The Monitor

by Janice Macdonald

  My apartment, which was already tiny, was getting a little on the crowded side. It didn’t help that we were all middling to large people, not a single one of us under five-eight, and Steve skewing the averages from his lofty six-three. I decided to perch on a corner of the sofa to make room. Kate took the willow chair, and Ray sat at the computer desk, tinkering with a program that was supposed to duplicate the events on my computer onto his laptop without letting outsiders know, a sort of high-tech phone tap.

  Lewis and McCorquodale were taping the windows and making me realize I should dust my venetian blinds more often. Steve was on the phone once again.

  “Randy,” called Ray. “Would you mind coming here for a minute? I want to see if we’re okay now.” I headed over to the desk, and Ray moved to his laptop, which he had set up on the kitchen table. “Okay, you’re still logged in to Babel. Open a new window, though, and let’s see how that works for my mirror site.”

  I opened a new window and brought up the Edmonton weather page, which was sort of depressing. The next five days were going to be really cold. I looked over at Ray, who put up a thumb in response, indicating that it had shown up on his screen. I looked beyond him to Detective McCorquodale, who was taping the kitchen window. Tremor had better not shoot out my kitchen window if the temperature was intending to plummet to minus 25°C by tomorrow night.

  Steve then called me into the living room and we went over the biography of coupleness he and I had been working up to fool Tremor. We had to muck into the Alberta Stats site and salt the record of a wedding some ten years ago in order to cover our tracks. If Tremor was any kind of self-preservationist, he would research his subjects. Steve was being turned into an insurance broker and I was left as a sessional lecturer, just in case bits of my background had leeched out into the general discussions in Babel over the past while.

  According to our fiction, Steve was disinterested and distant, and I thought he might be having an affair with a woman in his office. Alchemist and I had linked up because of my feelings of despair for my marriage. Now it seemed as if Steve was unwilling to grant me a divorce. We weren’t sure yet whether it was because he was just a dogmatic bastard who insisted on keeping what was his, or whether it was because he was intending to hide our mutual assets and leave me broke. I was leaning to the latter because I figured that might tempt Tremor into thinking there would be more money. Steve didn’t like being painted as materialistic, even in hypothetical situations, so he was holding out for the tenacious bastard persona. We canvased the others. Kate just shrugged and said one was as good as the other, while Ray was voting with me. Lewis liked the idea of Steve being a bastard, and McCorquodale dug into his pocket for a loonie to toss. I called heads, mainly because I’ve always been a Tom Stoppard fan, and Steve won.

  Okay, I wanted to have my husband whacked because he wouldn’t sign divorce papers. Maybe I was just as guilty as Steve of not wanting to seem the nasty one in our scenario. I shrugged and tried to think my way through this melodrama. It was such a weird twist to be trying to create a vision of Steve as someone I was so sick of being tied to that I was willing to pay to get rid of him. How ironic that this should happen on the same day that I had actually decided I wanted to spend the rest of my life with him. Of course, if I didn’t get this right and it didn’t work exactly as planned, that time frame could be very short indeed. I shook my head and tried to concentrate anew.

  The phone rang at the same time as the computer peeped to let me know there was more mail for me. Ray could read my mail once I’d opened it on my screen, but I still had to be at my computer to initiate the opening. Steve moved to get the phone, and I headed back to the desk in the dining room.

  The e-mail was from Alchemist. He wanted me to know that Sanders had been in Babel looking for me. Right now he was flirting with Vixen, who seemed to be spending the better part of the day holding court in there, but Alchemist had thought I should be warned that he was barely veiling the fact that we’d had a face-to-face meet. Of course, Alchemist knew that we had, so he might be reading things into Sanders’s postings that others wouldn’t see, but still. I wrote back to thank him for the heads-up. It was just as well we’d decided not to monkey with my bio too much for Tremor if Sanders was in there spreading innuendo.

  Of course, Sanders also knew that Steve was a cop. A whole lot depended on Sanders not spilling the beans at an inopportune time. Part of me wondered if we should have taken Sanders into our confidence during the ­planning of this sting. I had almost e-mailed him, and then the whole assassin discussion returned to my mind. I still couldn’t equate the fellow I’d had coffee with, with that sort of adolescent game. There had been something a little too self-aware and cynical about Winston Graham. Yes, he had no qualms about signing up for junior-level courses in new fields, but he came across as a middle-aged man aiming at filling his mind with new experiences and ideas—a last gasp at becoming a Renaissance man. I just couldn’t see him indulging in this level of horseplay.

  On the other hand, I could see him exploring the possibilities of murder as an esoteric exercise. What if Sanders was Tremor? Had Ray and Steve and I come up with enough reasons for that not being a scenario? I couldn’t remember, and there were too many people in my apartment for me to think clearly.

  If only we had a really clear idea of who Tremor was. All we knew was that he was someone who knew his way around Babel so well that he could create and maintain a private room for some length of time. It could be Sanders. It could be Vixen. It could be Milan himself or Thea. It could be Alchemist. It could be Ray Lopez, for that matter. I knew it wasn’t me. That was about all I was certain of.

  Why would I think it was Sanders? Well, aside from the assassin talk I’d caught him at, there was that comment by Ray that had so much activity out of Edmonton. If Tremor was keeping a room going all the time in Babel, maybe he was located in Edmonton.

  Oh, that was a nice thought. What if the killer was less than twenty minutes away? When we called him up and set him on target, we might have way less time than we thought. Of course, maybe that was why there were so many people in my apartment. Perhaps I was the last person in the group to realize the possibility that the killer was from here.

  If it wasn’t Sanders, then who? A faceless stranger named Tremor or a faceless colleague named Alchemist? Well, if it was Alchemist behind all this, he wouldn’t be showing up guns blazing since he would know this was all a scam. On the other hand, he would also know we were after him and that Steve wasn’t an unwanted husband but my boyfriend, and a very necessary part of my life. It ­couldn’t be Alchemist.

  As if he were reading my thoughts, Ray cleared his throat beside me. “Do we have any actual biographical info on this pal Alchemist of yours?”

  I turned to him, wondering how much of my thoughts he had read.

  “His name is Tim Ross. He’s a freelance IT guy. He lives in Elburn, Illinois. He has worked for Chatgod and Babel for about six months longer than I have. Up until I was hired, he was the sole monitor for the site. That’s about all I know. Why?”

  “Well, according to the Whois? database, the Elburn phone book, and the US Taxation Roll, there is no such person as Tim Ross at that location.”

  46

  When I was in grad school, a friend of mine used to play a game she called “worst case scenario,” where she would think up all sorts of wondrously gruesome outcomes to any particular situation. Her theory was that, since what happens is never what we expect, if we think up horrific outcomes, they will be eliminated as possibilities. It had seemed to make sense at the time, although that could have been the beer talking, so at various times since then I have indulged in the game. Of all the possibilities I had been able to conjure about this sting operation to catch Tremor, the idea that Alchemist wasn’t true blue had never occurred to me. Damn.

  If he wasn’t who he said he was, then who was he? If he was the killer, then I was completely sunk. Either he would keep totally away from us,
knowing our every move, or he might be hiding in the laundry room of the apartment right now, ready to kill us all and wipe our hard drives of any clue about his identity.

  As if I didn’t have enough to worry about. I looked at my apartment, overflowing with law-enforcement officers. Was I some sort of magnet for hassle, drawing danger and fearfulness to me the way other people collect stamps?

  It was as if Steve could read my mind. He put a hand on the back of my neck, and started massaging the tension out of my shoulders.

  “You are not the Typhoid Mary of the Internet, Randy. This is all going to work out, and Babel should thank you for clearing things up. Trust me.”

  I was just trying to trust that we were both going to come out of this alive. I leaned back into Steve’s hand, thinking just how strong he was, when Ray called to me from his perch at the kitchen table.

  “Things are starting to happen, Randy. I think you’d better get over here.”

  I sat down with a sort of fatalistic knowledge that whatever happened, this was the Rubicon. The moment I typed anything, we were going to just have to go with the flow. I looked at the screen. I had both the main room in Babel and Lair open on my screen. Alchemist was in Lair, greeting Tremor, who had just arrived.

  “It’s showtime,” I overheard Detective McCorquodale muttering, in a Bob Fosse homage. I took a deep breath and logged in to Lair.

  Chimera: Hi there.

  Alchemist: *kiss* Hi hon.

  Tremor: Evening. So, time is money. What can I do for you folks?

  47

  For some reason, I had Marlon Brando in his Stanley Kowalski persona in mind as I read Tremor’s words. He tended to affect a working-class dialect in his writing, which I knew wasn’t necessarily how he might actually talk. Few of us do write exactly as we talk, after all. Each medium requires its own stylistics.

  However, I could almost hear him scratching himself and chewing gum while he watched Alchemist and my little pseudo-courtship rituals. It was awkward to begin with, trying to act all lovey-dovey with Steve and the rest of the Happy Gang looking over my shoulder. It was even worse because I was trying to adjust my thinking about Alchemist. If I couldn’t trust him on-line, who could I look to for support? Well, given him as an unknown and Tremor as the probable killer, I decided my chances were better kissing up to Alchemist.

  Chimera: Am I late, sweetheart? I tried to get here on time. Nice to see you, Tremor. So, what have you been talking about already?

  Alchemist: We were basically waiting for you, love.

  PM from Alchemist to Chimera: Tell him you were just at the bank, and that you can have five thousand dollars ready by the end of the weekend.

  PM from Chimera to Alchemist: Five thousand? How do we know that’s the price? I thought you said you two hadn’t started talking?

  Alchemist: Did you get to the bank, hon?

  So he was going to force it. Fine. If I could pretend I had a dud husband housed somewhere about, I could manage a meager five thousand imaginary dollars.

  Chimera: You bet! In fact, I have five thousand dollars in my purse as we type.

  PM from Alchemist to Chimera: You don’t have to tell him you have the money on you. That might be too ­dangerous.

  PM from Chimera to Alchemist: Whatever it takes to push this thing to closure, doncha know? Are we sure five thousand is the magic number?

  Tremor: Well, that sounds like you’re playing my song. I gather you folks would like to hire my expertise?

  Alchemist: Indeed. You come highly recommended.

  Tremor: By whom?

  Alarm bells were ringing for me. I didn’t want to get Milan into the soup, in case Tremor had told him not to say anything, but we had to tell him something he’d believe. The other thing was, I couldn’t imagine Stanley Kowalski saying whom.

  Alchemist and I had decided we would use Milan’s name rather than Thea’s, since presumably Tremor already had Thea’s address but might not be as readily able to attack Milan. This was all presuming that Thea and Milan hadn’t been stupid enough to tell Tremor everything about themselves. Since these were people who had allegedly hired an on-line killer, one couldn’t be too sure.

  I was going to leave it to Alchemist to shop Milan, though. I couldn’t bring myself to do it.

  Alchemist: Well, he was the soul of discretion, but it was Milan.

  Tremor: I see.

  I could feel the weight of every person in my apartment leaning over my shoulder, waiting to see what was about to happen. I was beginning to feel a headache starting right behind my left eye.

  Chimera: So, we were wondering if you could do for us what you did for him and Thea.

  Tremor: I take it you have a nuisance problem?

  Chimera: Yes, my problem. We were wondering if you could take care of it.

  Tremor: Well, before I do I’ll need to know a little something about your general life and activities. And your husband’s schedule and activities, as well. My services depend a great deal on understanding the habits of my customers.

  There was nothing he had said yet that could pinpoint him as a killer. I wondered if he had a script to keep him from divulging anything incriminating on the screen. If he was good enough to come and go as he pleased in the chat room, he was smart enough to understand screen captures and logged conversations. Hell, he might even be canny enough to suspect I had an apartment full of Internet task-force personnel. The latter was still beyond me, and I could see them actually surrounding me.

  Alchemist: Well, we’re not quite sure what you will need to know. Maybe you should ask us some questions and we can answer them for you.

  Chimera: We also need to know a few things, like costs and guarantees and times, and all that.

  Tremor: Plenty of time for that, ma’am. But you’re right. Maybe I should ask you some questions. First off, I should warn you that, if you haven’t already got life insurance in place, purchasing it in the near future will seem rather suspicious to both insurance investigators and law-enforcement officers. The object, of course, is to be as easygoing as possible. Accidents happen, after all, and no one can deny that. Anything that makes a tragic accident appear to be anything other than what it is would be unfortunate and might lead to a lot of unnecessary questions being asked.

  Chimera: Our insurance is relatively minor and purchased to cover the mortgage, that’s all.

  Maybe that was what had triggered the investigations concerning Thea’s husband’s death. I wished all of a sudden that I could remember his name. It seemed awful to think that he had died horribly, and no one was mourning him or even considering him, except in relation to his murderous wife. I wonder if Thea had taken out a recent insurance policy on him. I turned toward the room behind me.

  “What was Thea’s husband’s name, again?” I asked Ray and Kate.

  “Why do you need to know that?” asked Kate, peering at the mirror screen over Ray’s shoulder. Maybe she thought I would screw things up on-screen, because I saw her squeeze Ray’s shoulder, warningly.

  “Don’t worry, Randy. I know this all seems ­impersonal and weird. I’ll tell you his name later, though. We don’t need it slipping out in front of Tremor. You’re doing a great job.” Ray was smiling encouragingly, like a swim coach leaning over the gunnel of the boat, luring me across Lake Erie.

  Tremor: That’s fine, then. I like to hear that sort of thing. Greedy people are not my favorite sort. I myself carry only enough insurance to cover litigation in case of accidents.

  This guy was definitely no longer sounding like Stanley Kowalski. Maybe Dick Cavett had taken up contract killing in his dotage.

  Alchemist: So what else do you need to know? I can assure you we will not be doing anything to call attention to ourselves. We have no intention of becoming the center of any untoward investigation.

  Maybe it was catching. Alchemist was beginning to sound like Lloyd Robertson. I tried to calm myself by rationalizing that people do tend to take on each other’s style when con
versing, but it was spooking me. What if Tremor and Alchemist were the same person, and this was all some sort of show being put on for all the folks wedged into my apartment? I didn’t dare call him on it, though, in case I was wrong. This was the closest we were likely to get to Tremor. That is, unless Tremor got a whole lot closer to us. That didn’t bear thinking about. I ­accepted a fresh cup of coffee from Detective Lewis and turned my full attention back to what was happening in Lair. I noticed in passing that the main room was starting to fill up. What would happen if Chatgod popped in and discovered both Alchemist and me hidden away in Lair? What if Chatgod was Tremor? I just hoped Geoff L and his heavy-metal lyrics stayed off-line tonight. I wasn’t in any mood or position to multitask any more than I was already.

  Tremor: Glad to hear it. Okay. So here’s what happens. I ask some questions. You put some money in a bus station locker and the key to the locker somewhere I tell you, and then you just go about your regular business. Pretty soon, you don’t have any troubles any more. Easy as that.

  Chimera: How soon is pretty soon?

  Tremor: You can’t rush perfection, ma’am. However, within forty-eight hours of drop-off at the bus station, you should be breathing a bit easier.

  Alchemist: Sounds fine to me.

  Chimera: Okay by me. So, shoot.

  Yikes. Talk about your basic Freudian slip.

  Tremor: What is it that your husband does for a living?

  I blanked. I couldn’t for the life of me remember what Steve and I had been working on earlier in the day for our cover story. I leaned back and whispered to Steve, as if somehow Tremor would overhear me if I spoke out loud.

  “What is it that you do? I can’t remember any of this. I can hardly type, let alone think.”

  “Don’t sweat it, babe, I’ve got it all right here. A cheat sheet. I’m an insurance broker.”

  “You’re what? Isn’t that going to look odd now that I’ve said we hardly have any insurance?”