Runner

21

It was morning. Richard Beale parked his black Porsche in his reserved space behind the building, walked into the office, turned on his computer, and went out to the lobby to get a cup of coffee while the computer ran through its antivirus and antispyware scans. As he walked past Marlene, the new receptionist, he nodded and smiled, and she said, "Good morning, Mr. Beale," and smiled back. He had to play Marlene a bit differently from the earlier ones because of what had happened with Christine.

He knew that his father was having him watched, but he wasn't sure how. Richard had searched his office several times for bugs and cameras, but had found nothing. He still hadn't eliminated the possibility that Marlene was working for his father. He glanced at the small forest of tropical plants in the glassed-in atrium behind her. There could be a camera in every tree, for all he knew, and a microphone in each drawer of her desk. He wasn't prepared to have a discussion with his father about getting involved with another receptionist, so he took his coffee, returned to his office, and shut the door.

He sat at the desk, turned to his computer and looked at the list of screen names, and clicked on the first one, which was in his name. There was nothing from Christine, and there was nothing from Demming, and anything else barely mattered. He was devoting his full time to finding Christine. Then he patiently changed his screen name to each of the ones he had invented. He had sent e-mails to Christine from each of them about twice a week.

Richard opened Emma Peterson's mailbox, and saw that it had received its first piece of mail. He opened the e-mail and took in a quick breath. Christine had written to Emma Peterson. He could hardly believe it. He read the long paragraph eagerly, and felt the disappointment settle on his stomach. She wasn't writing to her old friend to reveal anything about what she'd been doing or where she was. She was giving her friend the final kiss-off. When Richard found virtually the same message in the e-mail for Alexis Donaldson, he was in despair. He almost closed it before he realized that this message had something more. There was a telephone number. He plucked a pen from the cup on his desk to copy it on paper. He pulled a sheet of white paper from the printer tray.

Richard knew that there was no need to do this, because all he had to do was save the e-mail or print it, and the information would be preserved. But he had an almost superstitious fear that the electrical impulses that had brought the e-mail would be cut off unexpectedly and the precious number would disappear forever. When he had written it down, he felt a heart-thumping moment of excitement. It was as though he had closed his hand to capture and hold a wild bird.

He clicked on Print to make the capture more secure, and when he saw the page slide out into the tray he felt a calm settle over him. He had done it. He had all but found Christine. He wanted to call his father on the phone. He wanted to say, "You old bastard, you self-righteous old sack of shit. You kept goading me and taunting me and saying you knew my girlfriend better than I did. Now I have her phone number, area code and all, and you've got nothing."

He knew he wouldn't do that. Even having the phone number wasn't good enough. The old man would say, "I was the one who had to tell you that the way to get to a twenty-year-old was the Internet." He would say that to his last breath, in the face of any evidence Richard put in front of his face to prove he had been using e-mails since the very beginning. He had put the fake e-mails out as bait in the first few days, and then had added more bait nearly every day to lure her in. That was why it was called phishing. And now he had hooked her.

Richard stepped out of the office, across the hall to the door that led to the parking lot. He went out, leaned on his car, and dialed Demming.

"Yeah?"

"It's me. I did it."

"Did what?"

"I set up some e-mail addresses that looked like they belonged to friends of hers. She just sent one of them her phone number."

"You didn't call it, did you?"

"No," he said. "You're the only call I've made."

"Then don't."

"I thought you'd congratulate me."

"I'm happy. It's good. I just don't know how good yet. It could be her house, but it could also be a cell phone that she got somewhere along the way. If it's a cell, then the number won't tell us where she is, only where she got it. We need to check it out before I say anything more. Give me the number."

Richard read the phone number.

"Area code 612," said Demming. "Give me a minute." Richard could hear Demming clicking the keys of a computer. "Minneapolis. The phone is from Minneapolis, anyway. Let me look into this, and I'll get back to you within a couple of hours." There was a brief pause, and then Demming said, "And Richard?"

"What?"

"You're ready for her, right?"

"What do you mean?"

"The house and everything? If we show up with her in a few days, you've got the place ready? She isn't going to wait until you're asleep and then walk out the front door again?"

"Oh, no. Don't worry. It's hard to know everything that could happen, but I think it's all set."

"I'm glad to hear that. But maybe I'll have Sybil take a look around this morning and see if she has any suggestions."

"That would be good," said Richard. "I'd appreciate that."