The Match

Chapter Thirteen

Wilde checked his messages. Nothing from Laila. He’d wait and see how that played out. He returned the rental and hiked back up through the Ramapo Mountains to his Ecocapsule. The woods are serenity and solitude, but they are never silent. They brim with life, often hushed, and there is majesty and wonder in that. As he rambled through the trees, Wilde felt the muscles in his back and shoulders loosen. His breathing deepened. His stride became more languid. He let his relaxed brain view Peter Bennett with a somewhat renewed perspective.

Rola had said that Wilde didn’t owe Peter Bennett anything. Perhaps. But did that matter? Do you have to owe someone to help them?

He took out his phone and called the number Vicky had given him for her brother — and Wilde’s cousin — Silas. The phone was picked up on the third ring.

“Who’s this?” the voice said.

Wilde could hear the dull roar of traffic and figured that Silas might be in his truck.

“My name is Wilde,” he said. “I got your number from your sister Vicky.”

“What do you want?”

“I’m your cousin.”

Wilde explained about the DNA test, about Peter’s messages, about searching for him.

“Damn,” Silas said when Wilde had finished. “That’s so messed up. So we are somehow related through your mom?”

“Seems so.”

“And she never told your father about you and just left you in the woods?”

That wasn’t entirely accurate, but Wilde saw no reason to correct him. “Something like that.”

“Why are you calling me, Wilde?”

“I’m trying to find Peter.”

“Why? You a cop?”

“No.”

“A Battler?”

“A what?”

“That’s what they call the Love Is a Battlefield groupies. Battlers. You a Battler?”

“No.”

“Because the Battlers made a meme out of me. That stupid show, I mean. Almost every day — still! — some asshole walks up to me and says, ‘Hey, you’re that sulking guy!’ Annoys the piss out of me, you know what I mean?”

“I can imagine.”

“By the way, everyone thinks Peter’s dead.”

“Do you?”

“I don’t know, Cuz.” Silas snorted. “Cuz. That’s weird, right?”

“A little.”

“Look, I haven’t spoken to Peter in a long time. Truth is, we weren’t very close, but I’m sure Vicky told you that. You said you matched Peter on a DNA site?”

“Yes.”

“Mind telling me which one?”

“Which site? DNAYourStory.”

“Oh, that explains it,” Silas said.

“Explains what?”

“Why you and I didn’t match. I put my DNA into one called MeetYourFamily.”

“Did you get any matches?”

“Got one that’s twenty-three percent.”

“What kind of relative is that?”

“Could be a lot of things. Most likely? A half sibling. My old man was a player. Don’t tell Vicky. She thinks ol’ Phil was a great dad. It would only break her heart.”

“You don’t think she’d want to know she has a half sibling?”

“Who knows? Maybe you’re right. Maybe I should tell her. But I don’t know what good it will do.”

“Did you contact the relative?”

“I tried. I sent a message on the MeetYourFamily app, but they never replied.”

“Could you text me the info?”

“On...? Oh, the match? Not sure what I could text you. The account was deleted.”

Odd, Wilde thought. Just like with Daniel Carter’s. “Did you get a name or initials or anything?”

“Nah, MeetYourFamily doesn’t reveal identities until both sides agree, so I don’t know anything about him. Or her. Or whoever. Just that we’re a twenty-three percent match.”

“That must be an odd feeling,” Wilde said.

“What?” Silas asked.

“You may have a half sibling out there, and neither of you knows anything about it.”

“I guess, maybe. Seems a lot of people are finding out odd stuff on those sites. I got a friend who found out his dad wasn’t his real dad. Messed him up good. He didn’t even tell his mom because he didn’t want them getting a divorce.”

“Did you get any other matches?”

“Nothing too interesting. I’ll text you what I got when I get back to my home computer. By the way, Cuz, where do you live?”

“New Jersey.”

“Near Vicky?”

“Not far,” Wilde said. “How about you?”

“I got a place in Wyoming, but I’m never there. Right now, I’m carrying a load for Yellow Freight through Kentucky.” He cleared his throat. “But I do go through New Jersey a fair amount. How close are we related?”

“We share a great-grandparent.”

“That’s not a lot,” Silas said. “But it’s not nothing either.”

“It’s not nothing.”

“Especially for you, I guess. I mean, no offense or anything, but you don’t have anyone but us. Might be nice to say hello or something. Have a coffee maybe.”

“When do you come through New Jersey again?”

“Pretty soon. I usually stay with Vicky.”

“Next time you’re here,” Wilde said, “give me a call.”

“I’ll do that, Cuz. And I’ll try to think about our family and see what I can come up with.”

“I’d appreciate that.”

“You still going to look for Peter?”

“Yes.”

“Good luck with that too. I’m not blaming anyone, but Vicky, she got him into this reality shit. I think she did it for the right reasons, but Peter wasn’t made for that world. If I can help find him...”

“I’ll let you know.”

Silas hung up. Wilde put his phone into his back pocket and continued his hike. He took deep breaths, filling his lungs with the fresh mountain air. He slowly lifted his face toward the soothing sun and let his thoughts flow freely. They flowed, as they often did when he let them, to a familiar, comforting, beautiful face.

Laila’s.

The buzz of his phone startled him. It was Hester.

“Hey,” Wilde said, staying as much as he could in this pleasant semi-stupor.

“You okay?”

“Yes.”

“You sound like you took an edible or something.”

“High on life. What’s up?”

“I got your message,” Hester said. “So you already found your DNA website relative?”

“His identity, yes. Him, no.”

“Explain.”

“Have you ever watched a reality show called Love Is a Battlefield?”

“Every episode,” Hester said.

“Really?”

“No, of course not. I don’t even get the concept. Reality TV? I watch TV to escape reality. What about it?”

Wilde had time on the hike, so he filled Hester in on Peter Bennett and the ensuing saga of his scandal and disappearances. When he finished, Hester said, “What a mess.”

“Yes.”

“You found your family — and they’re as dysfunctional as all the others.”

“I was abandoned in the woods as a small child,” Wilde said. “We didn’t expect functional.”

“Good point. So you’re going to search for your missing cousin?”

“Yes.”

“Maybe you’ll just confirm that he committed suicide,” Hester added.

“Maybe.”

“And suppose that’s the case.”

“Then that’s the answer.”

“You just let it go?”

“What else can I do?”

“So next steps,” Hester said, getting down to business. “Seems to me the person who might have some information is his wife or ex-wife or whatever she is, Jenn Whatshername.”

“Cassidy.”

“Like David? Man, I had a crush on him in the day.”

“Who?”

“David Cassidy. The Partridge Family?”

“Right.”

“Girls talked about his hair and smile, but he had some caboose too.”

“Good to know,” Wilde said. Then: “How should we approach Jenn Cassidy?”

“I know a lot of Hollywood agents,” Hester said. “I can see if she’ll talk to one of us.”

“Good.”

“I assume you got Rola working on the real identity of this Dog troll?”

“Yes.”

“By the way,” Hester began, her tone aiming for nonchalant and not coming close to hitting the mark, “did you shtup Laila last night?”

“Hester.”

“Did you?”

“Did you shtup Oren?” he countered.

“Every chance I get. Oren has a better caboose than David Cassidy.” Then: “Was that question supposed to stop me from asking about you and my former daughter-in-law?”

Wilde kept hiking up the mountain. “Where are you?”

“I’m in my office waiting on a verdict in the Levine case.”

“Any idea when it will come in?”

“None.” Then: “Was that question supposed to stop me from asking about you and my former daughter-in-law?”

Wilde stayed silent.

“Right, right, it’s none of my business. Let me make some calls, see what I can learn. Hit you later.”

Wilde did a little maintenance on the Ecocapsule. Rain had been in short supply since his return, so he took the water tank to the nearest brook to fill it. The Ecocapsule had wheels, so Wilde could move it every few weeks, just to be certain no one could track him, but he always stayed close to one of the mountain waterways for just such drought-like occurrences.

When Wilde finished, he headed over to the lookout spot that gave him a bird’s-eye view of Laila’s house on the end of the cul-de-sac. No cars. No movement.

His phone buzzed again. It was Rola.

“We got lucky. Sort of.”

“Explain.”

“We were able to trace the ISP for DogLufegnev. Seems he runs an extensive bot farm, several of which trolled your cousin pretending to be different people. So not only did ‘Dog’ post toxic stuff about Peter Bennett, he then amplified the posts as though a lot of other people agreed.”

“Not uncommon,” Wilde said.

“But still awful. What’s wrong with people?”

“Did you get a name or address for DogLufegnev?”

“Sort of. Do you know how ISPs work?”

“Pretty much.”

“What I have is the billing address that uses that particular ISP. It could be anybody in the household.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“The ISP is billed to the home of Henry and Donna McAndrews, 972 Wake Robin Lane in Harwinton, Connecticut. It’s a two-hour drive from you.”

“I’m on my way.”

Wilde didn’t use a rental this time. He had a place where he could “borrow” a car with a license plate that couldn’t be matched or traced — the vehicular version of a burner phone. He figured that would be best. He also brought dark clothes, a mask, gloves, and an appropriate yet subtle disguise in case he felt it was needed. There was, Wilde had the self-awareness to realize, a fine line between caution and paranoia. Wilde may be flirting on the paranoia side of that line, but it seemed the more prudent way to behave.

He took Route 287 East and crossed what had once been the spot of the Tappan Zee Bridge, but that had been torn down and replaced with the newly minted “Governor Mario M. Cuomo Bridge,” and while Wilde had no problem with Mario Cuomo, he still wondered why they’d change such a perfect name — “Tappan” for the Native American tribe, “Zee” as the Dutch word for sea — to honor any politician.

The ride grew more and more rural with each passing mile. Litchfield County had plenty of stunning wooded areas. Five years ago, when Wilde needed to escape the Ramapo Mountains but wanted to stay on the East Coast, he’d lived in these woods for two months.

It was nightfall by the time Wilde reached Wake Robin Lane. The road was still, quiet. He slowed the car. Every house had several acres of land. House lights twinkled through the thick foliage.

But there were no lights on at 972 Wake Robin Lane.

Wilde again felt that primitive tingle, that survival instinct most of us have long since smothered or let decay as we “progressed” and moved into sturdy homes with locked doors backed by trusted authority figures. He kept driving until the end of the street and turned right on Laurel Road. He passed Wilson Pond, found a secluded spot by the Kalmia Sanctuary, which, according to the sign, had been created by a local Audubon Society. Wilde was already clad in black. He put on his gloves, a black baseball cap, and pocketed a lightweight black ski mask in case he needed it. It was pitch dark now, but that didn’t bother Wilde. He knew the skies and the stars well enough to hike the mile through wooded yards. He also carried a flashlight if need be — being a “survivalist” didn’t give you the ability to see in the dark — but the skies were clear enough tonight.

Fifteen minutes later, Wilde stood in the McAndrews’ backyard. Before heading out, he had looked up the house on Zillow. The McAndrews had bought it in January 2018 for $345,000. It was 2,600 square feet, three bedrooms, three baths, fairly new construction, and sat on two secluded acres.

As the old saw goes: It was quiet. Too quiet.

No lights on in the back.

Either the McAndrews family members were all in bed — it was only nine p.m. — or, more likely, no one was at home. Wilde felt his phone buzz. He had an AirPod in his left ear. He tapped it to answer. There was no need to say hello. Rola knew the drill.

“Henry McAndrews is sixty-one years old, his wife Donna is sixty,” Rola said. “They have three children, all boys, ages twenty-eight, twenty-six, and nineteen. I’m still digging.”

Rola hung up.

Wilde wasn’t sure what to make of that. If one were to profile based on age and gender, the sons were more likely to be DogLufegnev than their parents. The question was, Do any of the sons still live at home?

Wilde slipped on the mask. None of his skin was showing. Most homes today have some kind of security system or camera setup. Not all. But enough. He stepped closer to the house. If he were to be spotted by camera or eyes, they would see a man dressed head to toe in black. That was it, and that, Wilde knew, was nothing.

When he got closer to the house, he ducked down in the flower bedding and grabbed a few pebbles. Staying low, Wilde threw the pebbles against the back sliding glass door and waited.

Nothing.

He did the same with the upstairs windows, throwing more pebbles, this time with a little more velocity. This was old-school — a crude yet effective way to see if anyone was home. If the lights came on, he could simply take off. No one would be able to track him before he disappeared back into the wooded area.

Wilde threw some more pebbles, slightly bigger ones, several at one time. They made plenty of noise. He wanted that, of course.

No reaction. No screams. No shouts. No lights. No silhouettes looking out the window.

Conclusion: No one home.

This conclusion, of course, was not definite. Someone could be a heavy sleeper, but again Wilde was not particularly worried. He would now search for an unlocked door or window. If that didn’t work, he had the tools to break into any residence. Funny when he thought about it — he had been breaking into homes since he was too young to remember. In those days, of course, the little “boy from the woods” didn’t use tools. He just tried windows and doors and if none opened, he would move on to the next house. Once — he was probably four or five — when he was super hungry and couldn’t find an empty and unlocked house, he had thrown a rock through a basement window and crawled in that way. He flashed back to that, the hunger pains of that child, his fear and desperation winning out over caution. He’d cut his stomach on shards of glass when he crawled through that basement window. Up until right now, he’d forgotten that event completely. What had he done after he’d cut himself? Did that little boy have the wherewithal to locate a first aid kit in an upstairs bathroom? Did he just press his shirt against the wounds? Were the wounds deep or superficial?

He didn’t remember. He just remembered cutting his flesh on the shards of glass. That was how the memories often came to him — in broken shards. His earliest memories: the red banister, dark woods, a portrait of a mustached man, and a woman’s scream. He had dreamt about those images for his entire life, but he still didn’t know what, if anything, they meant.

Wilde first tried the McAndrews’ lower-level windows. Locked. He tried the back door. Locked. He tried the sliding glass door.

Bingo.

That surprised Wilde somewhat. Why lock all your windows but not the sliding glass door? Could have just forgotten or been careless, of course. It wasn’t a big deal. And yet.

The tingle was back.

Wilde ducked low. He’d only slid the door open an inch. Now he slid it another inch. The door glided easily on the track. No sound. Wilde stayed low and slid it some more. Slowly. This could all be overkill, but overconfidence was often a bigger threat than any adversary. He waited and listened.

Nothing.

When he’d slid the door wide enough, Wilde crawled into the den. He debated closing the door behind him, but if he needed to make a quick exit, an open door would save time. For a full minute, Wilde stayed perfectly still, straining to hear any sound.

There was nothing.

Wilde spotted a mainframe computer on the desk in the corner.

Bingo again.

There was no one home. He was sure of it now. But he couldn’t shake that tingle. He wasn’t a woo-woo superstitious man. He didn’t really believe in any of that. Yet there was an unmistakable crackle in the air.

What was he missing?

He didn’t know. It could just be his imagination. He didn’t dismiss that. Then again, there was no harm in being extra cautious. Wilde stayed low and crept toward the desk. This was his goal and reason for breaking into the McAndrews’ home — to download everything he could off the McAndrews’ computer and then get it to Rola’s experts for a full analysis. He would at some point like to question the McAndrews family, though he was doubtful that could get him anywhere. The bigger key was to figure out how the troll DogLufegnev got those compromising photos that had sent Peter Bennett into a tailspin.

The computer was a PC with a Windows operating system and password protection. Wilde pulled out two USB flash drives. He stuck the first one into the USB port. The flash drive was an all-in-one hacker’s tool. It was loaded with self-running programs like mailpv.exe and mspass.exe, and once plugged into the USB port, it would collect various passwords from Facebook, Outlook, your bank account, whatever.

Wilde didn’t need all that.

He just needed the operating system password, so that he could back up the entire contents of the computer on the second flash drive. In the movies, this takes a relatively long time. In reality, the password is bypassed in seconds and the contents should be copied in no more than five minutes.

With the computer unlocked, Wilde opened up the web browser to check through the history. He knew that computers were hardly tell-alls anymore. People mostly used their phones to surf and search nowadays. You could spy on emails or texts, but the good stuff was often hidden in secure messaging apps like Signal or Threema.

First site bookmarked: Instagram.

Unusual. Instagram was normally a phone app, not something people did from their computer. Wilde quickly clicked on the link. Instagram came up. He expected to see DogLufegnev’s handle in the profile box, but the screen name read NurseCaresLove24. The profile photo was of a woman who appeared to be Asian, no more than thirty. On the right, Wilde could see the option to switch profiles. He hit that link.

Dozens of accounts came up.

It was a vast potpourri of accounts — all creeds, genders, nationalities, occupations, persuasions were represented. Wilde scrolled down the screen, counting as he went along. He took out his phone and snapped screenshots of the names just in case they didn’t show up on the flash drive. He’d counted over thirty accounts when he finally located one with the name DogLufegnev.

He clicked on the profile and watched the page load. DogLufegnev had posted only twelve photographs in total, all nature shots. His followers numbered forty-six, and from what Wilde could tell, they all seemed to be other accounts set up on this computer. Wilde hit the private messaging icon. He found the same correspondences between DogLufegnev and Peter Bennett he’d seen at Rola’s house, but what was more curious, far more curious, was the message above it, the last one DogLufegnev received.

It was from someone named PantherStrike88. The message was chillingly simple:

Whoa, Wilde thought. This Panther account had found McAndrews out.

The flash drive blinked twice, indicating it was done with the download. Wilde pulled it out and put it in his pocket. He clicked on the profile for PantherStrike88, but it was gone. Whoever had created the account — and sent that threatening message — had deleted themselves.

What the hell was going on?

For the first time since Wilde had entered the premises, he heard a sound.

A car.

He quickly stepped toward the front window in time to see the car’s taillights disappearing to the left. It was nothing. A car driving by. That’s all. This street was silent again.

But the tingle was back.

Wilde padded back toward the computer room, debating whether he should stay and keep looking through the computer or leave now, when the first whiff hit him.

He froze.

Wilde’s heart dropped into his stomach. He stood by a door he assumed led to the basement. He leaned toward it and inhaled deeper.

Oh no.

Wilde didn’t want to open it. He wanted to flee. But he couldn’t. Not now.

With his gloved hand he reached out and turned the knob. He cracked the door open. That was it. That was all he needed. The awful stench of decay rushed out as though it had been pounding on the door demanding to be released.

Wilde flicked on the light and looked down the stairs.

There was blood.

Lots of it.