Mortal Fear

by Greg Iles

You’ll never know.

  MAXWELL> Someday I shall. Tell me, did you climax at any time during this forced bacchanal?

  LILITH> I’ve never had a climax with a man in my life.

  MAXWELL> What about masturbation?

  LILITH> When I was very young. Not later.

  MAXWELL> But you experienced some heightened state on that night.

  LILITH> That night? I told you. It was . . . an elevated awareness. Like the more animalistic the situation got, the less individual I was, the less guilt I had, the less I had to worry about anything. Beyond some point, I knew nothing was my fault. And the men seemed almost in some kind of trance state. Like a frenzy. Something about their madness—it was a sexual madness, I think—passed into me somehow, like I was just a vessel for their anger and their fear.

  MAXWELL> Why do you say fear?

  LILITH> That’s what I felt, I guess. That underneath all their thrusting and heaving was some kind of awful terror, something they were running away from, something . . . worse than anything in the world.

  MAXWELL> Death?

  LILITH> Worse than that. And the harder they tried to come, the closer that thing was getting to them. It was insane, really. I’m not sure I could live through it again.

  MAXWELL> What do you mean?

  LILITH> I think my heart might stop. Or just explode. I would probably kill one of them or die myself.

  MAXWELL> That was the next natural step wasn’t it, Lilith? Death? From this sexual frenzy to death?

  LILITH> I suppose it was. Violence was all over that room.

  MAXWELL> Did you ever feel, while it was going on, that the young men might kill you?

  LILITH> I don’t know. I was scared. Scared enough to help them finish. I mean, I didn’t just lie there. I figured the faster I moved, the faster they’d finish and the safer I’d be.

  MAXWELL> You were frightened that they’d hurt you?

  LILITH> They _were_ hurting me. You asked if I was scared they’d kill me.

  MAXWELL> And?

  LILITH> No. They weren’t . . . at that level, you know? They were like, these suburban white guys. There were moments when they’d all . . . like realize what they were doing, that it was a crime or whatever. I think it was only the fact that they were all together that gave them the guts to keep going. Individually, they’d never really crossed the line.

  MAXWELL> What line?

  LILITH> You know. I’ve dated guys who’ve really been to the edge. Guys who could have killed every kid in that room and never given it another thought.

  MAXWELL> You exaggerate, Lilith.

  LILITH> No. There are men like that. I like men like that.

  MAXWELL> Men who have killed?

  LILITH> Not necessarily. But men who could kill, and damned quickly, if they had to.

  MAXWELL> All men can kill, Lilith, if pushed far enough.

  LILITH> I disagree. Physically, yes. But spiritually? No. Just as every man with a penis could technically have raped me that night, but mentally and spiritually some could not have. People are different.

  MAXWELL> You are an interesting person.

  LILITH> What would you have done if you’d walked into that room that night?

  MAXWELL> I would have stopped it.

  LILITH > You couldn’t have. My old boyfriend was there and he couldn’t. They beat him to a pulp.

  MAXWELL> I am not your old boyfriend.

  LILITH> How would you have stopped it?

  MAXWELL> By deciding to. I am like John Galt. I can stop the motor of the world if I so choose.

  LILITH> Who is John Galt?

  Lenz must be reveling in the delicious irony of typing those words, that question, as though he had never heard of that literary character.

  MAXWELL> A fictional hero in a magnificent but ultimately silly novel by Ayn Rand. The allusion seemed appropriate ten seconds ago.

  LILITH> What are you really like, Maxwell? I want to know more about you. I’m curious.

  MAXWELL> Curiosity kills cats.

  “Here we go,” I say softly. “Here it comes.”

  LILITH> Are you threatening me?

  MAXWELL> Do you respond to threats?

  LILITH> Not well. Why shouldn’t I be curious? You’ve been interrogating me as you please.

  MAXWELL> What do you wish to know?

  LILITH> How old are you?

  MAXWELL> Forty-seven.

  “Holy shit.” I glance right to make sure the printer is still recording every word. Is Brahma telling the truth? Turning toward the bed, I call, “Miles, wake up!” Then I turn up the voices.

  LILITH> That’s a good age.

  MAXWELL> How so?

  LILITH> Old enough to know what you’re doing, not too old to do it.

  MAXWELL> To what are you referring?

  LILITH> Whatever you like in life. Do you like your work?

  MAXWELL> I focus more on my avocation.

  LILITH> You have your own company or something?

  MAXWELL> I own several companies, but they’re merely paperwork. What most people call careers, I call glorified secretarial work.

  LILITH> Do I sense an attitude?

  MAXWELL> I do not suffer fools gladly.

  LILITH> So—what’s your real work?

  MAXWELL> I’m in the medical field.

  “Score one for Drewe,” Miles says from behind me.

  “You were right,” I admit. “Lenz seems to be pulling it off. He’s damned good at it.”

  “I thought he might be.”

  LILITH> Are you a doctor?

  MAXWELL> Please do not pry too much. We don’t know each other well enough.

  LILITH> How much closer can we get? I’ve already told you my darkest secret.

  MAXWELL> Really? There must be more in your past than a postadolescent gang rape, however tragic. A woman who will ask “Who’s next?” to drunken fraternity boys has more in her closet than that.

  LILITH> I don’t care for your attitude.

  MAXWELL> You can always log off.

  “Do it,” I say sharply, though Lenz is a thousand miles away.

  “Log off, asshole!” Miles spits at the monitor.

  But Lenz is greedy.

  LILITH> Why do you want to bully me like that?

  MAXWELL> I thought you didn’t put up with bullying anymore.

  LILITH> I’m not made of stone.

  “Inconsistent,” says Miles. “He’s losing it. Goddamn it, log off!”

  LILITH> I haven’t let a man into my life for some time. But I had a new feeling tonight.

  MAXWELL> I must go now. Perhaps we’ll speak again.

  LILITH> How will I find you?

  “Stop pushing!” I yell.

  MAXWELL> I’ll find you. _Auf Wiedersehen_.

  “He knows,” says Miles, staring at the letters still glowing on the screen. “Lenz spooked him and he split.”

  “Maybe not. A lot of exchanges get like that at the end. One person is always needier than the other.”

  “Maxwell,” Miles murmurs. “Brahma’s playing games all over the place, man.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The name. What’s the first ‘Maxwell’ that pops into your head?”

  “Maxwell Smart?”

  He shakes his head. “Think Beatles. Abbey Road.”

  “Abbey Road . . . ‘Maxwell’s Silver Hammer’!”

  Miles begins to sing: “Joan was quizzical, studied pataphysical science in the home. Late nights all alone with her test tubes, oh-ohoh-oh. . . .”

  I follow with, “Maxwell Edison, majoring in medicine, calls her on the phone—”

  “Whoa,” he cuts in. “Maxwell was a doctor.”

  “And the chorus. Jesus.”

  Together we chant the now chilling words: “Bang-bang Maxwell’s silver hammer came down upon her head. Bang-bang Maxwell’s silver hammer made sure that she was dead.”

  We stare at each other in numb silence.

  “That’s a big leap,” I t
ell him.

  “Except that his other aliases were Shiva, Kali, Levon. Shiva is the Destroyer. Kali is a goddess of blood and death.”

  “Levon wasn’t a killer.”

  “He wasn’t exactly Santa Claus either: ‘He was born a pauper to a pawn on a Christmas Day when the New York Times said “God is dead” and the war’s begun. . . .’ ”

  “This is creepy, Miles.”

  He scans the printouts again. “Lenz had the son of a bitch and he blew it.”

  “I thought he’d try to mimic Karin Wheat’s personality more. Get into immortality and the occult and all that.”

  Miles shakes his head. “Lenz is in a hurry. He’s trying to cover all the bases at once. He’s giving Brahma a woman who’s both strong and weak. But if we go with Drewe’s scenario, Lenz’s approach is useless. It’s designed to provoke by being overtly sexual, whereas Brahma’s criteria may be medical.”

  “What choice does Lenz have? He can’t log on and say, ‘Forty-seven-year-old female seeks succulent twenty-three-year-old pineal gland. Please send photo.’ ”

  Miles’s laugh is terminated by the ring of the phone. The impulse to flight flashes in his eyes.

  “We’ll screen it,” I tell him.

  After two rings the machine answers, my outgoing message plays, and a beep prompts the caller.

  “Cole, pick up the phone,” says a deep voice.

  “Lenz,” says Miles. He crosses the room, picks up the cordless, trots back to me, and hands me the phone.

  “I’m here.”

  “Did you see?” the psychiatrist asks, his voice brimming with excitement.

  “I saw it. Not bad, Doctor.”

  “I had him going, didn’t I?”

  Has Lenz called merely to rehash his triumph? Like a high school kid talking about his football game? Maybe he thinks I’m the only person who truly understands the parameters of his strange quest.

  “You saw his age?” he asks. “Forty-seven?”

  “Yes.”

  “And admitting that he’s in the medical field! Cole, it’s working.”

  Miles leans over the answering machine.

  “What about the bit at the end?” Lenz asks, suddenly penitent. “Did I go too far?”

  “Hard to say.”

  “I know I pushed him, but I’m fighting time here.”

  Miles punches me in the side.

  “I guess Baxter’s pressing you to nail him before he kills again, huh?”

  “I’m speaking of the phone traces.”

  Miles punches me again; this time I punch back. “You mean they’re close to tracing him?”

  “No. They’re no longer trying to trace him.”

  “What?”

  “Before we put the decoy plan into action, we realized we were facing an either-or situation. If they tried to trace the UNSUB every time we conversed online, it would be obvious I was helping the FBI. You see?”

  “Oh, I see. But I can’t believe Baxter stopped the traces.”

  “It’s not indefinite. He’s given me seven days.”

  “Then they start the traces again?”

  “Now you see why I’m having to push harder than I’d like.”

  “Is there anything else you needed?”

  “Yes,” Lenz says in a strange voice. “I’m wondering why you haven’t asked me about Turner.”

  I look at Miles. “I figure you’d be crowing about it already if you’d caught him.”

  “If you know where he is, Cole, do yourself and your wife a favor. Turner wouldn’t hang his ass out to protect yours.”

  I sense the heat of Miles’s rage from a foot away. “Yeah, well, opinions are like assholes.”

  “Everybody’s got one,” Lenz finishes. “Only a lot of people pay a lot of money for mine.”

  “There’s a sucker born every minute.”

  “Good night, Cole.”

  I carry the cordless back across the room and set it in its cradle. “Nice guy, huh?”

  “He’s better than some,” says Miles. He points at the red 21 in the LED window of my answering machine. “Have you listened to all those messages?”

  “I didn’t want them banging around in my head.”

  He raises his eyebrows and, getting no objection from me, hits the REWIND button. A minute later the tape begins playing back the messages. Most are from various police departments. A couple are from old friends, warning me that they’ve been questioned about me by police. One is a sales pitch from a credit card company. And six are from Detective Michael Mayeux of the New Orleans Police Department. Miles and I listen to his final message in rapt silence.

  “Mr. Cole, I don’t know where you are, but you’d better start checking your messages. You may not believe this, but I’m worried about you. If the FBI has pressured you into some kind of cooperation, you better be damn careful. This case got weird fast. There’s a lot of bad feeling in all the P.D.s involved. These days the Bureau’s pretty good about sharing information, but right now they’re acting like they did back in the seventies. Some people are saying they’ve already screwed up the investigation. That isn’t your problem, I know. All I’m saying is things could reach a point where the departments involved just get fed up and decide to do what they’ve been wanting to do all along, which is blow the whistle, shut down EROS, and arrest you and Turner. You gotta admit I treated you okay when you came to us. If you need help—and, brother, you do—I’m your man. Now give me a call.”

  Miles has wandered away from me. “What do you think about that?” I ask.

  “Never happen,” he says distantly. “Going public and shutting down EROS, I mean. City cops aren’t going to risk pissing off the feds to that degree.”

  “Could we use Mayeux to our advantage?”

  “Things haven’t progressed that far yet. Just ignore him.”

  “I’m glad he’s not a Mississippi cop. He’d be sitting on my doorstep right now.”

  Miles plunks himself down on the edge of my bed and sighs.

  “You said they found Karin Wheat’s head near the Bonnet Carre causeway,” I remind him. “Headed toward La Place. That means he passed the New Orleans airport. But from the distances between the previous murder cities, I always assumed Brahma was flying.”

  “He could have flown out of Baton Rouge,” Miles points out. “It’s only an hour away, and you go through La Place to get there. Or he could have driven to La Place just to toss out the head, then turned around and driven back to the airport. The FBI doesn’t know how he’s getting around. Common sense says flying, but there’s enough elapsed time between the murders for him to have ridden a goddamn Trailways bus.”

  “Except the one-night interval between Karin’s death and Rosalind May’s abduction.”

  He nods. “They’re searching airline records, trying to match passenger manifests for the murder cities on given dates, but all matches so far have been legitimate.”

  “He could have taken a private plane,” I suggest, “like you did to get here.”

  “They’re checking that.” He looks up and searches my face. “You got something you want to say?”

  “Take it easy. I’m just thinking out loud.”

  He runs both hands over his freshly skinned scalp and focuses somewhere beyond me. “You been thinking about what we talked about? The Trojan Horse?”

  “Some.”

  “And?”

  “I’m up for it.”

  A broad smile lights his face. “All right. Now we’re cooking with gas.”

  Miles’s occasional regressions to Southern idiom surprise me, but I guess every refugee carries cultural baggage.

  “Have you decided which way you want to go?” he asks. “I mean, a real EROS client or totally from scratch?”

  “Not a real client,” I tell him. “I don’t want to put anybody at risk like that. But I don’t want to start totally from scratch, either.”

  His eyes narrow. “I don’t get you.”

  I move closer to t
he bed and look down at him. “I’m going to explain this to you once. After that you don’t ask me about it.”

  “Sure. You’ve got a name in mind?”

  “Yes.”

  “What is it?”

  “Erin.”

  He blinks.

  “No questions?”

  “I don’t get it. You’re picking that name out of the blue, or you’re talking about our Erin?”

  “My wife’s sister.”

  He lets out a low whistle.

  “If this is going to work, Miles, it’s got to be authentic. That over-the-top stuff Lenz is doing won’t fool Brahma long. I mean, I think that gang rape stuff really happened to somebody, but not to Lenz. You know? Probably one of his patients. Brahma feeds on the pathos of real human beings. And Erin’s the one. I know things about her . . . things that could help me play her very well.”

  “Whatever you want,” Miles says quietly. “I trust your instincts.”

  “Lenz thinks Brahma is targeting older women now. That’s why he made ‘Lilith’ forty-eight. But I can’t play a forty-eight-year-old woman convincingly. We’ll just have to hope he’s still interested in donors as well as recipients.”

  He opens his hands. “Whatever you say. But I’ve got to ask. Are you saying you want ‘Erin’ as your online alias, or the real name behind the alias?”

  “Online alias. You can make her legal name anything you want.”

  Miles digests this slowly. “I’m not even going to ask where this is coming from. You’re playing the role, you pick the costume. But aren’t you worried that using Erin might somehow lead Brahma to her?”

  “No. Because it won’t really be Erin. It’s going to be a blend of Erin’s personality and mine. A hybrid. And the fact that the alias is ‘Erin’ should make Brahma think her real name is anything but Erin.”

  “You’re right,” he says, looking impressed for once.

  “It’s your job to create a fake identity that’s untraceable. And the address worries me. I know you can do a lot by hacking, but you can’t change where we are. What if Brahma can actually trace the phone connections?”

  “I don’t think he can. Not easily, anyway. But even if he tries, I’ll have it covered.”

  “How?”

  “I’m going to hack into AT&T’s Jackson switching station, change around some number and address data. Then I’ll make that data match the ‘Erin’ stuff I put into the DMV computer and everywhere else.”