I feel anger building, and I go with it. It dries my eyes. Jack Jr. and his buddy were messing with my family. They were reaching into their lives and harming the most intimate parts of them.
"They're dead meat," I say to the empty house. Which makes me smile. Still loony after all these months, giving pep talks to the air. This is it, I realize. The new me. The way it's going to stay. I still have the dragon waking up inside me, and I can still see the dark train and fire my gun. But I'm not built from straight lines and certainty anymore. I bounce and jostle, and parts of me get knocked out of place. I have a new feature: fragility. It is alien, I don't really like it--but it's the truth.
I move up the stairs toward my bedroom, feeling like I'm dragging chains behind me, I'm so tired. So much emotion.
I pass the little home office Matt had set up for us, and something makes me stop and peer in. I see my computer, dust-covered and unused for so many months. And I wonder. I sit down in front of it, wait as it powers up. Do I still have an Internet connection? I can't remember how it's billed. But I open up a browser and see that I do. I lean back for a moment, looking at the icon on my desktop that leads to my e-mail program. Thinking. I double-click it and it opens up. I hesitate for a moment, then click the check mail button. All kinds of things begin to download. Months of messages and spam ignored. What I thought I might see is there as well. The most recent message, sent just an hour ago. The subject is How Much Is That Doggy in the Window?
I feel energized by my hatred of him at this moment. I open it up, and read.
Dearest Smoky,
By now I'm sure that you've found I am a man of my word. Callie Thorne has had to face her daughter, Alan Washington's wife has to wonder if she's going to die. Poor Leo, he's grappling with the untimely demise of man's best friend. As for young James--well...I'm looking at Rosa as I write this. She's a bit worse for wear, but you would be amazed at the efficacy of the preserving fluids they use on the dead. Her eyes are gone, but her hair still looks lovely. Be sure to pass that along to James for me, will you?
I think vengeance is the most effective way to sharpen a sword, don't you? Well, think about it. If you didn't think so before, I'm sure that you do now. How you all must want my blood! Perhaps some of you will even dream about it. Me, begging for mercy and receiving none. You, giving me a bullet in the head instead of a jail cell.
But there are two sides to this coin, and I wish to up the ante. To make something clear, if it is not already so: Nothing you hold dear is safe.
Hunt me well, because as long as I am out here, free to slink through the woods at the edges of civilization, I will take and take and take from you. These things I have now touched and taken will seem like nothing.
Every week that you fail to catch me, I will take something from each of you. I will take Callie Thorne's longlost daughter and grandchild. I will take Alan's wife. I will kill James's mother. On and on and on until everyone lives the life you do, Smoky. Until everything they love is gone, until their houses are empty and they are left with only one thing: the terrible knowledge that all of it happened because of who they are and what they do. I hope you know by now that I mean what I say. And I hope this ever-present gun to the head provides the final impetus needed to bring you all to a state of focused readiness. I need you, all of you, honed. I need you to have killer's eyes.
Now run along and do your best. You have one week. During that time, the things you love are safe. After that, I begin to eat your worlds, and your souls begin to die. Can you feel the excitement? I know that I can. Best of luck. From Hell,
Jack Jr.
P.S. Agent Thorne, perhaps you are wondering--did I really take something from you? Perhaps, in truth, you feel I have done you a service by mistake. In some ways, this may be possible. But think upon it more. Perhaps I simply reminded you of what you have lost forever. Have you figured it out yet? What have you lost?
I look at these words for a long, long time, sitting here in my empty home. I'm not sorrowful, or even angry. Instead, I am filled with what they wanted all along.
Certainty.
I will die before anyone else in my small family ends up as I have: talking to themselves as they weep alone.
32
IT IS MORNING, and I have given the team an edited version of Jack Jr.'s e-mail. I look at them, take stock of my troops. They all look like hell. But they all look angry. No one is interested in talking about what happened. They want to hunt. And they look to me for guidance, waiting.
It's funny, I think. Responsibility is such an easy coat to put on, such a hard one to take off. Just a week ago, I was thinking about blowing my brains out. Now they want me to tell them what to do.
"Well," I say, "we've established one thing firmly."
"What's that?" Alan says.
"Jack Jr. and his buddy? They're real assholes."
There is a brief silence, and then everyone is laughing. Everyone except for James. Some of the tension leaves the room. Some of it.
"Listen up," I say. "Round one goes to them, hands down. No question. But they've made a big mistake. They wanted us to want to get them, and they've gotten their wish. They have no idea what that means." I pause, gauging their reaction. "They think they're ahead of us. What else is new? They always think that. But we have fingerprints on one of them, and we know that there are two of them. We're closing the gap. Okay?" Nods. "Good. So let's get down to business. Tell me again what Dr. Child said about the profile on our killers, Callie, I wasn't paying attention."
Dr. Kenneth Child is one of the few profilers whose opinion I respect. I had asked Callie to get him a copy of all the information on Jack Jr. and to ask him for a consultation, soonest.
"He said to tell you that he read the letter and has some opinions, but he wants to wait until after he sees whatever is in the package. The one that's supposed to arrive on the twentieth." She shrugs. "He was pretty firm about it."
I let it go. Dr. Child has never brushed me off. I'll have to trust his instincts on this. I turn to Alan and Leo. "What's the status on the warrant for Annie's subscriber list?"
"We should have it in an hour," Leo says.
"Good. Stay on that." I snap my fingers. "Do we have someone from the LAPD bomb squad lined up?"
Alan nods. "Yep. They're bringing a bomb sniffer with them."
"Bomb sniffer" is the name given to a machine utilizing ion mobile spectrometry. In short, it can detect traces of ionized molecules that are specific to explosive materials.
Much debate had gone on about how to set things up for the twentieth. AD Jones wanted a SWAT team there, in case Jack Jr. or friend decided to make this delivery personally. I had nixed this idea.
"That's not how they've operated so far," I had said. "And that's not how they're going to operate now. I expect it to be simple. Regular delivery."
He'd agreed after some protest. And after I'd made the point that bringing in SWAT would likely bring the media with it. He and I had seen eye-to-eye on having a bomb tech there, however. Not taking that precaution would be foolhardy.
"Something's still bothering me about Annie's file," Alan says. He glances at James. "Be nice to get another point of view on it."
"Help him out, James."
James nods. He hasn't said a single word this morning.
"There is another question that begs an answer, honey-love," Callie murmurs. "How are they getting all their information? I mean--we found the bugs in Dr. Hillstead's office, but medical records, my daughter?"
"It's not that hard," Leo pipes up. We look at him. "Information just isn't as secure as people think it is. Elaina's medical records?" He shrugs. "A white coat and attitude, and you can walk just about anywhere in a hospital. Combine that with computer know-how, and you've hacked into the hospital servers. You can buy information, steal information, hack information." He shrugs. "You'd be shocked at how easy it can be. I've seen it, working in Computer Crimes. Good hackers, or identity thieves, can get their hands
on all kinds of personal data. Things that would surprise you." He looks at Callie. "Give me a week, and I could find out everything about you. From your credit rating to what medications you take." He looks around at all of us. "The stuff he's come up with so far? Disturbing, I know. But not rocket science to acquire."
I stare at him for a moment, letting this sink in. We all do. Finally, I nod. "Thanks, Leo. So--does everyone know what they're working on?"
I look around. "Good."
The door to the office opens, breaking the moment. I glance to see who's coming in, and concern floods me.
Marilyn Gale is standing in the doorway, looking worried. A uniformed policeman is standing next to her, holding a package in his arms.
33
I T CAME AN hour ago," she says. "Addressed to you, Agent Barrett, care of me. I figured . . ." she trails off, but we all understand. Who else would be sending something for me to Marilyn's address?
We're back in the office. Everyone is crowded around the desk, looking at the package while sneaking curious glances at Marilyn. Callie notices the latter, and her exasperation at this seems to overtake her concern about the package.
"Oh, for heaven's sake," she says. "This is my daughter, Marilyn Gale. Marilyn, meet James, Alan, and Leo, lower functionaries."
Marilyn grins at this. "Hi," she says.
"Did you intercept it?" I ask the policeman, a Sergeant Oldfield.
"No, ma'am." He's a solid-state-looking guy. Been around, very comfortable being the police, and not cowed by myself or the FBI in general. "Our assignment was to watch the residence. And Ms. Gale when she goes out, of course." He jerks a thumb at Marilyn. "She came to us with the package, explained her concerns, and asked us to transport her and the package here."
I turn to Marilyn. "You didn't open it, did you?"
Her face grows serious again. "No. I didn't think I should. I mean, I've only done my first year in criminology"--I see Alan and Leo exchange glances at this--"but even if I hadn't, all you have to do is watch some TV to know you don't mess with possible evidence."
"That's good, Marilyn," I say. I choose my next words with care. I don't want to frighten her too much, but they have to be said. "That's not the only reason, though. What if he decided to do something crazy?
Like send a letter bomb."
Her eyes go wide. She gets a little pale. "Oh--I . . . Jesus. I mean, it never occurred to me . . ." She gets paler. Thinking of her baby, I bet.
Callie puts a hand on her shoulder. I see anger and concern in Callie's eyes. "Nothing to worry about now, honey-love. It was x-rayed by security before you came up, right?"
"Yes."
"That's exactly the kind of thing they look for."
Marilyn's color is coming back. She recovers fast. So then what we have here, I think, is something new and exciting. And maybe not pretty to look at.
"Callie, why don't you take Marilyn to lunch?"
She gets the message. I'm going to open this up; there could be something in here that Marilyn doesn't need to see.
"Good idea. Come on, honey-love." She grabs Marilyn by the arm, moving her toward the door. "Where's little Steven, by the way?"
"My mom's watching him. Are you sure you can leave right now?"
"It's fine," I say to her, smiling though I don't feel it inside. "And thanks for bringing this by. If this happens again, call us. Don't touch the package."
Her eyes widen again, and she nods. Callie hustles her out.
"Mind if I hang around, ma'am?" Sergeant Oldfield asks. He shrugs.
"I'd like to see what's in the package. Get a feel for the perp."
"Sure. As long as you add intercepting packages to your list of duties in the future." I look at him. "Not a rebuke, just a request."
He nods. "Already done, ma'am."
I open a drawer, reach in, and extract some latex gloves, slip them on. Now I focus on the package. It's another legal-size manila envelope. The familiar block printing in black ink is on the front: ATTN.: AGENT SMOKY
BARRETT. The package is about a half to three quarters of an inch thick. I turn it over, check the flap. Not sealed. Just the brad holding it closed. I look up. Everyone is silent, waiting. Might as well open it. The letter is on top. I rifle through the other contents, a brief look. My eyes narrow at the sight of a few pages of printed photos. Each picture shows a woman, naked from the waist up, wearing panties, some tied to chairs, some tied to beds. In every case, a hood is over the woman's head. Something else is in the envelope, and my heart sinks. A CD. I turn my attention to the letter. What now? I think, bleak. Greetings, Agent Barrett!
I realize this was circuitous, being sent care of Ms. Gale. But that served just one purpose: to continue to push my prior point home. That no one you love is safe, should I decide to reach out and . . . touch them.
No, this is all for you, Agent Barrett. Please bear with me as I walk you through it. There is a philosophical basis behind it, some history you need to understand, if you are to grasp these contents in their en- tirety.
Do you know what the most searched-for word on the Internet is?
Sex. Keeping that in mind, do you know what one of the other most sought-after words is? Rape.
With the millions who access the Web, with all that exists upon it, two of the things most looked for, most desired, are sex and rape. What does this mean? One could argue, with the demographics of the Net, that it means there are a million men sitting in their homes right now, thinking about the subject of rape. All sweaty palms and tents in their trousers. This is something, is it not?
Now let me take you down another, related path. A new type of Web site has begun to proliferate on the Internet. Sites devoted to men sharing their hatred of women with each other. Let us take the site aptly named
"revengeonthebitch.com." On this Web site, jilted men post compromis- ing photos of their former girlfriends or wives. Nude photos. Sexual pho- tos. All with one end in mind: degradation and embarrassment. Below each photo, others are invited to post their opinions. I've enclosed a sam- ple of this, the first attachment. Give it a once-over. I find the attachment he's referring to. At the top is a picture of a smiling, brown-haired woman. She's twenty or twenty-five. She's naked, legs spread for the camera. The caption says: My stupid, cheating girlfriend. One skanky fucking slut. Below it is a listing of responses. I read through them.
CALIFORNIADUDE: WHAT A FUCKING SKANK! BE GLAD SOMEONE
ELSE IS HITTING THAT NASTY PUSSY!
JAKE 28: SHOULD HAVE SLIPPED THAT BITCH SOME ROOFIES AND
PASSED HER OFF TO ME AND MY CREW TO BUTT-RAPE HER! SLUT!
RIZZO: ROOFIES RULE!
DANNYBOY: I'D HIT IT!
TNINCH: NICE COOZE. TOO BAD SHE'S SUCH A CUNT.
HUNGNHARD: DO WHAT I DO! SHOVE YOUR COCK IN HER MOUTH AND
TELL HER TO SHUT THE FUCK UP!
I put it aside. I've read enough. The careless hatred is nauseating.
"Wow," Leo whistles. "That is incredibly fucking disturbing."
I continue reading.
Revelatory, isn't it? So, what do we have in our cauldron, then? Let's take stock: sex and rape, hatred of women as a pastime. Mix them to- gether, and what do we get?
An environment perfectly conducive to a meeting of the minds. Minds like mine, Agent Barrett.
True, most of these minds are puerile, unworthy. But if you are will- ing to search, as I am, to poke, coddle, cajole . . . you can find a few who are poised to take that leap to the other side. All they are lacking, in most instances, is little bit of encouragement. A mentor, if you will. I feel my stomach beginning to churn. Some part of me thinks I know where this is going.
I believe I've laid the groundwork for your full understanding. Now let's jump to the photos, shall we? You've probably already glanced at them. Give them a good once-over.
I do. There are five women in total. I take a closer look. "What do you think?" I ask Alan. "Do the bed and chair look the same in each picture?"
I do. I see a stain.
"Then here," he says, pointing to another one of the pictures. Same stain.
"Shit," Leo says. "Different women, same guy."
"But it's not Jack, is it?" James says, breaking his silence. "Jack's not the guy. Maybe Jack's current companion."
Silence at this. I go back to the letter.
You are a sharp one, Agent Barrett. I'm sure you've realized by now, after poring over these photos, that these young lasses all appear in the same location. The reason is simple: All five were killed by the same man!
I curse. Part of me knew it, but he had confirmed it. These women were already dead.
Perhaps you, or one of your compatriots, have already deduced the rest as well. That the man who killed these women is not me. If so, then let me be the first to give applause.
I found the talented young man who took these pictures in that vast, dark environment, those wild plains that make up the World Wide Web. I recognized his hungers and his hatreds, and it did not take long at all for him to take his leap. To relinquish his last, silly hold on the light and embrace the dark.
Of course, this could be a hoax on my part, yes? Take a look at the CD
I have enclosed, and when you are done, feel free to call Agent Jenkins in the New York office of your FBI. Ask him about Ronnie Barnes. Oh, and if some hope is leaping in your breast that Barnes will pro- vide you with that lead you yearn for, I'm sorry to be the one to tell you, but Mr. Barnes isn't with us anymore. Watch the CD. You'll under- stand.
Down to the point of it all, as I end this for now. The point remains the same: Hunt me. Hunt me well, and remember this: Ronnie Barnes was just one of so many with those special hungers. And I am always looking for those meetings of the minds.
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