The Watcher in the Wall, page 16
Waite still didn’t answer. Finally, she sighed. “You have a fax machine over there, I assume?”
Windermere gave her the details. Ended the call and put down the phone. Stevens was staring at her. “That was a federal judge you were talking to, Carla,” he said. “You kind of sounded like you thought she was a suspect.”
“She was suspect, partner,” Windermere said, standing. “Now, point me to the fax machine. And next time, leave the bad cop stuff to me.”
< 68 >
Donovan paced the living room. Kicked an empty Funyuns bag across the carpet. “Shit, dude,” he said. “Would it kill you to clean up a little?”
Gruber smirked up at him from the computer. “I like it this way. You want the place clean so bad, you do it. It’s not like you’re doing anything else.”
The asshole had a point. Donovan had worn a track through the carpet already, burned a hole in his digestive tract eating White Castle and Taco Bell because this cornball Gruber really was flat fucking broke, not even a stick of butter in his fridge. Donovan had been here for, shit, a day and a half, felt longer than the six months he’d spent in juvie.
There was nothing to do but wait. Wait and eat shitty food, and listen to Gruber brag about the sick shit he was doing on the computer, the way he was luring his victims closer to death. Donovan had already sat through one lecture about how Gruber used Facebook, how he’d created accounts for both of his personas, filled them with stock pictures, built lives for these people.
“I found this kid on the Death Wish forums,” Gruber told him. “He was from Kansas City, nineteen years old. Jumped in front of a train. Anyway, he left his Facebook page unlocked, so I stole his life. Copied all his pictures to my hard drive and created a new account.” He grinned. “I call him Brandon.”
Donovan didn’t say anything. Figured it didn’t matter what he said, Gruber wasn’t going to shut up.
“I post the pictures every now and then, randomly, so it seems like they’re just happening,” Gruber continued. “And it’s easy to make friends on Facebook. Teenagers are so obsessed with being popular, they’ll add anybody just to pad their friend counts. It’s self-perpetuating, too, because the more friends you have, the more people want to know you. Genius, right?”
Donovan had ignored him. Turned away and tried to stifle the urge to shoot the bastard in the back of the head right then and there.
He’d gone into the kitchen, called Rodney while Gruber was in the bathroom. “This dude is sick,” he said. “This is kids we’re talking about, man. This is innocent kids.”
Rodney wasn’t moved. “You got another way to come up with the money?” he asked. “The message must be sent, dude. Can’t be backing down.”
Outside, a train rumbled past, blew its horn, loud. The trains were always coming and going, shaking the whole house on its foundation. Donovan missed what Rodney was saying. Had to ask him to repeat it.
“I said, you don’t think you can do it, I’ll find someone else who can,” Rodney told him. “So what’s up, Curtis? You in, or you out?”
Gruber flushed the toilet. Came out of the bathroom, wiping his hands on his ragged T-shirt. Went back to the computer and sat down, opened up a chat window. Donovan watched him. Stifled his disgust.
“I’m in,” he said. “I just wish this motherfucker wasn’t such a goddamn piece of work.”
< 69 >
Windermere faxed the warrant to Bangor. A half hour later, Bangor phoned back.
“Bingo,” the agent told Windermere. “Got the servers in custody. No shots fired. Your guy talked a big game, but he caved pretty easily when the G-men showed up at his door.”
“Sounds about right,” Windermere said. “Can you get us those files, or do we need to fly out to Maine to see them?”
“We’ll get them to you,” the agent replied. “We snagged an admin log-in when we picked up the servers. I’ll send it over and you can browse through your man’s files from the comfort of your own home.”
Windermere surveyed the Phoenix FBI office, the long row of workstations in CID. “Or a cubicle farm in Arizona,” she said. “Whichever’s more convenient.”
• • •
The suicide forum called The End had no users named Ashley Frey registered. And a search through the master archives brought back no hits for that name in either the chat logs or the thread histories.
“So what now?” Windermere asked. “We just spent a day leaping through epic hoops to get this data, Stevens. How do we use it to find Gruber?”
“Maybe Gruber’s using a different alias,” Stevens said. “He was always an angel on the Death Wish forum. How about searching biblical usernames?”
Windermere snapped her fingers. “Angels,” she said. “I can dig it.”
She searched through the forum’s archives until she found a list of every user. Realized there was no way to pare down the search using biblical references, that she and Stevens were going to have to work through the whole list manually.
“Not exactly the most specific search criteria in the world,” she said, settling into her seat. “I guess we’ll do this the old-fashioned way.”
Stevens rolled his chair over beside her. “Gruber’s Frey accounts always had a number in the name,” he said. “High nineties, probably supposed to be a year of birth. Any luck, he’s doing the same thing here.”
Windermere started to type something, stopped. “You want to find me a list of angels, partner?” she said. “I wasn’t exactly the star pupil in Sunday school.”
• • •
They worked down the list. Worked into the wee hours, alphabetically, through Abaddon, Arariel, Barachiel, Beelzebub. Found a handful of users for every angel they could think of, A through F, and discounted them all.
“Most of these guys are one-shot artists,” Stevens said. “Came online, lurked for a while, maybe posted one thread, and vanished.”
“Vanished?” Windermere said. On a suicide forum, the meaning wasn’t good.
“Well, who knows? Maybe they all logged off, fell in love, and married the girl or boy of their dreams. Maybe they’re all happy and well-adjusted insurance salesmen.”
“Insurance salesmen? Happy?”
“Or, whatever,” Stevens said. “I’m just trying to avoid the logical conclusion.”
They kept looking. Hit the Gs and the first user they came to was Gabriel98, some kid named Brandon in Council Bluffs, Iowa. A pretty boy, judging by his picture, undeniably handsome.
“Angel name,” Stevens said. “Plus a nineties number.”
“And a profile pic that looks too pretty to be real,” Windermere said. “It’s like he came from a spread in GQ or something, right?”
Stevens studied the picture. “This guy was online seven hours ago,” he said, “chatting with someone named D4Death. Let’s see what they had to say.”
Windermere opened the chat window. Scrolled to the first message of the day and began to read.
< 70 >
D4Death: You there?
Gabriel98: Yup. How are you feeling?
D: I feel okay. You know. Just getting ready for school. So weird to think it’s the last time I’ll ever do this.
G: You saying that’s a bad thing?
D: No. Just . . . weird. You don’t feel that way?
G: What do you mean?
D: Like, aren’t you scared at all? Nervous? This isn’t exactly a minor procedure we’re doing here. If we fuck up . . .
G: What? We could die?
D: LOL.
G: You’re not going to fuck up.
G: Don’t be nervous. Be excited. This is the last day of the rest of your life. Soon all your problems will be nothing, remember?
D: I know.
D: It’s just a big step, is all. Like, it’s hard to believe it’s actually here.
G: You’re going to be fine. I’ll talk you through it. Just keep it together one more day, okay?
D: Okay.
G: You start to feel weird about things, come to me. Nobody else. We’ll get through this together, right?
D: Okay.
G: Tomorrow, Dylan. It’s all happening.
D: Yeah, man.
G: Tomorrow.
D: Tomorrow.
<<<
Windermere looked up from the screen. “We need to find this kid, Stevens,” she said. “Like, now. Gruber’s got him at the breaking point.”
“It’s definitely him, right?” Stevens said. “This is Gruber.”
“Sure is. And he almost has this kid.” Windermere scrolled down the chat log. “Damn it, he’s been working him for months.”
Stevens checked his watch. “And it all leads up to today.”
“Exactly,” Windermere said. “We need to find this kid stat.”
< 71 >
Gruber didn’t sleep. He never could, not the night before he watched. There was too much excitement, too many emotions. The anticipation mainly, imagining how the prospect would act in those final moments, trying to predict his mental state, his resolve.
This time, of course, was different. This time, Gruber had Donovan, a roommate and a prison guard all rolled into one. The guy was desperate for the money; Gruber had heard him talking on the phone, knew he was looking for a way out. Knew if Dylan Price didn’t pan, Donovan would turn to that Smith & Wesson again.
Gruber tossed and turned beneath his flimsy sheet, his sleeping bag comforter. Listened to the trains shunting outside and tried to play out the next hours in his mind. Imagined watching Dylan in those final moments. Felt his heart race as he imagined the high drama of the act itself, then the glorious stillness.
Gruber thought about Sarah, too. He always did, the night before. Even during the act, he would catch himself picturing his stepsister, as if he were fifteen again, and watching not on a webcam but through that hole in the wall. He imagined that it was Sarah he was watching, Earl’s daughter who was dying, over and over again.
Gruber kicked the sheets off. Slid out of bed just as dawn’s first light appeared in the cracks between his dirty sheet curtains. It was Friday, Dylan’s big day. Gruber walked out of the bedroom and into his little kitchen, cleared some space on the cluttered counter and rinsed a mug out with tap water. Started the water to boil for his instant coffee. Checked in on Donovan in the living room. The kid was sacked out on the couch, that big revolver dangling from his hand. He was snoring, his head tilted back to the ceiling. Unaware, defenseless.
Gruber knew he could kill the kid right now. There was a carving knife in a kitchen drawer that would do the job, easy. He could walk over there and cut Donovan’s throat before the thug even woke up, before he figured out what was happening. Gruber watched Donovan for a while. Then he walked back into the kitchen and took out the knife, studied it, the way the blade caught the light.
You could do this. The thought sent electricity through his bloodstream. You could really watch him die, up close and personal.
But he would bleed all over the living room. Gruber would have to dispose of his body. And if Donovan woke up and started shooting, he could cause serious problems. Gruber didn’t want problems. He wanted to watch Dylan Price die. He wanted Donovan to leave him in peace.
Still, it wouldn’t hurt to build in a little insurance.
Gruber took the kitchen knife into the living room, quiet as he could. Slid open the bottom drawer of his computer desk, dropped the knife inside. Then he turned on his computer and opened his Internet browser, brought up The End forums. Logged in as Gabriel98, saw that Dylan had sent him a message overnight. Pushed his glasses up his nose and read.
Dad fucking threw out my vintage comic book collection before he left for D.C. Nerdy and weird, he said. Thousands of dollars destroyed. You were right. It doesn’t get better.
Let’s do this.
Gruber grinned. Sipped his coffee. Checked his computer, his video recording software. Turned and called to Donovan.
“Hope you’re ready, my friend,” he told the thug. “The show’s about to begin.”
< 72 >
“Pinned down D4Death’s IP address,” Windermere told Stevens, clutching a printout. “Registered to one Douglas Price, lives in Baltimore. Has a wife and a son, Dylan.”
“That’s the kid,” Stevens said. “Gruber called him Dylan in the chat log.”
Windermere was already reaching for the phone. “You call Baltimore PD,” she said. “I’m going to let Douglas Price know about his son’s big plan for the day.”
< 73 >
The phone wouldn’t stop ringing.
Dylan Price rolled over in bed, tucked his head underneath the covers and tried to block out the noise. The light. He’d raided his dad’s collection of single malts last night, the good stuff, figured if he drank himself into a stupor he’d probably feel better about the whole dying thing.
Now, though, Dylan had a serious headache. The sun was shining through his bedroom window and the phone kept ringing and ringing.
His parents were away—D.C., some conference for big-shot doctors, or whatever. They were gone, and he was home alone, and whoever was calling had never heard of voicemail. They must have phoned through the cycle like five times already.
“Freaking hell.” Dylan crawled out from under the covers. Sat on the edge of the bed for a moment. Then he stood, swaying a little, light-headed, and padded down the hall to his mom and dad’s bedroom and that stupid bleating phone.
“What?”
A pause. Then a woman’s voice. “Dylan?”
There was an urgency in her voice that set Dylan on edge. Made him suspicious, made his mind flash to that coil of yellow rope in the attic. “Yeah?”
“Dylan.” Now the woman sounded relieved. “Dylan, uh, are your parents home?”
“They’re gone,” Dylan told her. “Out of town for the weekend.”
“Out of town. Okay.” The woman paused again. “Is there anybody else at home with you? Any adults or anything?”
“Uh . . .” Dylan frowned, thinking the woman must be pulling a scam or something, something shady. “Why? Who are you and why are you calling?”
Another pause. Muffled voices. “Dylan,” the woman said, “my name is Carla Windermere. I’m a special agent with the FBI, and I need you to stay on the line with me, okay?”
>>>
Windermere held her breath, waiting for Dylan’s reply. Beside her, Stevens was on his own phone, relaying instructions to the Baltimore Police Department, Dylan Price’s address, an emergency, damn it.
They would have to find Douglas Price, too, Windermere was thinking. Get him home as soon as possible, get both parents involved.
But first, Windermere had to make sure she kept Dylan on the line. Knew if she screwed up and lost him, he was probably dead.
“FBI?” Dylan said slowly. “Like, the Federal Bureau of Investigation? What do you want with me? Is my dad in trouble?”
“Nobody’s in any trouble,” Windermere said. Choosing each word like it might make the difference. “I just need you to talk to me, okay? Let me know you’re all right, and we’ll get through this together.”
Dylan didn’t say anything. Windermere could picture him on the other end of the phone line, wavering a little, no doubt confused as hell.
“I still don’t understand,” Dylan said. “What is it you want?”
<<<
Dylan waited. The FBI agent didn’t say anything, seemed to be calculating a response.
“Just stay on the line,” she said at last, that note of urgency creeping back into her voice. “Can you do that for me, Dylan?”
The phone in Dylan’s hand was a cordless. He carried it out of his parents’ room and down the hall to his bedroom. Sat down in front of his computer, pressed a button, and the screen came to life. He logged in to the forum, typed a private message to Brandon. You there?
“Dylan?” the FBI agent said.
“I’m still here,” Dylan told her. “But you still never told me why you’re calling. Why should I even believe you’re an FBI agent?”
“Just bear with me, honey. Everything will be straightened out in a minute.”
On the computer, Brandon replied. Morning, sunshine. Ready for our big day?
Dylan read the message and relaxed a little. Everything was okay. Brandon was here. Whatever the FBI wanted, Dylan figured they could sort it out with his parents after the funeral.
“Sorry, but something’s come up,” he told the FBI agent. “I gotta let you go. I’m sure my dad can help you with whatever you need.”
“Wait,” the agent said. “Dylan, no. Don’t—”
“Bye,” Dylan told her. Ended the call.
On the computer screen, Brandon had written another message. You still down to do this?
Dylan surveyed his bedroom, savored the silence. His head was still pounding, that awful hangover. His comic books were mulch, and his dad was going to kill him for drinking all that scotch. FBI or no FBI, he couldn’t think of a reason to stay alive any longer.
Totally, he wrote back. Let’s get started.
< 74 >
Windermere stared at her phone. “He hung up on me,” she said, an abyssal silence on the other end of the line. “The kid just hung up, Stevens. Shit.”
Stevens was still on his phone, coordinating with the Baltimore PD. “Dispatcher’s put out an all-unit call,” he said. “Should have first responders at the kid’s place within ten minutes, tops.”
