Ishmael went on to describe the new billboards that were being set up along Interstate 5, the 405, the 91, the 57 and on eight heavy-use surface streets in the county. He said the Sheriff Department number would be visible on each, just beneath the drawing.
Ishmael, I thought. Ishmael, who knew I left the office on January 11, the day the cave pictures were shot. But did you leave, too?
With a tight, desperate flutter in my chest I picked up the phone and dialed Melinda at her office. I was surprised, almost chagrined, that she picked up.
“How are you, Mel?”
“Oh, Terry. A little pissed off, I guess.”
“At me.” Not a question.
“Yes.”
“How’s Penny?”
“Ditto the above.”
There was a silence.
“How come you’re not at the conference?”
“I’ve got work to do.”
“He took my job.”
“That’s got to be the least of your troubles.”
“It ranks a lot higher than you might know.”
“What do you want, Terry?”
“I want the IRC log-on records for Ishmael’s computer, and his phone-out sheet. I need to know who he’s networked with, and who he’s talked to. And I want to know if he left the building on January eleventh, and for how long.”
She was quiet for a moment. “Ridiculous.”
“I need that stuff worse than I can tell you.”
She hesitated again. “Why?”
“I think he set me up.”
“Oh, Terry.”
“Melinda, have you networked with I. R. Shroud?”
“No.”
“Are you absolutely certain?”
“Yes. Absolutely.”
“Is that name in your network file? It would have come in through CAY. He’s a pedophile.”
“That’s your world.”
I caught the condemning irony in her voice.
“I didn’t mean it that way,” she said quickly.
“All right. But you’re copied every time we open a link. And you review the log-on printouts every month. You know that.”
“Okay, I’ll look. But I’ll tell you what the answer is.”
More silence, then she was back.
“No. I told you.”
“Melinda, do you have a pencil and paper handy? Good. Now write out the initials and name, I. R. Shroud.”
She sighed, but I could hear her shuffling, and the distant crack of a sheet of paper.
“So what?”
“See what else those letters spell.”
More time went by. I could hear her breathing.
“I’m no good at games like this.”
“It spells Horridus.”
One of those loaded hushes.
“Oh. Jesus Christ—it does.”
“I need to know who’s been networking with him.”
“But … how do you know anyone has?”
“It’s a hunch. The Horridus gave Shroud’s name to Stefanic on the citation, before he killed him.”
“I never heard about a citation.”
“You won’t I found it in the ladies’ room out at Caspers. I’ve been … well, staying busy.”
A brief second while Mel processed.
“But what’s it prove?”
“Nothing, goddamnit, until you check Ish’s log-ons.”
“Terry.”
“Look, Melinda, you think I did that stuff with the girls? Come on now, you know me better than just about anyone. You’ve seen me through the booze and the hate and the coming back out. You helped me get both feet on the ground, and you’ve seen my worst, woman—I know it, and so do you. So is that what you’re saying? That you spent a year of your life living with a child molester? That you left your only daughter alone with me a million—”
“—I don’t believe that. I never said I did. And that isn’t what this is about.”
“This is about the rest of my life. So put your money where your mouth is, Mel. Get Ishmael’s logons and IRC parties. See if I. R. Shroud is on them. He’s in the conference, so do it now. The master logs are in that binder right on his desk. He sees everybody else’s, so why can’t you look at his?”
“You’re out of your mind, Terry.”
“Go see, Mel. It will take you five minutes. All the heavies are at the courthouse. You’re the computer crime expert—so go see who Jordan’s computer has been talking to. It’s your job, Melinda.”
“I’ll call you back.”
I gave her the number.
“Where are you?”
“It doesn’t matter. Do the right thing, Melinda. If I’m wrong, you haven’t hurt a soul.”
“Except mine.”
Ten minutes later she called.
“Shroud is one of his log-ons. I. R. Shroud.”
“When?”
“There are, well… thirty-two of them over the last sixty days. I went back two months.”
I smiled a bitter inward smile.
“But you know, Terry, it still doesn’t prove anything.”
“It proves he talked to The Horridus, for God’s sake.”
“No, Terry. That’s one of the rules we live by in Computer Crime. All it means is that somebody used that machine.”
“Okay, it was Jim Wade, then. It was one of the late-night janitors. It was Elvis.”
“Be careful what you infer, Terry.”
“It was Jordan, Mel. What more is there to say? He used the pedophile network to get a job done. The job was to make those pictures of me. I’m due in court to defend myself on sixteen counts of sex with children, and he’s out running my unit, acting like he can catch The Horridus.”
Silence. I loved every revealing, damning second of it. I knew that Melinda could only embrace the good and detest the wicked. It’s her character. She’s always on the side of right. She knows no grays. That is the binary nature of her mind, and it is one of the things that drew me to her in the beginning. It was what made her a good woman and an excellent cop. It also made her a difficult, judgmental person to live with, for anyone less than perfect. And that’s why I called on her.
“I checked the sign-out sheet for January eleventh. He was meeting with Ingardia in the afternoon.”
I thought about that, wondering if Dom Ingardia’s secretary would say the same thing.
“I’ve got to go,” she said. It was almost a whisper.
“Thank you.”
“We need to talk, Terry. Soon, face to face and for real.”
“Name the time and place.”
She did, and I wrote them down. Then she hung up.
You haven’t fully lived until you’ve watched yourself on the TV news, denying that you are a sexual predator of children. I sat there with my mouth open, watching this cop firmly proclaiming his innocence. He gave it his all. And I couldn’t help but note that the interviewer was not hostile; she seemed even-handed, truth seeking, unprejudiced.
She did, however, heavily edit what I had said to her that evening. My bumbling and self-mystification were gone. The bizarre last third of the interview while the camera showed only ceiling was gone. She deleted my attack from the stool. There was nothing of my confession to “recognizing” the girl in the pictures with me but not being able to remember from where or when. Likewise, my confession to “recognizing” myself but not remembering from where or when was blessedly dropped. Donna also edited out the passage about Ardith’s pictures of my son and me. All in all, Donna Mason had edited in my favor. And her intro and close were subtly, reassuringly, pro Terry. I wondered if her producers at CNB ever got to see the original, and realized that they hadn’t.
It was late that night when I. R. Shroud finally responded to my postings. His message came in sometime between 8:45 and 11:30 P.M.
Hello, Mal. We have much to talk about. I. R. Shroud. Meet at Midnight Ramblers and we’ll go from there.
A few minutes later I was on with him, chatting live
in the privacy of the Ramblers’ room. He cut straight to the chase.
I. R. Shroud: Quite an interview tonight. RU TN of CNB fame?
I took the plunge.
Mal: I am he.
Lancer: You are who?
I. R. Shroud: Lancer, be gone. I’ll cut you off and cut your throat. Out, out damned snot. All of you or you’ll never see Shroud’s treasures again. Be gone!
Mal: Thank you for the wrap.
I. R. Shroud: Cop with needs or cop framed as claimed?
Mal: Mal’s needs predate Mal’s work.
I. R. Shroud: How did product land you in predicament?
Mal: Betrayed by a kiss. Domestic partner. Product is my only consolation on these cold, revealed nights. That is why more requested.
I. R. Shroud: Why ingest more of what has poisoned you?
Mal: The need no man dares speak.
There was a long wait then, while Shroud considered.
I. R. Shroud: What do you want, brother Mal, brother-in-charms?
Mal: Must go to live feed. Your match is my fantasy.
I. R. Shroud: Going live! You would leave my purview—perv-view—my pay-per-view.
As mentioned, “going live” or “going to live feed” is parlance for finding the object of desire. It’s the term for dealing directly with the pom star, the video stripper, the centerfold, the model. It means that you are not just a pedophile—which is a person whose sexual preference is for children, but a molester, or potential molester—a person who acts on that preference. It means going from the image to the real human, from fantasy to reality. It is much joked about because few deviants have the resources and courage to take this step—and it is seldom done. It represents a graduation of sorts, an escalation from the ranks of the lookers and collectors and masturbators to the company of the peepers, the johns, the buyers of flesh, the stalkers and, occasionally, the rapists and the killers.
I wanted to go live because I needed the girl in the picture. I needed her to tell the truth about what didn’t happen.
Mal: Such is the power of your work, Shroud. Dream girl to real girl. I stand humbled and desiring.
I. R. Shroud: Rule One of the Live Feed: Flesh disappoints.
Mal: Rule of Mal: better disappointed than eternally un-cum.
I. R. Shroud: Flesh is risk; image is answer.
Mal: But image has inflamed. Only flesh will immolate. You have my humble request. Make real the angel you pictured with me.
I. R. Shroud: Shroud needs to consider. Mal needs to consider considerable expense. Mal must now be considered by most an unreasonable risk.
Mal: But consider Mal’s record to date. A more forthright partner none could find. Test Mal. He will be found neither tightfitsted nor wanting.
I. R. Shroud: What if he wants the item to disprove the image?
Mal: Experts will exonerate. Image damage is done in public eyes. Reality of dream is all that can move me now. I inhabit the lower depths.
I. R. Shroud: Back in ten.
I knew that the odds of Shroud coming back online were small indeed. Yes, he was arrogant. Yes, he felt secure in the ether of his computer. Yes, he wanted my money along with my soul. But he had gotten his whiff of Terry the cop, and he was going to play it safe. I looked at the blank screen.
Then, to my genuine surprise, he was there.
I. R. Shroud: Mission feasible. Object obtainable. Must vet you closely now, Mal. Reasonable and customary fee is ten. You will be asked to perform. Problems?
This was a very real ten thousand dollars that was being asked of me. And after I gave it up, there was no guarantee The Horridus would deliver the girl, no recourse if he failed.
Mal: Punishingly extravagant.
I. R. Shroud: Worth every penny?
Mal: Will need time to gather.
I. R. Shroud: Follow, then this simple formula: Walk the serpent field, Moulton at Laguna Hills Road, 10 AM. tomorrow. Hug the water. Be in possession of half. Rep. will instruct.
Mal: Five, then, for faith and action?
I. R. Shroud: Correct.
Mal: Thank you, thank you, thank you.
I. R. Shroud: Down, Mal. Talk 2 P.M., PST. Start at Fawnskin to find new room. Will need balance shortly after. And out.
Shroud vaporized. I lurked for a while, listening in, while the deviants whispered about their needs. No gossip about Mal and Shroud. They had heeded his warning, or were at least not talking about us.
Now that I had The Horridus talking again, I needed a way to catch him in the act. Any act would do. Crossing a street would be just fine. Vinson Clay could do it. And maybe, with luck, so could L
I made careful note of the hour and minute my conversation with I. R. Shroud began, and when it ended. I put it in my little blue notebook, right below the other live chats we’d had.
Donna stole into the apartment just before 1 A.M. I heard her key in the lock, then the vibrations of her feet on the carpet, then the sharper report of shoes on the parquet wood of the kitchen. I walked into the darkened living room. Moving in the half light of the open refrigerator she looked half real, half there. She poured herself a glass of wine, put the bottle back, then turned to look at me.
“How are you?” I asked.
“Terry,” she said. She came over and leaned her face against my chest. “I feel like I’ve been in bed with the devil himself. I’ve never, ever felt what I felt today, when I stood in that little guest house and smelled that smell. And later, when Sam showed me her … Mary Lou’s . .. head.”
“A long shower might wash him off you.”
“A long shower with bleach and a wire brush. Two gallons of wine and ten years of sleep. And I’d still wake up with the smell of the devil in my pores.”
“I talked to him tonight. The Horridus. On the Web.”
“Is he going to procure for you?”
“Yeah.”
“The girl?”
“That’s the deal.”
“Can you get him?”
“I will get him.”
“How?”
“I’ll see the first link of his chain tomorrow when I make a downpayment. In some field down in the south county. One link leads to the next.”
Donna sipped her wine but she didn’t let go of me. Her back felt tight to my hand, and the hand she held around my back was filled with the wadded material of my shirt. Her hair covered her face from me, but I was sure she was looking out the window toward the bean field and the freeways.
“I don’t like the ugliness of all this. Children and monsters. Pictures and snakes. It makes me feel unclean and far from any God I ever knew.”
“It does me, too.”
“Will Melinda help you?”
“Why do you ask that?”
“Because she’s the expert on the computers, isn’t she?”
I thought about her question for a while. “I’m on my own there, except for Johnny, and what I can squeeze out of Vinson Clay. Mel might help. I mean, she’ll always do the right thing, because that’s Mel. But she’s not going to do much for me. I kind of ruined her life, more or less. Humiliated her.”
Donna broke away from me and stood back.
“Does she know about us?”
“I meant, the pictures humiliated her.”
“But I meant, does she know about us?”
“No.”
“How sure are you of that?”
“I’ve told you a million times, Donna—she doesn’t know. And at this point, what would it matter?”
“Things like this always matter.”
“She never knew. She doesn’t now.”
Donna looked at me in the near dark.
“Well, Jordan Ishmael does.”
I waited, a cold wave of nerves breaking over my scalp.
“We talked. He talked, mainly.”
“Explain.”
“Said he wanted to confirm his suspicions about us. Said he was acting on a tip. And, thus confirmed, he wanted to know … if …
I needed help.”
“It was a bluff and a come-on. He doesn’t know anything about us.”
“Well, when he said that, he was standing about where you are now. He knocked. He identified himself. I’ll give him that. It was my fault, Terry. I’d come over from Tonello’s. He just followed. Or maybe he did get a tip—I don’t know. I denied you even knew about this place, but it didn’t help much. Not with two mugs on the counter, and that bottle of tequila, and your Sheriffs windbreaker over the chair.”
My skin rose up and crawled. “When?”
“Three days ago. You were still in jail.”
“Arrested by Ishmael.”
She said nothing.
“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
“It didn’t make sense to. I thought you might … do something you’d regret.”
“So, what did you tell him?”
“That you were a good man and that someone was framing you. And if he wanted to help me, he could do it by helping you. And if he saw fit to speak of our arrangement I’d burn his ass on the news, sooner or later.”
I couldn’t speak just then. All I could do is feel the blood pounding against my eardrums, a rush that felt like a river.
“He offered to show me the pictures of you and the girl. Girls. If I had any doubt.”
“Did you take him up on it?”
“Of course I did. I’m a reporter. They’re you, Terry. I know you didn’t do what they show you doing, but they’re you. They’re good.”
“But what did he want?”
Donna sighed, then turned to face me. I could see the small light reflected by her eyes. “Terry, I honestly believe all he really wanted was to help me. His concern seemed genuine. And he wanted to rattle your cage, too. One accomplishes the other, doesn’t it?”
“Help you? Did he touch you?”
“No, he did not. And if I were you, I’d derail that train of thought before it made a real fool out of myself.”
I will admit I felt nothing that moment except the desire to pound Ishmael senseless with my bare hands or, even better, an ax handle, hammer, gun butt, Mag-Lite, irrigation pipe, tire iron, Louisville Slugger …
Where Serpents Lie (Revised March 2013) Page 32
