Mortal Fear

CHAPTER 22

Dr. Lenz and I have been logged onto EROS for nearly two hours. He went into Microsoft Word for five minutes to compose an analysis of the “Strobekker” note and fax it to Daniel Baxter at Quantico, but aside from that, we’ve been trolling the private chat rooms like bass fishermen on a slow morning, casting spinners under likely looking trees and piers, dragging artificial worms across dark bottoms. With Jan Krislov’s conditional approval, Miles has given Lenz the ability to monitor rooms that the subscribers believe to be private. The psychiatrist seems surprised by each new encounter, whether a steamy tryst in Regency England or a postnuclear tete-a-tete in some virtual retropunk dive.

All my system queries on the Strobekker account have come back: Subscriber not currently logged on. The characters scrolling across my screen turned to alphabet soup long ago, and the dot-matrix printer recording them now sounds like a herd of cocaine-addicted gerbils.

Suddenly my eyes come clear and a numbing tingle heats the back of my arms. “Move over!” I tell Lenz, jumping up from the Toshiba.

Before he can even get out of his chair, I’m clicking the Dell out of the room he was in and into the room I was monitoring.

“What is it?” he asks over my shoulder. “Is it Strobekker?”

“Maybe,” I reply, reclaiming my seat at the Toshiba. “Just read and follow along.”

Lenz takes his chair and leans forward until his nose is almost against the screen of the Dell. “‘Levon’ and ‘Sarah’? Those aren’t his aliases.”

“I think ‘Levon’ is him.”

“Why hasn’t Turner called, then?”

“Read the screen, damn it! Read ‘Levon.’ ”

“This stuff about God?”

“Yes! Look how quickly his responses pop up. And not a single error. Now shut up and read!”

I focus on the dialogue moving down my screen:

LEVON› If it were given to you to create God, what qualities or powers would you give him?

SARAH› What do you mean? I can’t create God. God already exists.

LEVON› But if he _didn’t_ exist. How would you conceive of him?

“What are those marks?” Lenz asks. “I saw them in your printouts. Emphasis?”

“Yeah. Like italics.”

SARAH› Well… I’d make Him all-powerful, like He is.

LEVON› Is he?

SARAH› Of course.

LEVON› And what of the Devil?

SARAH› What about him?

LEVON› Doesn’t Satan have any power?

SARAH› Some. The power to tempt, I guess. But God has more.

LEVON› Then why does evil flourish in the world?

SARAH› Because humans are weak. We choose evil.

LEVON› But why does God _let_ us choose it? Why have evil at all?

SARAH› Well, to test us. Because of free will.

LEVON› But if God made us, Sarah, why must he test us? If God is all-knowing, he must know ahead of time that we are fallible. So the test is meaningless, isn’t it?

SARAH› You’re confusing me. Not everyone chooses evil. Some choose good.

LEVON› Of course. We all choose good _some_ of the time. But we choose evil sometimes as well. Haven’t you done things you were ashamed of?

SARAH› I don’t like this conversation.

LEVON› I’m sorry. I’m a nosey parker, aren’t I? What about this? If you were creating God, what would he _look_ like?

SARAH› Well… fatherly, I guess. Strong. Strong but fair. Just.

LEVON› Why not motherly? Was your mother not just, Sarah?

SARAH› Of course she was.

LEVON› But…? She wasn’t strong?

SARAH› She was strong. In her way. But

LEVON› But what?

SARAH› Not strong like a father. Not strong enough to protect me.

LEVON› Protect you from what? From your father, perhaps?

SARAH› What are you trying to do?

LEVON› I didn’t mean to offend you, Sarah. But sometimes I sense things. Pain. I sense pain now. In you I sense something dark. Hurtful. No one likes to think about those spiritual cubbyholes, but we all have them. I would make God very different than you would, Sarah. I would make God a woman. A mother. A strong mother. Strong enough to make up for the weakness of fathers. Strong enough to _defy_ fathers. There are women like that in the world.

SARAH› Was your mother like that?

LEVON› No. My mother was like a silk veil in a strong wind.

“It is him,” Lenz whispers, his eyes glued to his monitor. “I remember something like that from your transcripts. Jesus.”

“Stay cool, Doctor.”

“We’ve got to trace him!”

“Baxter’s guys are taking care of that. I’m a hell of a lot more concerned about this woman he’s talking to.”

“He’s still got a zero error rate,” Lenz says. “He’s not close to her.”

“You’d better fucking hope not.”

“Quiet, Cole! We’re missing it!”

Suddenly a frightening thought hits me. I tap out a system search on the Toshiba and my fears are confirmed: Brahma isn’t using the Strobekker account. I grab Lenz’s arm. “Baxter’s techs can’t trace this connection! It’s not Strobekker’s account! They don’t know what to look for. Call EROS right now and give them the new alias and the name of the room!”

Lenz hits a speed-dial button on the nearest phone. I read as fast as I can to catch up with the text that appeared while we were talking.

LEVON› My name is not Levon, Sarah.

SARAH› I know that.

LEVON› Would you like to know my real name?

SARAH› I don’t know. You frighten me a little. I like talking to you. But you see too much. I’m afraid you want too much.

LEVON› Too much what?

SARAH› Honesty.

LEVON› How can one want too much honesty, Sarah?

SARAH› You know what I mean. It’s not human nature. We need little white lies. To get along with each other.

LEVON› And to get along with ourselves?

SARAH› Is that so terrible?

LEVON› Doesn’t God demand total honesty, Sarah?

SARAH› That’s different.

LEVON› How?

SARAH› God is God. He accepts us no matter what. He forgives us.

LEVON› I would accept you no matter what.

SARAH› That’s easy to say. But you don’t know. You don’t really know me.

LEVON› I don’t need to. Nothing you could possibly say or do would offend me.

SARAH› Are you so sure?

LEVON› Yes.

SARAH› But acceptance isn’t the same as forgiveness. You can accept someone but still be disappointed in them. You can live with them but never forgive them.

LEVON› Not me, Sarah. I’m not like that.

SARAH› How do you mean?

LEVON› In my eyes you could never do anything that required forgiveness.

SARAH› What do you mean?

LEVON› I mean whatever you could possibly think of doing, and then have will enough to carry through, that would be your nature. I would never wish you to go against your nature.

SARAH› But that’s crazy. That’s like saying everything is okay. What if I were a mass murderer? Or a rapist?

LEVON› I would accept you.

SARAH› But what if I were a child molester?

LEVON› I would fold you into my arms, Sarah. It’s not my duty to judge you. If that is your inclination, so be it. It is someone else’s biological imperative to stop you from molesting children. That duty belongs to the parent. And if a parent were to kill you for doing that, I would accept his or her behavior as well.

SARAH› But what if _I_ was the parent? The parent _and_ the molester? That happens, you know.

LEVON› Alas, it is the rule. But then it is the imperative of the other parent to stop it.

SARAH› But what if the other parent _can’t_ stop it? What if she’s too weak? What if she’s afraid?

LEVON› Your tears are scalding my heart. If someone is too weak, they either enlist help or they fail.

SARAH› Help? No one can HELP in situations like that! The police don’t DO anything.

LEVON› Who said anything about police? One should always look first inside oneself. That is where help lies.

SARAH› But what can a woman do in that situation? A weak woman? A woman who’s afraid of guns?

LEVON› Pour strong whiskey on the father’s face and torso while he is sleeping, then set him afire with a cigarette.

SARAH› My God. Did you just think of that?

LEVON› Yes. But I’m sure it’s been done many times. There are other ways. So much misery builds up in the world because people are afraid to act. They would rather endure. That is the nature of Homo sapiens. To endure unmitigated hell and hope that if we sit through enough of it things will change for the better. But they never do. Look at the Russian peasants. The Jews in Germany. The Armenians. One must be willing to risk everything at every moment for survival. And the more you have to lose, the more willing you must be to fight at a moment’s notice. If a man accosts you on the street, push him away. If he curses you, knock him down. If he is stronger than you and attacks you, shoot him.

SARAH› Are you really like that?

LEVON› I do not tolerate impudence. My father taught me that.

SARAH› Are you very rich?

LEVON› Yes.

SARAH› That explains it.

LEVON› NO! I am rich _because_ I have never taken abuse from anyone.

SARAH› I don’t know.

LEVON› You think GOD takes shit from anyone, Sarah?

SARAH› That’s sacrilegious!

LEVON› Is it? Isn’t that what the Old Testament is really about? Isn’t that what the Book of Job says? I AM GOD AND I DON’T TAKE SHIT FROM ANYBODY! I DON’T EVEN TAKE _QUESTIONS_!

SARAH› That’s awful!

LEVON› But true, yes? God in the Bible is sort of like Don Corleone, isn’t he? He makes people offers they can’t refuse. And minor bosses like Pharaoh have faith in their own power, and they wake up with a horse head in their bed. Or locusts. It’s all the same.

SARAH› I can’t believe you’re writing this. Aren’t you afraid?

LEVON› Of what? A lightning bolt? Now that I think of it, God isn’t really like Don Corleone. He’s more like a film director. We think we’re his actors. We think he’s in charge of us, that he has a Plan, that he wants good things for us. That he is slowly working toward some divinely inspired vision that we actors are too dim-witted to see. We think that’s why we exist. But that isn’t it at all, Sarah. We exist because GOD WANTS AN AUDIENCE. What’s the point of being the Alpha and the Omega, the be-all and end-all, if there’s no one around to applaud? No one to cower in fear or kneel in supplication? Once in a while God shouts like Bob Barker: “SARAH! COME ON DOWN!” And we think we matter for a while. But God is the only actor, Sarah. That is the secret. We are the audience.

“This guy’s scary,” I say under my breath.

“Shut up, Cole. This is a forensic gold mine.”

“Was Miles at EROS when you called?”

“That was him on the phone.”

I feel a sudden release of tension, an inexplicable gladness that Miles cannot possibly be the man behind “Levon.” Already the prompt looks different to me.

SARAH› I think that kind of talk

LEVON› What? Don’t be afraid to speak.

SARAH› It’s what the Devil would say! To confuse me!

LEVON› You think I’m Lucifer, Sarah?

SARAH› Maybe you are.

LEVON› I’m flattered. Did you know that Lucifer is Latin for ‘light-bringer’? Something to think about.

SARAH› Are you trying to scare me?

LEVON› It would probably frighten you more if I told you I know your real name and address.

“He’s never done that,” I tell Lenz. “He’s never told anyone that.”

“Shut up, Cole!”

SARAH› This isn’t right.

LEVON› Calm down, Sarah. I was only joking.

SARAH› I don’t like it. I’m frightened. How do I know you don’t know my name?

LEVON› Everyone’s protected on EROS, Sarah. That’s what we pay all the money for. I just wanted you to feel my strength. To know I mean it when I say I do not take abuse from anyone. And I think you need someone like me. Someone who could take care of you. Protect you.

SARAH› You make me sound so weak.

LEVON› We all have needs, Sarah.

SARAH› What do you need?

LEVON› Love.

SARAH› What kind of love?

LEVON› Unselfish love. The love that a good mother gives her child. Could you love someone like that?

SARAH› I think I could. I have a lot of love to give.

LEVON› I sense that, Sarah.

SARAH› I’m not beautiful, Levon. I want to tell you that now, because I couldn’t bear to go further and have you building up all kinds of expectations I couldn’t fulfill. I mean, I’m not fat or anything. I’m about five-seven, a hundred and twenty-five pounds.

LEVON› You don’t have to tell me this, Sarah.

SARAH› I want to. I _have_ to. I’m forty-six years old. My hair is brown, a little mousy maybe, but I have really good skin.

LEVON› You’re a healthy girl, aren’t you?

SARAH› I take care of myself, if that’s what you mean. All I’m trying to say is that I don’t look like Cindy Crawford or anything. But I’m not unattractive. I mean I get asked out at work and everything.

LEVON› Do you accept?

SARAH› Not often. I’m sort of skittish about dating. I got hurt by someone a while back, and I don’t think I’m completely over it.

LEVON Someone at work? A superior?

SARAH› How did you know?

LEVON› A married man.

SARAH› Yes. Though it still hurts to admit it. I feel so guilty about his wife and children. He said he loved me. But he just wanted

LEVON› To use you.

SARAH› Yes. I felt so dirty. Sometimes it seems my whole life has been like that. I try to have faith in men, but it just never works out.

LEVON› You are unstained, Sarah. You cannot be dirtied by such men.

SARAH› It makes me feel nice when you say that.

LEVON› It is but the truth.

SARAH› I don’t want you to get the idea that I have something against sex or anything. I mean, from what I said about my skittishness. I mean, I feel strange writing this, but I do get stared at a lot. I mean, because of- Well, men stare at my chest. I’m fairly well endowed in the bosom department. Not that they’re huge or anything, but I never had kids, you know, and so they’re still, well, firm and high. I’m not conceited about it. I don’t even like them sometimes. It’s like people don’t see me because of them, you know? It alienates female friends too. But I mean, for the right man, if he liked that and all, it might be nice for both of us. Would you like that?

LEVON› The needs of the body are secondary to me, Sarah.

SARAH› Oh. You mean, like sex isn’t that big a deal to you?

LEVON› On the contrary. Sex is of primary importance.

SARAH› I’m not sure I understand.

LEVON› I speak of a passion you have yet to experience. Spiritual, refined, prolonged sexual union, a melding of heart and mind and flesh. A marriage of the sacred and the profane.

SARAH› Wow. That sounds, I don’t know, poetical or something.

LEVON› But my time has ended for tonight, Sarah. I must go now.

SARAH› Oh. Will you be back tomorrow?

LEVON› Perhaps. I am never far away. Remember, you are far stronger than you believe yourself to be. You need no one.

SARAH› I think I need you. I mean it. Can you tell me some more about this spiritual sex? I mean, like describe it?

LEVON› I must go now, Sarah. When you most need me, I will be there.

SARAH› I’ll be waiting.

LEVON› I know you will. Good-bye.

SARAH› Bye. And thank you.

“You see that?” I ask. “Christ. One session and he’s got this woman ready to do anything he wants.”

“He simply played to her needs,” says Lenz. “As I intend to play to his. A little mysticism, a little danger, a little sex.”

“Forty-six years old and simpering like a schoolgirl. She was practically begging for a chance to tell him where to get her.”

Lenz taps his fingers on the desk and exhales heavily. “That’s common with serial killers. Many times the victim acquiesces to a situation that puts her in harm’s way. Often when she’s in an environment where she feels no immediate danger, such as this one, she makes a critical mistake. The last one she’ll ever make.”

“It’s like she’s on standby for murder.”

“No question about it.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Calm down, Cole. He’s not close to her yet. I’ll call Turner back and get ‘Sarah’s’ real identity. Then Baxter can have the local police department wherever she lives do a drive-by at her residence, use some pretense to verify that she’s okay.”

“You really think that’s enough?”

Lenz punches the speed dial code for EROS. “Within four hours we’ll have FBI surveillance on her around the clock. If she’s in a major city, less than one hour. Daniel’s already got the budget approved.”

“You’re relying on the zero error rate to tell you he isn’t close to her. But what if he’s changed his methods? He already changed his victim profile, you said. What if he’s changed his hunting method too? Shit! We’ve got to shut down the network!”

“Calm down, Cole! You sound like a rookie cop.”

“Okay… okay. I’m just trying to cover every angle.”

Lenz speaks to Miles in measured tones. Even hearing only one side of the conversation, I can tell the phone trace went nowhere. Glancing over to make sure Lenz isn’t watching, I send a copy of the entire Levon-Sarah thread to my personal mailbox in EROS’s server.

“Sarah’s legal name is Phoebe Tyler,” announces Lenz, stabbing another speed-dial code. “She is indeed forty-six years old and a resident of Aurora, Illinois. The Chicago field office can have a team at her house in thirty-five minutes. They’ll use a ruse to ensure that she’s okay, then organize around-the-clock surveillance. Daniel? Arthur here….”

I am eyeing one of the cold pizza slices when Lenz shouts, “What?” As I look up, he snaps, “Do it,” and hangs up.

“What is it?”

“Strobekker again.”

Suddenly the pizza I ate two hours ago burns upward toward the center of my chest. “He hasn’t killed Phoebe Tyler. He couldn’t have!”

Lenz stands up and leans over the fax machine with his hands on the table. “No. He sent Daniel another message.”

I close my eyes in relief. “When?”

“Thirty seconds after the conversation between Levon and Sarah ended.”

“Man, does this guy have our number. What did the message say?”

“Daniel’s faxing it to us now. This is clearly a reaction to the Bureau’s attempts to trace his phone connection, yes?”

“Got to be.”

“Could Strobekker have known we were watching his Levon-Sarah exchange?”

“I don’t think so. I mean, if he were in the system as a sysop, or had root access, Miles would know about it. But that doesn’t mean it’s impossible. A lot of people know a hell of a lot more about computers than I do.”

The fax machine rings. Lenz picks up the receiver and hits the SEND/RECEIVE key. “Daniel is considering arresting Turner,” he says without looking up.

“What?”

His eyes stay on the fax machine. “There’s a great deal of pressure from the police departments involved to arrest you both.”

“Goddamn it! I’m sick of this intimidation!”

“Don’t worry, no one’s going to arrest you. But arresting Turner might keep the local gendarmes at bay for a while. Multijurisdictional investigations are always difficult. And this one is worse than most.”

I read the new message as it curls out of the fax machine:

YOU HAVE NOT STOPPED HUNTING US. I ASKED NICELY. IF YOU DO NOT CEASE, I SHALL BE FORCED TO ENTER YOUR GAME, AND AT YOUR LEVEL. I DO NOT THINK YOU WILL LIKE THE RESULT.

REMEMBER DALLAS.

“Now the threat,” says Lenz.

“If he’s so confident we’ll never find him,” I ask, “why is he worried about us hunting him?”

“Good point. Notice the pronoun change? The ‘I’ creeps in now. Note the proper use of ‘shall.’ And no contractions. I think this man has considerable education.”

My eyes glance over the fax paper, all but unseeing. “You know what I think? I think that whole Levon-Sarah thread was bait.”

“Mmmm?” Lenz murmurs. “Meaning?”

“Meaning the whole thing was done just to see whether we’d be able to localize him to a chat room or isolate a phone line at EROS, et cetera. To see how far we could get.”

“And we did localize him to a room.”

“It was luck.”

“But he doesn’t know that,” Lenz points out.

“No, but I don’t think you realize what his use of a new alias means. Either he has gained sysop privileges, or he has access to at least one-and possibly hundreds-of other legitimate accounts.”

“Wouldn’t a legitimate client quickly complain about an unauthorized person using his or her account?”

“No. That’s the beauty of EROS. For Strobekker, I mean. We’re expensive, but we charge a flat fee. Someone who knows my user name and password could log on for hours as me without me being the wiser or even giving a damn if I was.”

“You mean-”

“I mean if Strobekker knows the names and passwords of legitimate account holders-if he really has a copy of the master client list and the clients’ passwords-you may never be able to trace him. Because the only way we’ll know what to trace is by searching room to room for his goddamn prose style. You saw how long it took us tonight, and we were lucky.”

Lenz grunts and turns away from me. He stands in silence, like a man in defeat. But then I see a tensing of his posture.

“What is it?” I ask softly.

His right arm rises and points to the Dell’s softly glowing monitor. “Levon’s back. In a lobby.” The psychiatrist drops into his chair and pulls up to the Dell. “How do I approach him?”

“Don’t. Just watch him.”

“You said yourself we’d be lucky to find him.”

“And I don’t believe in luck.”

Lenz clicks his mouse and types something into the Dell.

“Don’t bite, Doctor. He’s in control right now. I don’t see any advantage until we can turn the tables-”

It’s no use. Lenz-under the alias “Lilith”-has already invited “Levon” to join him in a private room. My fingers tremble as I wait for Brahma’s response. The words appear in a flash without a single error:

LEVON› I don’t believe we’ve met before.

“Got him!” Lenz cries, his fingers flying across the keyboard.

LILITH› I just joined the network. I’m trying to get a feel for what’s out here in cyberspace. So far, I must confess I’m a bit disappointed.

LEVON› How so?

LILITH› Most of the talk is conventional. Even the “racy” stuff is fairly pedestrian. I was hoping for more sophisticated fare.

LEVON› You have to know where to look. I’m intrigued by your name, Lilith. Do you know its origin?

LILITH› Do you?

LEVON› Rest assured that I do.

Lenz pauses, then types:

LILITH› Consider it a test.

LEVON› I’ve always tested very well, Lilith.

LILITH› Amaze me.

LEVON› “Lilith” is a Hebrew word for “demon of the night.” It was mistranslated in the Book of Isaiah as “screech owl,” which is probably where your parents picked up the name. “Lilith” derives from the Babylonian _lilitu_, which itself derives from the Semitic word for “night.” Later rabbis took this “night demon” and from her created “Lilith”-a beautiful woman who became Adam’s wife before Eve was created. Perhaps your father was learned in the rabbinical tradition?

Lenz’s stunned expression tells me Brahma’s information is dead on. I’m still in shock when Lenz’s shaking fingers type:

LILITH› I _am_ amazed. I now consider this month’s EROS fee well spent.

LEVON› You didn’t answer the question about your father.

LILITH› I value my privacy.

LEVON› A sentiment I share. Good luck tonight, and all other nights. I must away.

LILITH› But we only just met.

“Stop!” I hiss at Lenz. “Type B-Y-E.”

“But he’s right here-”

Before Lenz can type another word, I shove his chair away from the Dell and type:

LILITH› Until we meet again.

“You’re absolutely right,” Lenz says in a quavering voice. “I lost control for a moment. I felt my fingers on his sleeve.”

“You caught buck fever is what you did.”

Suddenly Lenz is grinning like a hyena. “By God, it was exhilarating, wasn’t it? I think I finally understand the expression ‘thrill of the hunt.’ ”

“Don’t mistake what you’re doing with hunting, Doctor.”

“What am I doing, then?”

“Trapping.”

“What’s the difference?”

“If you don’t know that, you’ll never get this guy.”

Lenz looks at me like I just kicked his dog. “Explain yourself.”

“Well… in hunting, the first thing you do is go into the quarry’s environment.”

“I’m doing that.”

“No, you’re not. Not really. Because the digital environment is an illusion. It’s a virtual world in every sense. You can’t reach through that screen and touch him. Remember, somewhere out there this killer actually exists-in the corporeal world. That’s where he lives, not in this box.”

“Keep going.”

“When you hunt, you follow an animal’s tracks.”

“I’m not doing that?”

“No. That’s what Baxter’s technicians are trying to do. And so far they’re failing. You personally don’t have even the beginnings of the skill required to track Strobekker’s digital footprints. And if he really knows what he’s doing, there won’t be any footprints.”

“So, what are you saying?”

“Didn’t you ever visit the country when you were a kid? Shoot sparrows with a BB gun or anything?”

“No.”

“Jesus. Look, hunting is an aggressive activity. Basically, you take yourself to the quarry’s territory, conceal yourself, wait a while, or maybe have dogs or beaters drive the game to you. And when your quarry happens up within range of your gun or your bow, you pop him. Wham-he’s dead. Trapping is completely different. It’s all preparation. It’s all about bait. Using the right bait, placing it in your quarry’s path, and waiting.”

“What’s your point?”

“Lilith is the bait.”

“I know that.”

“And what is the job of the bait, Doctor?”

“The job of the bait? To lure the quarry, of course.”

“Fundamentally,what is the bait’s job?”

Lenz sighs in exasperation. “I guess I don’t know.”

“To be what it is. That’s all, Doctor. To sit there and do nothing but be what it is. You get it? Bait doesn’t walk out to the quarry and say ‘Come and get me!’ If it’s raw meat, it just sits there and looks dead and appetizing. If it’s a rabbit tied to a stake, it goes berserk for a while, then freezes in terror. If-”

“This situation is more complex than that.”

“No. It’s exactly the same. Everything must happen in the quarry’s head. Your UNSUB is biologically programmed to want to kill the bait. Your job-your only job-is to be what the killer wants. Forget about Baxter and his geeks, forget about trying to manipulate the killer into doing anything. He knows what to do. You just sit here and be that woman. Talk to other users, not him. Build your personality. And then he’ll come. In his own time maybe, but he’ll come. And you’d better be ready.”

Lenz stands up from the chair and stretches with nonchalance so elaborate that it must be feigned. He tears off the stream of paper where it meets the printer and lets it fall to the floor. “I’m sure you’re ready to get back home, Cole. If we hurry, you’ll just have time to make the Quantico plane. Unless you want to spend the night at a hotel and fly commercial in the morning.”

He frowns at me like a flight attendant who’s decided he made a mistake by inviting me to sit in the first-class cabin. “Which is it, Cole? A hotel or Ms. Krislov’s jet?”

Part of me hates to walk out of this room, to withdraw from a game with stakes so high. Even at the most rarefied level, trading futures risks only money, not human lives.

“The plane,” I say, standing up from the Toshiba and walking past him without another look.

He follows me down the stairs. Near the bottom, I ask, “Why did you decide to use a young decoy? I thought you’d decided that Strobekker changed his pattern. That he wanted older women like Karin Wheat.”

“That’s correct.”

I pause at the floor. “But Margie Ressler’s only, what, twenty-eight?”

“You should have more faith in me, Cole.”

As we move across the den toward the kitchen, I look over the Corian counter and see a full head of brunette hair. Sherry, I presume. She’s looking at something through the top window of an electric range. “Pretty soft setup,” I say to Lenz. “Cook and everything.”

Then the cook turns around and I am looking into the green eyes of Special Agent Margie Ressler. Her eyes are all I recognize. In the past two hours she has aged twenty years. Lines around her eyes and mouth, gray in her hair, a suddenly sagging bosom, and dowdy hips.

“It really works, doesn’t it?” she says, her eyes sparkling. “I can tell by your face. Sherry’s a wizard at this stuff. She told me some of the actors she’s worked on, and now I believe her.”

“Say farewell to Mr. Cole, Agent Ressler,” Lenz says.

“Oh. Hey, I really enjoyed meeting you.”

“You too, Margie. Thanks for the pizza. Be careful.”

“No sweat. I warmed up some pizza for you, Doctor.”

Lenz takes my arm and leads me out to the garage. The Acura Margie mentioned earlier has appeared. Special Agent Schmidt, the ever chipper factotum, steps silently from the door behind us. I turn back as he walks past me and climbs into Lenz’s Mercedes.

“I’m going to say it one more time, Doctor. Don’t push this guy. If you spook him, you’ll never get him. Or worse-he might get you.”

“I heard you the first time, Cole.” He leads me around to the passenger door and opens it. “The Quantico airstrip, Schmidt. You might have to put some lead in your foot.”

I climb into the car, lean back in the seat, and address Lenz through the window. “I don’t think Agent Ressler understands how much danger she’s in.”

He smiles. “Your Southern sexism is creeping in. Ressler is a trained agent.”

“How do you train for something like this?”

The psychiatrist straightens up and walks away. He is edging through the narrow margin between the Mercedes’ hood and the front wall when a thought hits me. I reach over and beep the horn, startling him into the air like a cartoon character.

“What is it?” he shouts.

I lean out of the passenger window. “Remember the smiling young lady from Niger, Doctor.”

He stares at me as if I’m insane.

“She went for a ride on a tiger. After the ride, she wound up inside, with the smile on the face of the tiger.”

I tap Special Agent Schmidt on the arm, and he obediently backs the Mercedes out of the garage, leaving Dr. Lenz staring at us from the blue-white glare of the headlights. He does not squint into the beams, as most people would, but simply watches us pull away, the halogen light on his retinas giving him the burning red eyes of a night creature.