by John Pelan
An hour later, puffing slightly, Spitzer caught up to Hayes in the hallway. “He doesn't buy it, does he?”
“Morrison? No. He didn't know whether to feel half-justified or half-disappointed. What about you? And thanks for sticking up for me back there.”
“You're welcome. Let's say I have an open mind on the subject. What do you inteid to do now?”
“We don't have much time. In between talking to Harvard and trying to calm then down, I asked them what I should do. One of their people suggested I contact a Herman Rumford in New York. Gave me his number.”
“By the brevity of your response I take it you have already done so.”
Hayes nodded as they strolled together down the corridor. “If anything, he sounds even weirder than this Wilbur character. But he said to come on up, bring what information I had with me, and he would see what he could do.” For the first time that morning, he smiled. “Morrison as much as said you could come along on this with me. Be nice to spend a day in the city.”
Spitzer nodded indifferently. “You think this guy can do anything?”
“Well, I put the usual technical people on the trace, and they haven't been able to run any surreptitious Wilburs to ground. So we might as well take a few of the people's tax dollars and head on up to the Big Wormhome. E'ither that, or find a way to winkle ten million bucks out of the discretionary terrorism fund.”
Spitzer looked thoughtful. “I think we'd better try talking to this Rumford first.” They walked a little farther. “That was very strange, the Denver earthquake. And before that, the cruise ship going down. Of course, it was caught in a typhoon. A very sudden typhoon, but not unusual for that time of year in the Pacific. Or so I've read.”
“The ship was less than two years old. They're not supposed to sink,” Hayes pointed out.
“No, they're not.” Spitzer suddenly smiled He had a charming, disarming smile. “We can take the eigit P.M. express to Penn Station. Better not wait until morning.”
“That's what I was thinking,” were Hayes's last words to his fellow agent.
Somewhat to the surprise of both men, Herman Rumford lived in a fine old brownstone in a notable Uppei East Side neighborhood, among which were sprinkled elegant shops, overpriced restaurants the size of shoe closets, and a smattering of celebrities. Rumford admitted them, not to a slovenly garret, but to a pleasant living room decorated with contemporary furniture and thick Chinese wool rugs. The art on the walls, however, instantly notified both agents that thev were not in the presence of one of New York's ubiquitous brokers, bankers, or political mavens.
Some of the subject matter was unapologetically horrific. Some was in appallingly bad taste. Some reflected views of the world and of existence that would have seriously distressed even the most tolerant priest. Some was authentically old. And somehow it was all of a piece, as one seemingly unrelated composition flowed unexpectedly into another.
“My collection.” Rumford was a short, thickset, fellow in his forties with shoulder-length hair tied back in a ponytail, dull blue eyes, and biceps that were little more than blips beneath his shirt. He looked like a human grenade and reminded Hayes of a renegade cherub. “Not to everyone's taste, I'm afraid. It's part of my hobby. And my hobby is my life. I spend most of my time studying its ramifications and variations.”
“What is it that you study?” Spitzer loomed over their host like a sumo grand champion alongside a new student.
“Evil. I've made quite an analysis of it, with a view toward battling it wherever and whenever possible. You might say that we're sort of in the same business, although for me it's not a job.” He gestured for them to follow. “Of course, I don't have access to the breadth of resources that you gentlemen do, but it's astonishing what you can find on the Net these days. But then, that's why you're here, isn't it?”
Leaving the pleasant living room and its disturbing art collection behind, the two agents followed their host into a smaller, book-filled study. Potted plants, some of them reaching to the ceiling, brought a touch of tropical rainforest into the city. They had been well looked after. Two tall, narrow windows looked out on the street. Queer sculptures and eccentric whatnots sat scattered about the dark mahogany shelves as if consulting the books neatly cataloged there. It was a reassuring contrast to the painted threats of the room they had just left.
“Not your usual hobby,” Hayes told Rumford, making conversation.
“It does demand a certain devotion.” Settling himself into a comfortable leather office chair, their host confronted an enormous LCD monitor. Not one, but several computers were arranged against the wall beside the spartan desk. It was more of a workbench, actually, Hayes thought. There were two other monitors, both presently displaying wallpaper that could only be described as eclectic, a tangle of cables, and a host of winking, humming ancillary electronics. “As I said,” Rumford continued, “it's a hobby, not my business. I don't have a business, really. My grandfather left me a trust, you see. I live comfortably, but not to excess. I would rather do good deeds with my money that live to excess.”
“Very philanthropic of you.” Spitzer lumbered forward until he was standing behind the seated Rumfoid's left shoulder. Hayes took the right side. “Have you been able to find anything on our insistent friend Wilbur with the information we provided to you last night?”
“Oh, I caught up with him this morning. About an hour ago. We've been chatting.” He indicated the miniature video camera sitting atop one of the nearby server boxes. “Not face to face. He's adamant, not stupid.” Rumford chuckled as he did things to the ergonomic keyboard in front of him. Screens flashed and went on the huge monitor, the images large enough for both agents to scrutinize without straining. “He has no objection to talking. He just wants his ten million dollars.”
“We can't give it to him. No government agency would approve it.” Spitzer wanted to ask what several enigmatic metal boxes connected to the main server were for but decided he could inquire later. All of them were black, instead of the usual bland ivory-white. One appeared badly scarred and scorched, as if by fire.
“I suspected as much, but I hardly have the authority to tell him that. After all,” Rumford added modestly, “I'm only helping you gentlemen out. I have no real clout here at all.” Though naturally soft, his voice could take on a certain firmness when he wished it to. “I might mention that he's already threatened me.”
Hayes looked alarmed. “Threatened you? But he doesn't know where you live —does he?” Glancing back through the front room, he eyed the front door uneasily.
“I seriously doubt it. I know how to cover my ass on-line. And I don't know where he is, either. Not physically. We only know where the other person is on the Net. Still,” he added as he tapped a fistful of keys, “there are a few things we can try. Ah!” He indicated the screen. “Say hello, gentlemen.”
The image on the monitor was a mass of writhing tentacles, bulging cephalopodian eyeballs, and slavering ichorous maws. Well done for a Java applet, Hayes decided, but not especially well animated. Words began to appear beneath the image.
When do I get my money… ?
Rumford glanced expectantly at his visitors. “What do you want me to tell him?”
Spitzer and Hayes exchanged a glance. They had already rehearsed a number of possible scenarios coming up on the train the previous night. Two-way audio would have made things easier, Hayes knew, just as he knew that unless he was dumber than he seemed their quarry would not risk committing even a disguised voice to storage that could be studied later. Speech patterns were too easily divined and applied to future suspects.
“Tell him it's in the works. He'll have his money before ten tonight, well ahead of his deadline. Provided we can assure ourselves of his sincerity, and that his threat is real.”
Rumford typed in the response. Moments later, a reply was forthcoming.
Actually, I'm surprised. The government usually isn't this sensible. Of course, this may be a stall on yo
ur part, but I don't care. You can't find me, certainly not by tonight, if at all. As for further proof of the seriousness of my intentions, turn on CNN and keep watching.
Spitzer shrugged. A somber Rumford directed them back to the living room and to the TV sequestered there. The big agent switched it on, found the requisite cable channel, and returned to the study. Two hours slipped by before the National Aquarium in Baltimore, an exceptionally sturdy and well-designed building, collapsed into the harbor amid much screaming and panic and death by drowning. Collapsed—or was pulled.
Ashen, Hayes relayed a response via their host.
Enough! We get your point.
Back came the reply.
I thought you would. There are quite a few passages in the Necronomicon dealing with a certain Cthulhu, his minions, and other really unpleasant ocean dwellers. Next time, I thought I might try to call up the servants of Ithaqua. The East Coast hasn't had a really good blow in five years.
Spitzer had Rumford type back.
You've done enough. Give us till ten.
You'd better come through.
their unseen nemesis declared on screen.
This stuff is almost too easy. Those Columbine guys could've blown away their whole state with it. Imagine Saddam's people scrolling through the file, or some of those murderous tribal types in central Africa.
At the end of the message, the on-screen cursor winked patiently back at the three men, awaiting commands.
Spitzer and Hayes caucused. “There's no way the bureau is going to cough up ten million for this weirdo on our say-so alone. No way,” Hayes admitted. Despite the fact that it was very comfortable in the study, sweat was beading on Hayes's forehead. “We've got to find a way to get to him before he starts posting.”
“We don't even know if he's in this country,” Spitzer reminded his partner soberly. “He could have come in just to pay his visit to the library.”
“I know, I know!”
With the sun beginning to set outside, only their host remained relatively composed. “I said there were one or two things I could try. I can't go ahead, I won't go ahead, without your authorization, though.”
Turning, Hayes frowned down at their host. “Why not?”
Rumford's expression did not change. “There could be ancillary consequences that I can't predict.”
“What, on-line? Go ahead. If there's something you can try, try it.”
Rumford was very precise. “Then I have your authorization?”
“Sure, go ahead,” Spitzer told him. “If a router goes down somewhere, or you crash an ISP, we'll take responsibility. We have to try something. Maybe you can find out where this guy is. If you can do that, and if it's on this continent, we can have people there within the hour. Overseas, within a day.”
Rumford nodded. “That's not really what I intend to try, but I'll keep it in mind.” Swiveling in his seat, lie turned back to his monitor.
It took less than thirty minutes. There was no shout of triumph from their host. He clearly wasn't the type. But there was quiet satisfaction in his voice. “Got him.”
Both agents were more than a little impressed. “That's impossible,” Hayes insisted tersely. “Our technical people at the bureau have been working on this since vesterday, and all through the night, and we haven't been beeped. Which means they couldn't locate squat.” He eyed their stocky, intense host closely. “How come you could do it?”
Beady blue eyes flicked in the agent's direction. “I've been dealing with individuals of this type for some time. Let's just say I have access to a search engine or two even your people don't know about.” He smiled thinly. “The Net's a big place, you know.”
Spitzer loomed over both of them. “It doesn't matter. Where is he? Physically, I mean.” He already had his phone in his hand, ready to transmit the vital information back to Virginia.
“Let me try something first.” Without waiting for a response, Rumford returned to his typing. “If he thinks you're on to him, he can still post a lot of dangerous material before vour people can restrain him physically.” Both agents read over their host's shoulder.
Wilbur: Do not post the Necronomicon cr any part of it on-line. By doing so you're making it available to children and to people unaware of what they are dealing with. The Necronomicon is not a video game.
The response was immediate.
Don't lecture me, Rumford. I know all about the Necronomicon and I know what I'm doing. I want my ten million! Tell the Bureau people that.
“He doesn't know you're here,” their host murmured. “Probably thinks I have and am on a phone connection to you.” He typed:
If you persist in going ahead with this, steps will have to be taken.
I'm not afraid of the government. I know how fast they don't move. By the time they find out where I buy my groceries, I can post the entire contents of The Book. They'd better not try anything. Tell them that.
Rumford didn't have to. Hayes could see it for himself.
Their host looked up at the agent. His expression was set. “Hand me that disc box, will you?” He pointed. “The one in the open cabinet, over there.”
Hayes fetched the indicated container. For a disc holder, it seemed excessive. Solid steel, with a tiny combination lock. Returning, he tripped on a roll in the throw rug and nearly fell. Their host's reaction was instructive.
“For God's sake, don't drop that!” Rumford's round pink face had turned white.
Hayes frowned at the metal box, infinitely sturdier than the usual plastic container. “Discs are tougher than that. What's the problem?”
“Just don't drop it.” Carefully taking the container from the bemused agent, Rumford opened it slowly. Spitzer was surprised to see that it contained only one silvery ROM disc. Mumbling something under his breath, Rumford slipped this into the appropriate drive on his main machine. It was not, Hayes observed, self-running.
A couple of clicks and a macro or two later, the monitor filled with a jumble of symbols and words that were unintelligible to the two agents. Working with grim-faced determination, their host began to use his mouse to methodically highlight specific sections. These were then cut and copied to another page, where he proceeded to carefully position them over an intricate mosaic of symbols. After some twenty minutes of this he sat back and double-clicked. Immediately, the monitor began to pulse with a rich red glow.
Spitzer observed the vivid visual activity with interest. “Java applet?” he wondered aloud. “Active-X?”
Rumford shook his head. “Not exactly.”
“Nice animation,” the agent continued, watching without understanding what was going on. “Bryce, or something from SG?”
“My own code. I correspond with people with similar interests. There's a guy in Germany, and interestingly, a woman in R'lyeh—sorry, Riyadh. We play around with our own software. It's kind of a hobby within a hobby.”
Hayes indicated the monitor. The intense, swirling, necrotic colors had given way to the more familiar instant-messaging screen format.
What do you think you're doing? You think you can trouble me with this?
“What did you do?” Spitzer leaned even closer, dominating his surroundings. “Send him a virus?”
“Something like that,” Rumford replied noncommittally. In his server, the ROM disc drive continued to whirr softly even though no eldritch colors or patterns were visible any longer on the monitor.
Wait… what's going on?
A pause, then:
Stop it… stop it now! You can't block me… I'm not waiting any longer. Just for this, I'm going to post the first chapter right now!
Hayes tensed, but their host did not appear overly concerned. He just sat staring, Buddhalike, at the screen.
What is this?… Make it stop.… Stop it now, I'm warning you! Rumford, make it stop! You sonofabitch bastard, do something!…
A chill trickled down Spitzer's broad back as the words appeared on the screen. The ROM drive, he noted, had sto
pped humming.
Make it go away! Rumford, do something now! I won't post.… I'll do anything you want.… Make it go away! Rumford, please, don't let it … oh god, stop it now.… Please, do someth
No more words appeared on the screen.
Sighing softly, Rumford leaned back in his chair and rubbed his forehead. He looked and sounded like a man who had just run several laps around an especially bumpy track. “That's it.”
Hayes made a face. “That's it? What do you mean, ‘that's it'?”
Turning away from the monitor, their host looked up at him. “It's over. He's not going to post anything. Not now. Not ever.”
The chill Spitzer had been experiencing deepened. “What did you do? Where is he? What did you send him?”
Rumford rose. “Something to drink? No? Well, I'm thirsty. Nasty business, this. You need to tell those people at Harvard to be more careful. They really ought to burn the damn thing, but I know they won't.” He shook his head dolefully. “Book people! They're more dangerous than you can imagine.” He eyed Spitzer.
“It doesn't matter where he is, or was. I took care of the problem. He can't post a ‘you've got mail’ note, much less an entire book. Much less the Necronomicon.”
Realization dawned on Hayes's face. ‘Ton got into his machine! You wiped the copy!’
Rumford nodded. “In a manner of speaking, yes.”
Spitzer was not impressed. “Unless th:s Wilbur was a complete idiot, he made at least one duplicate and stored it somewhere safe.”
