by Greg Iles
“That was but a taste of your true nature.”
“Edward? I want to share something with you. Something I’ve never told my husband. Something he’s never even asked me.”
“What is it?”
“A dream.”
“Yes.”
“It started during college, long after I’d stopped hunting.”
“This is a recurring dream?”
“Yes. I’m walking through a forest in winter. Snow on the ground, ice in the trees. I’m not wearing enough clothing to keep warm, just an old dress. No coat. I see many deer, but they’re starving. I pass them by. Then, through the bare black trees, I see a flash of pure white against the bluish snow. It’s a great buck, with fur like ermine from antlers to tail, his antlers black like wet branches, the underside of the tail like sable. Not an albino, because his eyes are bottomless rings of blue. Deeper and deeper into the forest I chase him. My throat burns from the cold. Once I catch a longer glimpse, and I see that he is wounded, a splash of blood on his white belly, as though he has taken an arrow yet runs on. Only a heart shot can bring him down. As dusk falls, I track him to a cave. He stands just inside the mouth, as though safe in shadow. I draw the bow. Then, just as he sees me, I release, burying the shaft in his heart.”
There is absolute silence in the room.
“Do you dress the carcass in the cave?”
“The buck doesn’t die. As he lies shuddering in the cave mouth, he is transformed into a man. A young man, with skin like alabaster. But the old wound in his belly remains. Then I come to him in the cave, and he goes down on all fours before me, facing away. And though I cannot see anything at my waist, it is I who penetrate him. Some part of me passes into him, and when he rises his wound is healed, he is made whole. But when I rise, I see that I now have the wound. And I’m no longer a girl, but a woman, and it’s me running now, running with him chasing me. He gets closer and closer and then . . . then I wake up. I always wake up before he catches me.”
Berkmann says nothing.
I cannot imagine Drewe fabricating this story on the spot. The detail is too vivid. How little we really know about the people we live with.
“You still have this dream?” Berkmann asks finally.
“Yes. And it . . . it arouses me. Sometimes I have an orgasm when I’m in the cave. Sometimes not. Sometimes I feel only fear. Raw terror.”
“It’s so simple. So clear. Don’t you see? You are a huntress who needs to be caught. A healer who needs to be healed. I am the wounded beast, Drewe. I—”
“Berkmann’s not in the building,” Miles says in my ear. “We’re on the second floor. SWAT confirms it.”
My pulse is racing. “He’s still talking, Miles.”
“Maybe he was telling the truth about being out of the country. Maybe he really has another base, another voice-rec unit somewhere. He probably has the money for it.”
“The phone company has a busy signal on the warehouse phone?”
“Yep. Christ, look at this.”
“What?”
“I’m at the computers. It’s serious stuff. Sun, Digital Equipment. Massive power here.”
“So where’s Berkmann?”
“Man, some of these boxes I don’t even recognize.”
I kneel beside Drewe and whisper in the shell of her ear. “They’re in the building. Keep talking.”
Her head bobs slightly. “Catherine played the piano?”
“Yes,” Berkmann replies. “She had a gift.”
“I play as well,” she says. This is a lie.
“You play Beethoven?”
“I prefer Chopin. Tell me something, Edward. Did Catherine breast-feed you?”
“Of course. There was no cow’s milk in the basements of Berlin.”
“Are you circumcised, Edward? Is that how they discovered your hemophilia?”
“No. That was for Jews. My uncle noticed it first, through abnormal bruising.”
Over Drewe’s shoulder, I watch Berkmann’s words materialize on-screen as flawlessly as film credits. He’s definitely using a voice-recognition system. But where is it? I turn away and walk back toward the desk that holds my Gateway computer. It sits purring like a faithful dog. Where could—
“Harper!”
Drewe’s yell shocks me out of myself. I whirl, afraid that my name has gone out over the data line, but she has her hand on the space bar.
“What is it?” I ask, moving to her side.
“I’m getting errors in Berkmann’s side of the conversation.”
A ball of ice forms in my chest. “What do you mean? Like typos?”
“More like dropouts. Wrong words. Nonwords.”
“Okay . . . I’ll check on it. Just keep talking to him.”
She releases the space bar and resumes the conversation, though in a less controlled voice.
“Miles?” I say into the phone.
Nothing.
I walk as far from Drewe as I can get and snarl, “Miles!”
“What?”
“Drewe’s getting errors from Berkmann!”
“You mean typos? All of a sudden?”
“Yes! But more like dropouts, she said.”
“There’s a lot of gear in this room, Harper, including a home-engineered phone system. I just picked up a receiver and heard a data stream.”
“Then Berkmann must be there. There must be a room in the building SWAT hasn’t found.”
“But where?”
Drewe’s voice control is degrading by the second. “Miles, what if he’s remotely using the system in front of you? You picking up that receiver could have caused the dropouts Drewe saw. Especially with a cellular data connection.”
“He’s never used it remotely before. I’m sure of it.”
“So that means he can’t?”
Miles clucks his tongue. “If he could have, why didn’t he? It’s a lot easier to talk than it is to type, especially when you’re flying a plane or hiding outside somebody’s house in the dark.”
“Maybe it’s technically possible, but not that reliable. So he just never messed with it.”
“Until now, you mean?”
A hot wave of fear rolls up my spine. “Miles, what if he knew all along we were using his error rate to predict his movements? Or that we could use it? When he killed Lenz’s wife, he wanted the FBI to know he was on the move, so he stuck to his old pattern and didn’t use voice recognition. He wanted them to see the errors.”
“And with Erin?”
“He just stayed off-line until he got here. That way there were no errors to see, even though he was moving.”
There is a sudden, awful silence.
“He’s known all along,” Miles says quietly. “It’s just like his back door into EROS. He saved it until he needed it.”
I feel like I’m riding an elevator whose cable just snapped.
“I’m going to pick up the receiver again,” Miles says. “Tell me what happens.”
Almost instantly Drewe throws up her right hand, then spins in her chair, an anxious look on her face.
“More errors?” I whisper.
She nods violently.
“We got errors, Miles. Would Berkmann have seen that?”
“Probably. He might think it was just line noise, though.”
“He’s not in New York, Miles.” I hesitate to voice the certainty that has crystallized in my brain. “I guess we know where he is.”
“Harper—”
“Tell Baxter to get somebody out here as fast as humanly possible. I’m hanging up now.”
“Wait!”
“Ciao, pal. Good knowing you.”
With an eerie sense of resignation, I hang up the phone, then walk to the office door and lock it. The heavy window blinds make it virtually impossible for someone outside to see into the room. From my desk I pick up a legal pad and a pen and scrawl, Berkmann may be here. Stay calm. I’m calling for help. Keep talking. Then I carry it over to Drewe and hold it where she ca
n see it.
Her composure melts like ice thrown into a fire. My immediate concern is her voice. Berkmann can’t hear the fear crackling through it like electricity, but if she loses enough control, the voice-rec program may stop functioning. As she struggles to continue the conversation, I dial her father’s house. There are two other options—Sheriff Buckner and Wes Killen—but Bob will come faster. Besides, I made him a promise.
While the phone rings, I walk to one of the two front windows, slide the blind to the side and peek out into the blue dusk. The deputy’s car is still at the end of our drive, nose angled toward the highway. Because of the fading light and the car’s position, I can’t see whether he’s in it or not.
“Hello?”
“Mrs. Anderson, it’s Harper. I need to talk to Dr. Anderson right now.”
“They’re not here.” Margaret’s voice is cold. “I’m here with Holly.”
“Who’s they?”
“Bob and Patrick. They went out to the cemetery to visit Erin.”
“At night?”
“That’s what they wanted to do. They’re grown men.”
“Do they have a cellular phone?”
“No. They took Bob’s old truck. You sound funny. What’s—”
I disconnect and dig Wes Killen’s cellular phone number out of my back pocket. My thumb is touching the keypad of the cordless when Berkmann’s voice shocks me into stillness.
“What’s the matter, Drewe?”
“Nothing. Why?”
“Your voice-recognition program is missing words, sending errors. As though you’re under great stress.”
Drewe looks back at me, her face pale. I motion for her to keep winging it while I dial Killen’s number.
“I shouldn’t be stressed?” she says. “After all you’ve told me about my husband?”
“What is Harper doing?”
“Wes Killen.”
“This is Harper Cole! I need you! Berkmann’s alive!”
“I just got off the phone with Baxter,” Killen says. “I’m running to my car right now. You know Mike Mayeux? New Orleans cop?”
“Yes.”
“He’s out there. At your place. Right now.”
“What?”
“He never thought Berkmann died in the crash. He took a couple of days off to watch your place. He didn’t want you to know. Wanted you to act natural.”
“Thank God! Look, there are two guys headed out to Erin’s grave. Family. Don’t get panicky if you see lights.”
“I see lights now. Are you armed, Cole?”
“I’ve got a thirty-eight revolver and a twenty-five auto.” Through the phone I hear Killen’s car engine firing up.
“Get into a bedroom,” he says. “Cut off the lights, put your wife under the bed, and get low in a corner with the thirty-eight. Make sure your hall light’s on. If Berkmann opens the door, you’ll have him in silhouette. Easiest shot in the world. Blow him down.”
“Just hurry!”
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
Drewe is speaking too rapidly now, her voice like a fraying cable. With the news about Mayeux pumping through me like amphetamines, I dial Sheriff Buckner’s office. As the phone rings, I peer out at the parked cruiser.
“Sheriff’s department.”
“This is Harper Cole. Give me Sheriff Buckner right now. It’s life or death.”
“Who is this again, please?”
“I SAID NOW, GODDAMN IT!”
A match flares in the deputy’s car. It glows steadily, flickers, then disappears. The tiny orange ember of a cigarette takes its place. I touch the grip of the .38 at my belt, wondering whether I should fire through the window. One shot would bring both the deputy and Mayeux running, but Berkmann could be anywhere. He might be in a position to ambush both men without even breathing hard.
“This is Sheriff Buckner. Who the hell’s this?”
“Harper Cole! You’ve got to get somebody out here!”
“Cole? I’ve already got somebody out there.”
“The killer’s here, damn it! Maybe outside my house!”
“What?”
“Radio the deputy you have here! But he’s got to be careful. Berkmann could be—”
There is no sound so dead as a dead telephone. Very slowly, not wanting to believe it, I put down the cordless.
Drewe is still speaking into the headset. I watch her trail off, then wait for Berkmann’s response.
There is none.
Drawing the .38 from my holster, I walk over and say softly in her ear: “Berkmann’s outside. He just cut the phone lines.”
She closes her eyes like someone who’s just been read a death sentence. I gently pull the headset off her and drop it beside the keyboard. Strangely, the modem still shows a live connection. Maybe Berkmann left the phone line to the EROS computer open. Hitting the space bar just in case, I ask Drewe where her gun is.
“In my purse,” she replies.
“Where’s your purse?”
“In the bedroom.”
“Did you reload it?”
“Yes.” She grips my forearm hard enough to cause pain and looks up with terror in her eyes. “Harper, let’s run! Get your keys and we’ll run for the Explorer.”
“He’s expecting that.” I lay an open hand against her cheek. “We wouldn’t have a chance.”
“Drewe? Speak to me.”
At the sound of Berkmann’s voice, Drewe’s eyes go blank as a stroke victim’s. “He left the data line connected,” I tell her, squeezing her shoulders. “There are two cops outside. Answer him. If you can keep him occupied, we’ll be okay.”
Moving like a zombie, she dons the headset again. “I’m thinking,” she says in a cracked voice.
“What about?”
“Everything you’ve said.”
“You’re not being truthful, Drewe.”
She hits the space bar again. “For God’s sake, Harper! We’ve got to run!”
“We can’t. He could be anywhere. We’re safer in here. You’ve got to keep talking. Give Mayeux a chance.”
She shakes her head. “We’re sitting ducks in here! I feel it.” Wild hope flashes in her eyes. “You said he didn’t actually kill the EROS women! And we both have guns!”
“Listen to me, Drewe. I know he has a tranquilizer pistol. He’d probably shoot me with a dart to get me out of the way, then take you with him.”
Her mouth drops open as the enormity of the danger sinks in. “But . . . but what if we risk that? If he takes me, I could pretend to go along, then shoot him when I got a chance.”
“What if he shoots me with a forty-four Magnum instead of a dart? We don’t know what he’s got out there, Drewe.”
“We can’t just sit here and wait for him!”
I squeeze her shoulders again, trying to reassure her. “We’ve got no choice.”
She jumps up from the chair and pulls away from me. “God, why did you bring him here? How could you be so stupid?”
“Why isn’t he talking?” I ask, turning to the EROS screen.
At that instant the muffled crack of a gunshot bounces off the front of the house.
Drewe screams. Snatching her arm, I run for the door, praying that shot came from Mike Mayeux’s gun.
“Could the deputy have shot him?” she asks.
As my hand touches the doorknob, Berkmann’s digital voice says: “I suppose we all know where we stand now.”
I tear open the door and pull Drewe after me, up the dark hall and into the kitchen. We stare dumbfounded at the two-by-six planks I nailed across the pantry door yesterday. I start to break for the back door, then stop. The gunshot came from the front of the house, but I can’t be sure who fired it. It’s fifty feet from our back door to the edge of the cotton field. Fifty feet without cover. Handing Drewe the .38, I try to tear one of the planks down from the pantry door, but it doesn’t budge. I plant my right foot against the door frame and yank again, but Drewe stops me.
“
What is it?” I shout.
“He knows about the tunnel! Remember he talked about you hoarding your gold like Midas? He could be in there right now!”
I hesitate. “If he is, the gunshot doesn’t make sense. I think that crack was just a figure of speech.”
“You want to bet our lives on that?” she asks, trying to pull me away from the door. “Harper, listen to me! I’m sorry I lost it back there. You were right. We’ve got to stay. If we run, we might get away, but he will too. Then what happens? A week or a month or a year from now he snatches me out of some parking lot? Or cuts your throat while you’re sleeping?”
Drewe has gone from blind panic to rigid control in less than a minute. “What do you want to do?” I ask.
“You called for help, right? Even if he killed the cops outside, somebody’s got to get here in fifteen or twenty minutes.”
“He could kill us twenty times in twenty minutes!”
“But does he want to? Listen! He’s still talking to me.”
She’s right. Berkmann’s digital voice is still droning up the hall. Somewhere outside our house, he is crouched over a notebook computer and cellular phone, too afraid or unsure to make his move.
“He doesn’t want to kill me,” Drewe says, clutching my upper arm. “He wants to take me with him. That’s why he hasn’t broken into the house! I can control him, Harper. I’ve got the power right now. I can keep him on a string for twenty minutes. You just be ready to shoot him if he tries to break in.”
Suddenly I see a great irony. By declaring his desire to possess my wife—and by believing he has destroyed me in her eyes—Berkmann has given me the upper hand. He has made Drewe my hostage.
“We can do it!” she insists, handing the .38 back to me. “Twenty minutes.”
An image of Michael Mayeux comes into my mind. That hardheaded Cajun could be stalking Berkmann right now.
“Okay,” I tell her. “Move! Get back to the computer!” Drewe races into the hall and toward the office. I veer into the bedroom for her Charter Arms .25, then follow. When I reach the office door, I remember Wes Killen’s advice and switch on the hall light. Then I lock the office door behind me.
