Читать книгу Mortal Fear - Greg Iles - Страница 15

When I check my email, I find two messages from Miles. I click the mouse and open the first. Seeing the length of the text, I push ALT-V to activate the most unique feature on my EROS computer—its voice.

The first time I heard EROS speak I felt strange. Then I realized it was not the first time I had heard a computer talk. The telephone company’s computers had been talking to me for years. I had toyed with digital sampling keyboards that could exactly reproduce anything from a thundering bass to a contralto soprano. The voice chip inside the EROS computer is similar. However, it is not voice-recognition technology. Getting a computer to verbalize text displayed on its screen is relatively simple. Getting one to recognize millions of different voices speaking with hundreds of different accents—even in one language—is currently taxing the best brains in the R and D departments of the world’s top high-tech firms.

EROS cannot hear.

But it does talk. Its voice can take on any pitch between twenty and twenty thousand hertz, which is slightly superfluous since my multimedia speakers bottom out at around one hundred, and my rock-and-roll-damaged eardrums probably top out at ten thousand. Also, the pitch versatility is misleading. EROS’s voice is not unlike Drewe’s when she is dictating charts. Whether I select a baritone or tenor frequency, the words will be repeated at that single pitch—a perfect monotone—until the listener believes he is trapped inside the tin-can robot from Lost in Space. And vocal monotony is not conducive to sexual fantasy unless your idea of hot sex is having an interspecies relationship with a machine.

EROS’s voice program does have what’s called a “lexical stress” feature, but it sucks. It makes the voice sound like a saxophone played by a drunk who accents all the wrong notes. A couple of months ago Miles sent me a package containing circuit boards he claimed would give my computer not only a better voice, but also the Holy Grail: voice-recognition capability. Naturally, those circuit boards are still sealed inside their antistatic bags in the box they came in. For my purpose—listening to lengthy email messages—the droning digital voice EROS already has is good enough.

Scanning Miles’s messages, I set the frequency to a medium baritone—Miles’s register—and lie down on the twin bed to listen.

Hello, snitch. Here’s an update from Serial Killer Central. I’ve finally met the elusive Dr. Arthur Lenz, and I am impressed (though not as impressed as he is with himself).

If you don’t already know (and how could you?) there is a massive bureaucratic battle afoot between the FBI and the various police departments involved in what they are vulgarly calling the “EROS murders.” (Is “vulgarly” a word? I defer to the grammarians on that.) The instinct of the police (I use “police” collectively for Houston, San Francisco, New Orleans, Minneapolis, et al.) is to shut down EROS for the foreseeable future. This is obviously short-term thinking. They apparently believe that shutting us down will keep “Strobekker” (whoever he really is) off the playing field. The FBI (read Lenz) quite rightly understands that shutting down EROS will only send our predator to greener pastures—or at least different ones. I give Lenz credit for understanding that the digital fields of the Lord are quite expansive, and that our beast at play is well versed in traveling them.

Segue: while writing this I have recalled a bit of high school Emerson.

If the red slayer thinks he slays

Or if the slain thinks he is slain

They know not well the subtle paths

I keep, and pass, and turn again

From “Brahma,” I believe. Come to think of it, from now on, when I refer to the killer, I shall call him Brahma. “Strobekker” makes me picture a pasty-faced Minnesotan of Swedish descent, killing with the same knife he uses during the graveyard shift at the meat-packing plant.

I think Lenz plans to lure Brahma to his destruction by somehow manipulating our network. The police argue the obvious: that every minute EROS is up and running is another minute women are at risk. But Lenz has used your session printouts to good advantage. He points out that Brahma not only has a recognizable prose style online, but also that his messages, which are error-free for eighty-five percent of the exchanges with his victims, become full of errors as the dates of the murders approach. Lenz didn’t know why that might be, so I decided to throw him a bone. I think Brahma is using an advanced voice-recognition unit, which allows him to simply speak his words rather than type them. Maybe he works for a computer company and has access to prototype equipment. A unit like that might not be easily portable, and he probably couldn’t use it remotely because of cellular dropouts. So when he takes his show on the road, he’s got to type like everybody else.

Anyway, Lenz realized that the FBI can use this “error-rate flag” as an early-warning system to know when Brahma is on the move and women are in imminent danger. He also points out that except for Karin Wheat, only women on the blind-draft billing system have been killed so far. This group represents a significant but minority number of total female subscribers, approximately twenty-three percent. Five hundred seventy-eight women.

Lenz also argues that allowing Brahma to continue on EROS will give the FBI time to track him through the phone lines, which Agent Baxter assures both Jan and myself will be but a matter of a day or two. The local police departments seem to have a lot of faith in this argument and will probably relent. Bureaucratic panic always gives weight to the quick-fix solution. But I don’t share Baxter’s faith in the phone-trace strategy. Brahma has been killing women for some time. He had enough forethought to murder a man for his online identity. Surely he realized that the day would come when the police would attempt to trace him to his lair by phone. N’est-ce pas?

I have my own theories about Brahma’s modus operandi, but I choose not to share them with Lenz at this point. The time may come when I need bargaining chips with this man.

Ciao.

Hearing Miles’s flamboyant email style repeated by a mindless android voice is singularly unsettling. Yet even through the insectile drone, I heard one thing distinctly: Miles Turner is having fun.

His second message is much briefer.

The Strobekker account went active under the alias “Shiva” at 7:42 P.M. Baxter’s techs traced the call from our office through a couple of Internet nodes in the Midwest to New Jersey, through a transatlantic satellite to London, then back into New Jersey. By that time he’d dropped off. They’re pulling out the stops, and they’re faster at it than I thought possible, but they don’t know much more than they did before they started. The atmosphere is like Mission Impossible—a bunch of guys in suits and ties playing with gadgets. Do you think Brahma wears a tie?

Ciao.

I roll off the bed and sit down at the EROS computer. Feeling more than a little paranoid, I print out hard copies of Miles’s messages, then delete them from the computer’s memory. Part of me wants to log onto Level Three and lurk in the background, searching for traces of Strobekker or Shiva or Brahma or whoever he is. But something has been itching at the back of my brain since I talked to the FBI. Ever since I realized Baxter and Lenz might leave EROS up and running despite the fact that women are in danger. I have friends on EROS. More than friends. And no matter what Miles or Jan or the FBI think is prudent, I have a duty to warn those people.

My closest friend on EROS is a woman who calls herself Eleanor Rigby. Her choice of alias was probably influenced by one of the stranger informal customs that has developed on EROS. For some reason, wild or obscure code names like “Electric Blue” or “Leather Bitch” or “Phiber Phreak”—so common on other networks—were absent on EROS from the beginning. It wasn’t company policy to discourage them, but somehow a loose convention evolved and was enforced by community consensus, more a matter of style than anything else. Apparently EROS subscribers prefer their correspondents to possess actual names for aliases, rather than surreal quasi-identities. All in all I think this has benefited the network; it has kept things more human.

The interesting thing is that while outlandish noms de plume are discouraged, the practice of assuming names made famous by literary, musical, or film works is very popular. I frequently see messages addressed from Holden Caulfield to Smilla Jaspersen, from the Marquis de Sade to Oscar Wilde, or from Elvis Presley to Polythene Pam. Moreover, it seems that at least some of the subscribers choose their famous (or infamous) pseudonyms to fit their own personalities. In the case of “Eleanor Rigby”—an alias that belongs to a woman named Eleanor Caine Markham—I’m positive the name was chosen out of a deep affinity for the character in the Beatles song. Eleanor Markham is a moderately successful mystery writer from Los Angeles who, except for a second job, rarely leaves her house. The same melancholy sense of loneliness that pervades the Lennon-McCartney tune shadows more than a few of her messages.

Yet Eleanor’s second job seems wholly out of character with this first image. To supplement her income, she sometimes works as a body double for major actresses who have reached that exalted status where they do not have to agree to remove their clothes on-screen to win roles. I know it’s sexist, but I always imagined women who had these jobs as airheaded blondes with exquisite bodies but common faces who spent their days at the spa working on their legs and abs or at their plastic surgeon’s getting their boobs reinflated. I have never seen Eleanor Markham’s face—her mystery novels carry no jacket photos—but everything I have learned about her confirms an opposite truth. When Eleanor is not exposing her derriere or breasts or whatever for the camera, she is sitting in her Santa Monica beach house writing very literate, wry whodunits or talking to anonymous friends via her computer.

Her explanation for these seemingly contradictory lifestyles is that she has a sister who was confined to a wheelchair for life by spinal injuries received in a traffic accident. Eleanor feels her sacred duty is to take care of this sister as her parents would have, were they still alive. I cannot fault her reasoning.

All that said, let me confess the obvious: Eleanor Rigby is my online lover. My digital squeeze. What do I know about her other than what I’ve already revealed? She is thirty years old. She has never had plastic surgery. She describes her face not as plain but as “real”—more Audrey Hepburn than Michelle Pfeiffer, but not as ethereal as Audrey. She has a wit like a razor and she is uniquely gifted at describing sex in words.

She is also generous. Eleanor knows that two-way conversations are fine for foreplay but that typing requires the use of at least one hand. Thus, when she is getting me off, she is quite willing to type endless lines of charged erotica until the moment that I signal her with a relieved and heartfelt banality such as: Wow.

I return the favor in a different way.

Eleanor does not usually stimulate herself while online. She prefers that I compose lengthy email messages that she can print out and peruse free from any constraints on time or dexterity. I’m sure the proximity of her disabled sister has something to do with this. This is also why Eleanor is registered to EROS on a blind-draft account. She apparently reads many of my printed messages while locked in the bath.

Tonight I query her the moment I log on. Eleanor frequently lurks in silence, eavesdropping on the conversations of others (searching for material for her novels, she tells me) and so is often present when I send out my usual query. I type:

HARPER> Father MacKenzie calling.

Eleanor is the only EROS client with whom I use my real name. There is a delay of thirty seconds or so, then:

ELEANOR RIGBY> Hello, Harper dear. What are you in the mood for?

HARPER> I need to talk to you.

ELEANOR RIGBY> Talk as in _talk_? <g>

(The <g> symbol stands for “grin.” The lines preceding and following a word indicate emphasis, in place of italics.)

HARPER> Yes, just talk. Meet me in Room 64.

ELEANOR RIGBY> Hmm. I guess the little woman talked you into it this week, eh?

Yes, like a corporeal mistress, Eleanor knows my marital situation. Some of it, anyway. With a twinge of guilt I mouse into the private room designated Room 64 and type:

HARPER> No present erection, thank you.

ELEANOR RIGBY> Too bad. Should I sharpen up my pencil?

HARPER> No. This is serious.

ELEANOR RIGBY> How ominous. Is this a Dear John letter?

HARPER> No.

ELEANOR RIGBY> Well, then?

HARPER> You must keep what I am about to tell you absolutely between us.

ELEANOR RIGBY> My lips are sealed. And if you make a horrid male pun I shall disconnect.

HARPER> You’re in danger, Eleanor.

She doesn’t respond for several beats.

ELEANOR RIGBY> What kind of danger?

HARPER> Physical danger. There’s been

I am typing, but suddenly nothing is going through to Eleanor. I stare at the screen in puzzlement until this message appears in large block letters:

SHAME ON YOU, SNITCH

My puzzlement turns to fury. This message can only be from Miles, and its sudden insertion into my private chat with Eleanor tells me something that makes my blood boil. Miles has the ability to read my private communications whenever he pleases. I blink as further characters appear.

SORRY TO INTRUDE

BUT WE CAN’T HAVE YOU

SCARING THE PAYING CUSTOMERS

LOOSE CANNON AND ALL THAT

PLEASE FIND SOME OTHER WAY TO GET ELEANOR

OFF THE NET

IF YOU MUST

CIAO

The next words that appear are:

ELEANOR RIGBY> What just happened?

She must not have seen Miles’s message. I type:

HARPER> A glitch in my modem.

What now? Do I ignore Miles? Go ahead and warn Eleanor and a few others? My anger says yes. But what will be the result? A network-wide panic, probably. Eleanor and I are very close, but she has a writer’s imagination and love of drama. Could she really keep secret the possibility that there is a murderer stalking the female clients of EROS?

ELEANOR RIGBY> You said I was in danger. Physical danger. What were you talking about?

HARPER> You misunderstood. That was the start of a fantasy file I wrote for you this morning. It was sort of a Mata Hari thing, spies and sex, with you in the lead role.

ELEANOR RIGBY> Well, if that’s the case, send it through!

HARPER> My modem’s on the blink. Pretty embarrassing for the sysop, isn’t it? I’ll have it fixed by tomorrow. I’ll put the file through then. Sorry to interrupt you for nothing.

ELEANOR RIGBY> Wait, Harper. I hate to confess this, but knowing you don’t need me right now makes me need you. Could you possibly conjure up some stimulating prose for a lonely 30-year-old spinster with an itch?

HARPER> You mean realtime?

ELEANOR RIGBY> Yes.

HARPER> Unusual for you. How stimulating?

ELEANOR RIGBY> My sister is at a film with her one friend. I have the house all to my selfish self. Please make it hot enough for an online conclusion; i.e. once we get to the good stuff, please don’t stop until I signal with a shriek of ecstasy.

I pause, trying to rein in my thoughts. I honestly don’t feel like this tonight. Especially after Drewe and I had our actual-reality interlude in the Explorer. But Eleanor has done me this favor many nights.

HARPER> Romantic or dangerous?

ELEANOR RIGBY> Romantic _and_ dangerous.

HARPER> All right. We are finally meeting face to face. Seeing each other for the first time.

ELEANOR RIGBY> Where?

HARPER> The Peabody Hotel. Memphis, Tennessee. We’re in the lobby, a huge open room with a bar and a grand piano and ducks and tons of atmosphere.

ELEANOR RIGBY> _Ducks_?

HARPER> Symbol of the hotel. Trust me.

ELEANOR RIGBY> Oh, I do.

HARPER> I’m not as handsome as you have imagined me, but you aren’t disappointed. I have a certain power over you that you didn’t expect. You want to please me, and this makes you a little angry. You understand?

ELEANOR RIGBY> Perfectly. What do you think of me?

HARPER> Mercy fuck.

ELEANOR RIGBY> Harper!

HARPER> Sorry. ;) You’re more beautiful than I imagined. Your body-double’s body was a given, but your symmetry still surprises me. Petite, and your face more feminine than I could envision.

ELEANOR RIGBY> Feminine how?

HARPER> The blend of curve and angle. Softs and hards. Cheek and jaw. Defined brows, nebulous eyes. Dusk is falling on the Memphis streets, over the river. Yellow lamps come up inside and light you like a painter’s hand.

ELEANOR RIGBY> What am I wearing?

HARPER> White linen. Appropriate for a deflowering.

ELEANOR RIGBY> You give me far too much credit. <g>

HARPER> I intend to boldly go where no man has gone before.

ELEANOR RIGBY> Dare I ask?

HARPER> No.

ELEANOR RIGBY> Yummy.

HARPER> I see shadows of your nipples through the linen. They look more brown than pink.

ELEANOR RIGBY> How do you like my breasts?

HARPER> Champagne-glass size, exquisitely shaped.

ELEANOR RIGBY> What do we talk about?

HARPER> Inanities.

ELEANOR RIGBY> How long do we talk?

HARPER> Not very. We’ve said all we have to say on EROS, haven’t we?

ELEANOR RIGBY> Do we diddle under the table? Victorian teasing?

HARPER> No. I sign the suite number on the bill and lead you by the hand across the high-ceilinged lobby to the bank of elevators. In the elevator we kiss for the first time.

ELEANOR RIGBY> A long kiss?

HARPER> When the door opens, we’re still kissing. An older couple is staring at us like we are crazy.

ELEANOR RIGBY> I’m already wet.

HARPER> Not yet.

ELEANOR RIGBY> I’m speaking in the present tense, dear. Offline.

HARPER> Fine, but we’re not going to rush. When the stupid credit card key finally works, I pull you inside the room but do not turn on the light.

ELEANOR RIGBY> We haven’t been in the suite until now?

HARPER> No. Before you can say anything, I close the door and slip past you in the darkness, pulling my shoes off as I walk. You call out to me, but I don’t answer. I hear you bang your foot into a chair. You curse. We’re going to play a game, I say. What kind of game? you ask.

I stop typing for a few moments, letting the images flow freely in my head.

HARPER> A hunting game, I reply. I’m going to hunt you in the dark suite. And the first rule is: we can’t talk to each other. Even when I find you, we cannot speak. And there’s another catch. I should have mentioned it earlier, but … well … there’s another person in the room.

What? you ask nervously. Who?

Don’t be frightened. He—or she—is standing silently—or sitting—somewhere in the room, but only watching. How, you ask? Simple. He’s wearing a night-vision headset I brought to the hotel during the afternoon. You giggle nervously, but I’m not joking. This person can see us right now and will watch us when I finally find you.

You don’t believe me? Let down the top of your dress.

A few seconds later, a whispered voice from across the room says, Beautiful.

I can almost feel your heart stutter from the shock. Stay calm, I say reassuringly. This person is merely an observer.

All right, you stammer, far from your normally confident self. But who is it? you wonder. Who _is_ it?

Maybe it’s your sister, I say.

You bastard, you hiss.

Maybe it’s a bellboy I paid a hundred bucks to come upstairs and watch a beautiful woman having sex. Do you want to go on? I ask.

Yes, you say softly.

Even if you are seen?

I can do anything in the dark, you say. Even if the whole city is watching.

And so we begin the hunt. How do you feel now?

ELEANOR RIGBY> >toi bbusy otype<

HARPER> Please do your best to evade me, I tell you. But you should know that I’ll be getting a bit of direction from our guest. He/she will whisper “warmer” or “colder” ever so often.

You do not answer.

And so I begin the hunt.

The first thing I hear is silence. Blood beating in my ears. The suite is large. I move deeper into the bedroom to give you room to move. Then I wait motionless for two minutes. I sense you becoming more tense with each passing second. You cannot hear me. Very softly I remove my clothes. I feel the air along my body, especially on the places usually covered. I go down on all fours, allowing my body to cover more floor space, increasing my odds of touching you if you try to slip past me. I move slowly at first.

Colder, whispers our guest.

I change direction. Where _are_ you? I ask in a singsong voice.

Warmer, says our guest.

Instinct tells me my back is a few feet from the far corner of the room. You are not behind me. Slowly and soundlessly I work my way across the carpet, pausing occasionally to listen and to try to feel any movement of air against my skin.

Nothing.

There’s not much floor space left to cover. Could you have climbed onto one of the beds? No. I’d have heard you.

Wait. A rustle of cloth ahead of me. A few feet away.

Is she naked? I ask.

No reply.

I freeze. There is water running in the bathroom, the sound like a distant cataract in the silence. I rise and move quickly toward the sound—too quickly—and bash my head against the door frame. I’m in the bathroom now, but you aren’t. Steam coats my face and body like jungle humidity. When I reach to shut off the tap, I scald my hand. Yet even as I curse, I realize I smell you. In the blackness. The female smell. Strongly enough that I suspect you have left this as a calling card.

This is not turning out the way I’d planned.

As I move out of the bathroom, something swishes past me in the dark. Strangely, it seemed larger than me. Then I hear the bathroom door close. I try the handle but it’s locked. Are you really inside? Or is this a diversion?

Where is she? I ask the darkness.

No answer.

Warmer or colder? I ask.

Nothing.

Then, through the bathroom door, I hear new sounds. A woman, softly moaning. A man rhythmically groaning. First I think you are teasing me. Confused, I feel my way to the wall and break a rule. Switch on the light.

My assistant is gone.

The noises are louder. It sounds as though you are using my draftee in the bathroom and have locked me out. This isn’t what I had in mind at all, but you sound like you’re having the time of your life. I ask what you are doing but he answers insolently, She can’t talk with her mouth full. Suddenly I am angry. I kick the door twice near the knob and it splinters open, flooding the bathroom with light. At first glance I feel relief, seeing that you still have your linen dress on. But a millisecond later the positions register: you’re sitting on the edge of the tub and you have your hand around him and are working diligently (though your eyes are locked on mine) and he seems very close to release. It’s the least I could do for him, you say, but what you’re really saying is that you have no intention of letting me manipulate you with some kinky game like this, and I’m standing there with a stupid look on my face while you finish him and he groans and you look into my eyes with barefaced defiance while he squirts copiously and again and you run your hands under the bath tap while he slips out the door of the room but not before he gives me a look like, You must be an idiot to share this lady with _anybody_. And then you lift the linen dress over your head and say, Take me to the bed, please.

So I do. This is finally lovemaking, as you are.

ELEANOR RIGBY> :) Shriek of ecstasy. I’m done. I know that was quick, but I was reading some pretty steamy threads before you queried. At least your fingers won’t be too sore.

HARPER> I was just getting to the good part. The part I’ve really fantasized about.

ELEANOR RIGBY> Sorry. You shouldn’t have let me near that insolent voyeur/bellboy/stranger. He was huge in my hand, by the way. I don’t like that in intercourse, FYI, but since I was merely servicing him manually, I liked that my hand wouldn’t nearly go all the way around the thickest part of him.

HARPER> You’re embellishing my scenario.

ELEANOR RIGBY> Certainly, dear. Don’t feel threatened. He was huge, but dumb as a doorpost—as well as being hard as one <g>.

HARPER> Feeling better, I take it?

ELEANOR RIGBY> Lovely. Although I consider that subject sacred, to be honest.

HARPER> What?

ELEANOR RIGBY> Our first f2f meeting. I would never want a third person present for that.

HARPER> Sorry if I tainted your fantasy. I should have realized.

ELEANOR RIGBY> No, it’s fine. But you are my secret friend, Harper. That is sacred to me. You have no idea.

HARPER> I do have an idea, Eleanor. You know that.

ELEANOR> Well, don’t be a stranger. It was too long between rendezvous this time. Meet me tomorrow.

HARPER> We’ll talk soon. And alone this time.

ELEANOR> I like that better. Bye.

HARPER> Bye.

I thrust my chair away from the keyboard and focus on the sculpture of my father’s coat. Why would I thrust someone between myself and Eleanor like that? I suddenly want to warn her again, but I know Miles is looking over my virtual shoulder.

And then I realize something very disturbing.

The bellboy in the bathroom was Miles.

What the hell is going on in my brain? And how long has that son of a bitch been spying on my email? Everything’s under control, I hear myself saying to Bob Anderson.

Who do I think I’m kidding?

I’ve been lying in bed less than five minutes when it hits me: Miles has made a far more serious mistake than reading my email. And I’ve got to tell him about it. It’s an hour later in New York, but I don’t really give a damn. He’s usually awake all night anyway, monitoring Level Three.

After four rings, he answers “Turner” in a voice that makes it clear he does not like being bothered by mere human beings.

“How long have you been spying on my email, shithead?”

I hear a soft laugh. “Don’t worry. I hardly ever look. But since you started talking to the FBI, I figured you might be getting antsy about warning some of your online friends. Which you definitely do not need to do. They’re in no danger.”

“We’ll skip that argument for now. I want to know how you’ve been reading my mail. I’ve never been able to access yours.”

Another laugh. “But you tried, right? There are a couple of system privileges you don’t have, Harper. One is called super-postmaster. It’s like the postmaster privilege, but it gives you access to sysop mail as well. Even Jan’s mail.”

“What if Strobekker got the victims’ real names by hacking into a sysop account? Into super-postmaster?”

Miles hesitates. “I don’t think that’s possible. But I’m still assessing the system. It would have taken only one deep penetration to get the master client list, and it could have happened months ago. That makes forensic analysis of the disks very difficult.”

“But you don’t know it was only one penetration. If he’s in the system now, and he has the super-postmaster privilege, that means he could have read your messages to me, which would tell him the FBI was onto him.”

There is a long silence. “Brahma is not in the system now. But even if he were, he could only have read my messages during the interval between my posting them and your picking them up. Unless you saved them to a file. Did you do that?”

“No. I printed hard copies and deleted them.”

“What time did you do that?”

“Just before I talked to Eleanor.”

“So stop worrying. And get off my case. All it would take is basic postmaster for Brahma to read your warning to Eleanor.”

Miles is right. “You just stop looking over my shoulder, goddamn it.”

“I can’t guarantee that.”

At least he’s honest. “Miles, I want the super-postmaster privilege and any others I don’t know about.”

“I can’t give you that. Jan has already blocked your access to the accounting database.”

“What?”

“What did you expect, Harper?”

“Listen to me. If Strobekker or Brahma or whoever is still roaming our system, I’ve got to know I can see everything he can. If I can’t, I’m off EROS as of now.”

“Let me think about it. The FBI phone traces are going nowhere, but I’ve been going back over some of Brahma’s old email—”

“How did you get that?”

“I pulled it out of your computer.”

“What?”

“Don’t get your panties in a wad. It was necessary. I’ve got other sources too. The thing is, Brahma’s using an anonymous remailer for his email.”

“What does that mean in practical terms?”

“Regular email is traceable. You can look at the packet headers and get a user name, or at least take back-bearings and get a rough physical location. But Brahma doesn’t use the EROS-mail feature. He sends his email to our servers via the anonymous remailer, which is in Finland, and then through the Internet. The remailer strips off his address and adds a random one. I spoke to its operator about a half hour ago.”

“Have you told the FBI?”

“Oh sure, we’re like Boris and Natasha here, man.”

“Can they get info on Brahma from the remailing service?”

“There’s a precedent for getting cooperation from the police in some countries in extreme cases, but the guy who runs this service sounded like a wild man. A real anarchist. He’s probably destroying all his records right now.”

“That’s why Brahma chose him.”

“Obviously. Brahma’s a clever boy, Harper. Too clever for Baxter’s techs, I fear.” Miles is clearly enjoying himself. “We’ve still got FBI agents camped out up here. They’re guarding our file vault like it’s the tomb of Christ, waiting for the time lock to open and give them the master client list.”

“Great. Now we’re back to where we were when you changed the subject. Give me the super-postmaster privilege or I’m shutting down my EROS interface.”

He doesn’t answer for some time. Then he says, “Type S-I-D-D-H-A-R-T-H-A after your password at the sysop prompt. Got it?”

“Siddhartha as in the Herman Hesse novel?”

“As in the Buddha. But that’s close enough.”

“I think you’ve gone weird on me, man.”

“I always was, Harper. You know that. Ciao.”

And he is gone.

I sit thinking in the soft glow of the EROS screen.

Siddhartha? Brahma?

I don’t know or care much about Eastern religions, but Miles certainly seems to. And though I do not know the significance of this, or whether it has significance at all, I am suddenly reminded of Drewe’s speculation about Oriental medicine and the use of bizarre trophies to restore vitality. I always related such things to Japan, and Buddha fits with Japan, though the Buddha himself was Indian. Brahma and Shiva make me think of India too. I remember from my meeting in New Orleans that the only murder victim who was not Caucasian was Indian. Also that an Indian hair was found at one of the crime scenes. I see no tangible links between these facts, yet I know too well that my knowledge of such things does not even rate as sketchy. They could easily be connected just beyond my myopic mental vision.

Life would be much simpler if the FBI could follow a trail of digital bread crumbs back to the lair of the killer. But Miles has little faith that this will happen, and something tells me he is right. That we have yet to make out even the silhouette of the creature behind these murders.

I hunted when I was a boy. I gave it up the day my cousin put four Number 6 shotgun pellets into my right calf. It was a late February afternoon, and we’d gotten separated. I was following what I thought was a rabbit into a thicket. My cousin heard a noise and thought fate had handed him an out-of-season deer. I don’t blame him for shooting. Five seconds later and I might have shot him. Neither of us could see what we were after. That’s the way it goes sometimes. But I’ve often wondered what would have happened had it been something other than rabbits we were chasing. A bear, say. Something that would have seen me lying there bleeding on the ground and come over to finish the job. That’s the way it goes sometimes too. It all depends on the quarry you choose to hunt.