of humanity. No, he says at length. If Brahma checks the phone companys computers, hell find the Vicksburg address coupled with your line. Any other digital data he can turn up will verify that. He cant check actual land ownership because in Mississippi nothing like that is on computer, and probably wont be for another fifty years.

Something in Miless tone makes me work through his answer step by step, but it checks out.

Lenzs problem was that he was at the physical address that went with his phone line. Not so with us. Miles pauses. What I dont understand is how Brahma knew Lenz
personally
was behind Lilith. I mean, he attacked Lenzs wife, not the safe house. So maybe he did get his information from some FBI computer. Maybe somebody got careless.

Were still out of it, Miles. Until tonight we were fooling around in a bad situation. Now its a Force-Ten clusterfuck. Fate just tapped us on the shoulder.

You want to leave it to the so-called experts now? he asks angrily. You just saw their incompetence tragically demonstrated. How many women are we going to watch die because were scared to take Brahma to the wall?

Its not our fight.

The hell it isnt! You think tonight changed my situation for the better?

You couldnt have killed Mrs. Lenz. I can swear you were right beside me. Lets just come clean with them.

Come clean? A minute ago you threw the team-offender theory up at me. Dont you see its going to be more popular than ever now?

Why?

Because unless Brahma was transmitting his first message from Lenzs home, someone else killed his wife. Brahma knew the safe house was a trap. He knew theyd be following his cellular, so he drove around typing messages to Lenz while someone else did his wife. Then he logged
off, swung back, picked up the killer, and was already out of town when he transmitted that final message.

As much as I want to argue, the scenario makes sense.

Miles rubs his eyes and walks over to my minifridge for a Mountain Dew. Do you realize what just happened? A serial killer murdered the wife of an FBI agent.

Lenz was a shrink, not an agent.

You think that matters? He was one of the stars of the Investigative Support Unit. And Brahma already took out a Hostage Rescue Team member. Were about to see one of the biggest manhunts in American history.

I feel a sudden urge to set the air conditioner at sixty-five degrees, climb into bed, and sleep for twenty hours.

Miles drains the Mountain Dew like a man dying of thirst. If I turned myself in now, Id be asking for a legal reaming the likes of which hasnt been seen since Sacco and Vanzetti.

While I marshal my arguments, he drops the empty can, picks up the TV remote control, aims it over my shoulder and switches on my office television.

What are you doing?

Seeing whats on TV.

What?

My times almost up, Harper. He gazes past me, surfing through channels at superhuman speed. Im going to find a movie thatll induce deep hack mode, then lie down and finish my stupid Trojan Horse. The e-mail thing isnt going to work. Too short a time frame now.

I meant what I said, Miles. Im through with Brahma.

I heard you.

Suddenly a wide and placid smile soothes the lines from his face. His eyes glaze with almost religious receptivity.

What is it? I ask, looking over my shoulder.

This Gun for Hire
. Alan Ladd and Veronica Lake. Ladds first big break, and he was playing a killer. Its only been on a few minutes. This is like the fourth scene.

Film noir? I thought you liked seventies trash.

Im eclectic. This is perfect. Were living noir right this second. Digital noir.

He gives me a buck-toothed imitation of Humphrey
Bogart, and for a moment I actually doubt his sanity. But then he clicks off the halogen lamp, sits on my bed with his back against the headboard, and props his laptop on his thighs. The black-and-white light of the television flickers over his features like shadows of clouds on the face of a cliff. Whatever anyone may think of Miles Turner, he is a man doing what he was born to do. Not many of us can say that.

Ill sleep on the couch in the den, I tell him.

He nods slightly, or perhaps not at all. In Miless universe, I am already running in a minimized format.

Harper! Wake up!

Huh?

Wake up!

My eyelids are sealed shut with epoxy.

I rub my fists into them. The first image that materializes is Miless face hovering inches from my own in the dark. I remember now. Im lying on the couch in the den. Miles shakes me again.

Wake
up
!

A bolus of adrenaline sprays through my system, bringing me into a sitting position. Are the cops here?

No. Come to the office.

I had a nightmare... Jesus. Whats going on?

Miles is no longer there. I rise and stumble toward the office, noticing faint blue lines around the edges of the blinds. I must have slept through the night. The muted cyclone of Drewes electric hair dryer whirs from the end of the hall as I pass across it and through the office door.

Miles is seated before the EROS computer. Youve got e-mail, he says.

From who?

Look.

I rub my eyes again and peer at the screen.

It came in about two hours ago, Miles informs me.
I let you sleep as long as I could. Notice anything interesting?

No.

The momentum of the relationship has shifted. Brahmas desperate to talk to you.

So?

Youve got to answer him.

A knock at the door lifts Miles an inch off his seat.

Were awake! I call.

Drewe opens the door and smiles. Shes dressed for work, in dark slacks and a white Liz Claiborne blouse. Im having cereal for breakfast, she says. Best I can do this morning. You guys want any?

No thanks, says Miles, trying to look nonchalant.

Harper?

Sounds good. Im starved.

I ignore Miless angry expulsion of breath and follow Drewe into the kitchen, glancing at my watch as I go. Seven-twenty a.m. Miles must have figured it would take ten minutes to convince me to answer Brahmas message. Im definitely not going back into the office before seven-thirty.

Drewe pours two bowls of raisin bran and slices a navel orange into bright crescents. I go straight for the coffeepot. Its Community dark roast with chicory, and I savor the kick.

You look rough, Drewe says.

You look like an ad for Ivory Snow.

Thanks. Long night?

Worse.

What happened?

I take another scalding sip of coffee and tell her about the tragedy in Virginia. I cant tell if shes stunned or furious or both. After a long silence, she says, Is Miles in there trying to track this nut down?

I shrug. Hes got a few ideas.

Unable to read her eyes, I twirl the spoon in my cereal bowl. The flakes are already soggy.

Did Miles tell the FBI to start checking tissue donor networks? she asks.

Yes. And it looks like you were right. Theres probably another missing woman.

Drewe puts down her spoon. Then its time to tell the FBI everything.

I have no answer but the truth. I cant do it with Miles here.

She gives me a pointed look that I have no trouble translating:
Maybe thats our real problem
.

Maybe I should call them, she says. From my office. Tell them I came up with the whole transplant theory.

Drewe....

She wraps both hands around her coffee cup and stares into it. I know Miles is our friend, Harper. But its not fair to us. She looks up. Jail is not my idea of a future.

I reach across the table and close my right hand around her left. Nor mine. Miles knows whats going on. I just dont think he knows where to go. Ill talk to him.

She squeezes my hand, then stands. Drewe enjoyed theorizing about the murders when they were a technical abstraction, but she does not share Miless moral ambivalence about duty. Taking a last swallow of coffee, she smooths her slacks, then bends and kisses me on the forehead. If he tells the FBI everything, he can stay as long as he wants to. If not, tell him I enjoyed seeing him. Ive got to go. See you tonight.

She hurries out of the kitchen, car keys jingling, Coach purse swinging from her shoulder. When the front door bangs shut, I put down my coffee and check my watch. Seven thirty-two.

I take my time with the orange slices.

Miles is sitting on the edge of the bed, typing on his laptop. He doesnt look up or speak, so I take the initiative.

Youre not going to try to talk me into answering Brahma?

I answered for you. His eyes never leave the screen. I told him your husband hadnt left for work yet, but youd be in the Blue Room at nine.

What?

He keeps typing. I had thought he was coding, but hes typing too rapidly for that. You logged on as Erin?

Brahma didnt know the difference. Hes desperate to talk to you.

Goddamn it, Miles, this is dangerous!

Its been dangerous ever since you called the police. I always knew that. It was you and Drewe who saw it as some kind of
McMillan and Wife
episode.

I start to cuss him from hell to breakfast, but I stop myself. Miles, Ive got to tell you something. You

Ive got to tell
you
something, he cuts in, looking up from the computer at last. I finished the Trojan Horse.

My mind goes blank. You did?

After what happened last night, I thought it was too late. But once I saw Brahmas message, I knew what to do. The hard part was

A roar of motors and flying gravel drowns his voice. Before he resumes typing, his fingers flying across the keyboard, I leap to a window and peek around the blinds. Four Yazoo County sheriffs cruisers have blocked my drive. Their doors are open, and at least six uniformed men are rushing toward the porch.

Its the cops!

Miles is still typing like a madman when five fast knocks boom through the house.

Get your ass into the bomb shelter! I tell him.

Keep your voice down, he says calmly. I need thirty seconds. Stall them.

Theyll break the door down!

No they wont. Ill hide the disk where you can find it.
Go on
.

With a lump the size of a cue ball in my throat, I walk slowly toward the front door in my sock feet.

Sheriffs department!
shouts a voice.
Open up!

Im coming! Hang on a second!

Thanking God for the Scottish fortress mentality that kept my grandfather from putting windows in or around our front door, I reach for the chain lock and jiggle it loudly.

Gimme a sec! Chains stuck!

Open up or we break it down!

As I jiggle the chain again, I have a fleeting impression of something passing across the hall behind me. Praying it was Miles, I count slowly to five, then unlatch the chain and open the door.

Someone in a white polyester shirt shoves a piece of paper in my face and starts reciting legalese while three tan and brown uniforms push past me and fan out into the house. Before the voice stops, another deputy goes by me. Then the plainclothes man who was reading shoves past, and Deputy Billy climbs the steps to the porch. He looks a little sheepish.

What the hells going on, Billy?

FBI thinks Turners here.

Youve had the house staked out for a week. How could he be here?

Hey, we waited till your wife left, okay? Thats better treatment than most people get.

This mollifies me a little, but then I realize that common decency isnt what made them wait. Sheriff Buckners scared of pissing off Drewes father, right?

Billy gives me his worldly look. Bob Anderson pulls a lot of weight in this state.

Whos the guy who read the warrant?

Sheriffs detective.

Summoning as much indignation as possible, I stalk into my office and shout, Well? Did you find him?

A stumpy red-faced deputy gives me an eat-shit look and continues tearing out the contents of my closet. A rumbling from overhead alarms me until I realize that somebody must be fighting his way through our attic with a flashlight, an invasion of privacy that is its own punishment.

A muffled conference in the hall draws me to the door. Then sharp banging noises pull me across it to the den. I want to laugh. A gangly deputy is hammering his hand along the wall like a man searching for a stud in which to place a nail.

Looking for secret passages? I ask.

Why dont you wait outside? he says coldly.

Because this is my property.

Yeah? B.F. deal.

I cant resist rattling his cage. Why dont you introduce yourself, so I can be sure to get your name right when Bob Anderson asks me who was here?

His hand stops in midstroke. He looks at me with naked hatred, then continues his pounding, albeit more softly.

Got something! shouts a deep voice from the kitchen.

A wolfs grin spreads across the deputys face. I fight the insane urge to trip him as he bulls past me with one hand on the pistol grip of a nickel-plated revolver.

In the kitchen, my heart jumps in my chest. Three deputies have crowded up to the pantry door. They have discovered either Miles or the trapdoor leading to the bomb shelter.

Whose is this? asks the sheriffs detective.

Red-nosed and beagle-eyed, he steps out of the group holding a dark suit jacket. It takes only a second to recognize the cashmere coat my father brought back from Germany, the one reproduced perfectly as a sculpture in my office.

Well? he says.

Mine, I confess, still dazed. That jacket hasnt been out of my closet in months.

Sorta hot for a jacket today, aint it?

As I meet his stare, something else rises slowly into my line of sight. Gripped between the detectives tobacco-stained thumb and forefinger is a 3.5-inch floppy disk. Why or how this man zeroed in on this disk rather than the hundreds in my office, I dont know. But I have no doubt that he is brandishing the results of Miless marathon of codingthe Trojan Horse.

What about this? he asks, shaking the disk in my face.

Ill hide the disk where you can find it
...

What about it? I ask, praying that hes smeared Miless fingerprints beyond recognition.

Whats on it?

I dont know. Whered you get it?

He looks at the deputies, then back at me. I feel more men squeezing in behind me, but I dont break eye contact.

Your pantrys a wreck, he says. Cans all over the floor. And the back door was open. He nods through our
laundry room, toward the exterior door. The jacket was on the floor by the door. This disk was in the inside pocket.

My wife was mending it, I tell him. Its old. Nothing but mending thread keeping it together.

A quick examination of the coat confirms my answer. You cant buy nothing like this around here, he says doggedly.

My Dad bought it overseas. When he was in the army.

Someone behind me grunts as though serving in the army constituted some kind of subversive activity.

What about the disk?

I shrug. Ive got a million of them. For all I know, that ones been in that coat since last year.

Says you, bud. The beagle eyes do not waver. Well find out soon enough whats on it.

We can find out right now, says the lanky deputy I met in the den. Hes got computers out the ass in his bedroom.

Leave em be, says the detective, his drooping eyes still on me. Sure you dont want to change your story?

The truth is, Id like nothing better. But right now Miles is either crouched in the dark tunnel beneath our house or snaking through the cotton fields on his belly, dragging his briefcase and computer bag behind him. He needs time. I suggest you be careful with that coat, I say mildly. It has a lot of sentimental value.

The detective blinks, then folds the coat over his arm and hands the disk to a deputy, who slips it into a transparent plastic bag. Dont you worry, sonny. Well take plenty good care of it.

He turns and walks through the laundry room and pulls open the back door. I see more brown uniforms in the sunlight beyond him.

Anybody make a break for it? he calls.

Nossir, answers a chorus of voices. Windows or doors.

He sighs interminably. Les go, boys.

He shoves roughly past me and plows through the deputies toward the hall. My eyes track the cashmere coat until it disappears through the kitchen door.

When the front door finally bangs shut, I take a slow walk through the house. Every closet door is open, with shoes and boots and clothing strewn across the floors. The attic door hangs down on sprung hinges. Heavy Detroit engines rumble out front as I make my way back to the kitchen. After checking to be sure the back door is shut and its curtain pulled, I open the trapdoor in the pantry floor. The odor of mildew and insecticide hits me in a wave.