The Watcher in the Wall, page 9
I never thought about it like that, Madison replied. But I guess it makes sense. I don’t want to be miserable for another sixty years.
Of course not, Gruber wrote. It’s always better to go out with a bang than fade away with a whimper, right? Why not be remembered for something?
So, what? Madison wrote. What are you going to be remembered for?
I just want to show them the truth, Gruber told her. I want to show them it’s better to get out of this life on your own terms. Free yourself from this unhappiness.
I see, Madison wrote. And then she typed the sentence that proved she was hooked. Well, if you need a copilot on this deadly little misadventure, I might know somebody who’s free.
Gruber’s breath had caught when he’d read the message. He read it again, twice over, to make sure he was seeing it right.
Oh yeah? he wrote. You might, huh?
I might, Madison replied.
• • •
Madison lingered in Gruber’s mind, morning and night, kept him awake, restless in his tiny bed, thinking of ways to keep her attention, push her toward the end. She came to work with him, stored safe on his phone; he stole away at quiet moments to chat with her some more.
Today, though, when Gruber ducked into the break room to check his phone for messages, he found nothing new from DarlingMadison in his inbox. Nothing from Dylan. But there was an email notification from the Death Wish forum about a new private message. Some user named XXBlackDaysXX.
Hey. I’ve seen you around the site. Sounds like you know a little bit about getting things done. Do you have any tips for someone who’s ready to go?
Gruber read the message a couple of times. Studied the attached profile—the requisite moody description, a bland profile picture, nothing unique or special at all. Gruber had seen this boy around the site, read some of his posts and pegged him immediately for a poser. A time waster.
Adam Osing’s voice over the loudspeaker, jarring Gruber from his thoughts: “Randall, we need you in children’s wear. Bring a mop.”
Gruber ignored his boss. Reread the message. Normally, he might indulge this kid. Take a chance, try and draw him out, search for some latent weakness the user never knew he had, an absentee father or an unrequited crush, some secret shame. Find the kid’s buttons and press them until the poor bastard was made aware of life’s profound unfairness and misery, of the opportunity death had to erase pain. Gruber had never struck gold with any of these dilettantes, but he liked to imagine that one or two of them had wandered off and killed themselves anyway, after they’d logged off.
But Gruber already had Dylan and Madison. He wasn’t lacking for prospects. And frankly, this kid with his by-the-numbers profile description, his goofy, corn-fed picture, this kid annoyed Gruber. As if anyone would believe an asshole like this would ever do anything more than lurk in a suicide chat room. As if the kid believed his fanboy questions were worth a minute of Gruber’s time.
Osing’s voice on the loudspeaker again. “Randall Gruber, children’s wear. Mop and bucket. Now.”
Osing sounded tired. Frustrated. Fed up. Well, forget him. Gruber would deal with the situation in children’s wear in good time.
Gruber opened a reply. Typed fast.
You’re wasting my time. You’ll never do it.
Sent the message.
And that’s when the break-room door opened, and Osing was there. He stood in the doorway, took in the phone in Gruber’s hand, the open locker with DarlingMadison’s picture inside.
“Gruber,” he said, his voice granite-hard. “What did I tell you?”
< 38 >
A thousand miles away, Mathers’s computer chimed.
“Got a response,” he told Stevens and Windermere. He read it aloud. “‘You’re wasting my time. You’ll never do it.’ Not exactly promising.”
Stevens and Windermere looked at each other.
“She doesn’t believe you,” Stevens said.
“Yeah,” Mathers said. “So what the heck do I do about it?”
Windermere smacked his shoulder. “What do you do?” she said. “You make her believe, you big dummy.”
< 39 >
Gruber was almost home when he realized he’d left DarlingMadison’s picture taped up in his locker. He’d been in such a hurry to get out of there that he’d forgotten it.
Well, it was lost. True to his word, Osing had fired him. Kicked him out with a barely disguised satisfaction.
“I told you what I’d do if you kept playing on that phone,” he told Gruber as he escorted him to the front doors. “You had to test me, Randall, and now you’re out on your ass.”
Gruber hadn’t argued. He was sick of the job, anyway. They’d walked past children’s wear on the way to the exit, passed a screaming child and a harried mother and a puddle of puke on the dirty floor. Any other day, Gruber knew he’d be mopping it up. Today, he was free.
He rode the bus away from Osing and that shitty store, zoned out, thought about Dylan and Madison. Climbed off the bus and walked up the front steps of his tiny house, unlocked the door, and surveyed the place, dark and dingy, a kitchen and a cramped living room and a bedroom, light filtering in through greasy windows, sodden take-out containers and candy bar wrappers everywhere. It was a shithole. Even so, it was more than he could afford.
He would need money, fast. The snuff films he sold, Adrian Miller and the rest of the victims, they made a decent profit, sure, a tidy monthly stipend. Combined with his earnings from the store, Gruber could afford to pay rent and buy groceries each month, as long as he was careful. But now he’d been fired, and Osing hadn’t even paid him severance.
Gruber kicked off his shoes, shrugged off his coat. Crossed to the dark living room, the walls plastered with pictures of Sarah, of Madison, of the rest of the victims. With Earl’s picture, too, a couple of news articles. From when Earl went in, and when Earl came out.
Gruber turned on his computer and brought up his email account, began to compose a message.
I need an advance, he wrote. Two solid prospects. Good-looking kids, great video potential. Just need a little $$$ to keep me going until they’re ready to do it.
He sent the message. Wondered what his contact would think. Gruber had never asked for an advance before; he’d never needed one. But his product was top-of-the-line. He’d made them both plenty of money. Surely, the guy would see the value in keeping his best producer solvent.
Gruber’s contact didn’t write back right away. Gruber found a half-eaten bag of Cheetos, rummaged inside. Scanned the rest of his emails.
A reply from XXBlackDaysXX on the Death Wish forum: I’m dead serious about this. Just need a little help. Maybe a partner, if the timing is right.
Gruber rolled his eyes. Licked orange from his fingers and wiped them clean. What do you need a partner for? he wrote. This isn’t a team sport. Find a tall bridge and take a flying leap.
He pressed send. Sat back to wait. Checked his watch, his email inbox again. Nothing yet from his contact. But an answer from XXBlackDaysXX came back almost immediately.
I’m scared. I want to do it. I just don’t want to screw it up, you know?
Gruber leaned forward. You don’t want it, he wrote. If you wanted it, you’d be dead. Good-bye.
>>>
“Shit,” Windermere said. “You’re losing her, Derek. You can’t just throw yourself at her like a sacrificial lamb.”
“So, what?” Mathers said. “What do you want me to say?”
Windermere thought for a minute. “Give me the keyboard,” she said.
<<<
Gruber’s computer chimed. Another email. He opened his account, expecting a reply from his contact. A money transfer, best-case scenario.
But it wasn’t his contact. It was XXBlackDaysXX again. You’re scared, too, the message read. It’s obvious. You act like you’re some kind of big shot, but you’re still here, aren’t you? The only real measure of success on this site is a headstone and a six-foot hole in the ground. And you’re still breathing. So what’s up?
Gruber opened a reply. I’m working on something, he typed fast, punching the keys. I wouldn’t expect a poser like you to get it. Soon as I get my shit in order, I’m out of here.
Bull, XXBlackDaysXX replied. What kind of shit do you have to get in order? This isn’t complicated. Find a tall bridge and take a flying leap, remember?
<<<
“Bam.” Windermere sat back from the keyboard. “Let’s see how the little freak likes them apples.”
She watched the computer screen as she waited for her answer. Wondered if she was reading Ashley Frey right, if the subject would rise to the bait. Beside her, Stevens and Mathers hovered. She knew the men were wondering the same.
“Come on,” she muttered, refreshing the inbox. “Come on, come on, come on.”
>>>
Gruber’s fingers hovered over the keyboard as he plotted a response. He’d had enough of this kid, was trying to figure out the perfect way to tell him to screw off, when his computer chimed again. Another email.
Gruber switched back to his inbox, found what he’d been waiting for. An email from SevenBot, his contact. Gruber clicked it open, eager. Read the contents and felt like he’d run into a brick wall.
No can do, buddy. No advances. Pay to play, you know it. Get me something good, and I’ll transfer the $$$ ASAP.
End of message.
No money.
Gruber stared at his screen. Calculating. Running the numbers and feeling a pit in his stomach. The profits from the Adrian Miller tape weren’t nearly enough to pay the rent, put food in the fridge. To say nothing about the Internet and the power.
Another chime. Another message. XXBlackDaysXX: Cat got your tongue?
Shit.
Gruber stared at the screen, an idea forming in his head. His contact wanted new product. Gruber needed money, the faster the better.
Well, okay, he thought, studying XXBlackDaysXX’s profile. Let’s see if this punk is for real.
He opened a reply. Typed. I’ll do it if you do it. Tomorrow night, no pussying out. And you have to let me watch you on webcam.
< 40 >
“Tomorrow night,” Windermere said. “That give us enough time to pin down an ID and a location?”
Stevens thought about it. “Shoot,” he said. “A day? We’re really going to have to run the full-court press here, Carla.”
“Oh, we’ll bring the pain,” Windermere said. “I have Frey’s number now. Won’t take but six hours before the freak’s calling me Mama.”
Stevens grinned, and she knew that he’d bought it. Inside, though, Windermere didn’t feel half as confident.
Twenty-four hours, she thought. Clock is ticking. And once it hits zero and Ashley Frey calls your bluff, then what?
Your predator disappears into a puff of smoke, is what. Gone forever. You’ll never find her again.
And another five, ten, twenty kids are going to die.
< 41 >
As weird as it was to admit, life was kind of looking up in Madison Mackenzie’s world.
She still hated school. Crept through the halls, actively trying to avoid Lena Jane Poole and her gang of sycophants, hiding out at lunchtime and at the back of the classrooms, keeping her head down and trying to avoid speaking to anyone, learning anything, interacting with the outside world at all.
She followed pretty much the same strategy at home, too, steered clear of her mom and her sisters and spent most of the time in her bedroom, on her computer, talking to Gabriel98 on the forum.
It was strange. They were supposed to be figuring out how they wanted to die, plotting their particular blaze of glory. Superficially, anyway, that’s what they did. Brandon—that was his name, Gabriel98, Brandon—had always wanted to rent a Ferrari from one of those high-end car rental places, talked about getting really stoned and driving it off a cliff.
There weren’t any Ferraris for rent in Iowa, Brandon said. Anyway, I’m way underage. No way they’d let me take one.
There’s a Ferrari dealership in Tampa, Madison told him. We could steal one and go out together, Thelma and Louise–style.
Which one of us is Thelma? Brandon responded.
LOL, Madison wrote back. Dunno. I haven’t actually seen the movie.
It was fun to talk about. It was cool, even if it was only fantasy. Brandon was so nihilistic, so detached from the world. He was sensitive and thoughtful and—if the pictures on his Facebook page were any indication—really cute, too. Madison felt giddy when she talked to him, naive and silly and not at all worthy of his attention. She looked forward to their conversations every day.
I don’t even know why you’re wasting your time with me, she told him. You’re so much more advanced. You have this whole death thing figured out. I’m still trying to decide what I’m doing here.
That’s why I’m here, he wrote back. To help you realize your potential. To guide you along on your journey.
But why me? she wrote. I’m just some girl on the Internet. I’m nobody.
Brandon’s response was fast. You’re not nobody. You’re more special than you could ever know.
• • •
“What are you smiling about over there?”
Madison looked up from her phone. At the front of the classroom, Mr. Rhodes was droning on about the Louisiana Purchase. Madison wasn’t taking notes. Why bother?
“You’d better be careful,” the same voice said from beside her. “If Rhodes catches you with that thing, he’ll chuck it out the window.”
Madison slid her phone away. The source of the voice was some sandy-haired guy with a goofy Caught you in the act smile on his face. Paul, she thought his name was. Paul Dayton. He’d been sitting beside her for, what, a month already? Kept trying to catch her eye, like he was angling for a way to make conversation and couldn’t quite find the opening.
Madison ignored him. Pretended like she was making notes, doodled pictures in the margins of her notebook instead. A sports car. A cliff. Two people inside, speed lines behind. Nothing but the abyss ahead.
“It was the smile that did it,” Paul said. “Gave you away, I mean. You want to text people in class, you can’t be smiling like that. Believe me, nobody finds Robert Livingston that exciting.”
“Thanks,” Madison said. Drew more speed lines under the sports car. Stared straight ahead. She could feel Paul’s eyes on her, avoided his gaze until he turned away.
Just leave me alone, she thought. In a month or two, you won’t remember me, anyway.
< 42 >
Ashley Frey sent XXBlackDaysXX a message the next morning.
You still want to go through with this?
Windermere set down her coffee mug, settled in at the computer. Called Stevens over to watch. Damn right, she wrote. Why? You backing out already?
Just making sure. Don’t want to waste time.
So stop it, then, she wrote. What do I need to do?
Get a webcam, Frey replied. Preferably something high-def. Mount it somewhere where I can see what you’re doing.
“The voyeur stuff again,” Windermere told Stevens. “Just like with Adrian Miller and the others.”
You like to watch, huh? she wrote. What’s that all about?
Want to make sure you’re doing it right, Frey replied. What’s the point of doing this together if you screw up and fail?
“Gee, I dunno,” Windermere said aloud. “I guess you’d die alone?”
As soon as I’ve seen that you’ve done it, Frey continued, I’ll follow you. We’ll see each other on the other side.
Why do I have to go first? Windermere typed.
The response was instantaneous. You came to me, remember? No debate.
• • •
“We have to figure out a way to pin this girl down,” Stevens said, pacing the office. “If all the high-tech tracing stuff isn’t working, we’re going to have to go old-school.”
Windermere was busy staring at her computer screen. “Old-school?”
“You know, real policing?” Stevens said. “Interrogation. Probing conversations with the subject. Looking for weaknesses and exploiting them.”
“Is that how they used to do it?” Windermere said.
“How they still do it, where I come from,” Stevens told her. “You gotta be careful, though. You’re a sixteen-year-old boy, remember? Try not to sound like an FBI agent.”
Windermere gave him a look. “Do I sound like any other FBI agent you ever met in your life?”
• • •
She brought up the chat box and typed again. So why are you doing this, anyway?
Ashley Frey (as Azrael99) replied, What? Killing myself?
XXBlackDaysXX: Or whatever.
“Let’s see if she’ll rise to the bait,” Windermere told Stevens. “Sometimes all these assholes really want is to brag about all the sick shit they’re doing.”
Azrael: No reason to live anymore. Life sucks. The usual. Don’t reduce me to a pile of clichés.
BD: You’re reducing yourself. Why the forums? What brought you here?
A: Who cares? Why are you asking?
“Careful,” Stevens said. “You don’t want to rattle the cage too much.”
“Who’s rattling cages?” Windermere replied. “This freak’s trying to get people to kill themselves. She should damn well have a convincing argument.”
BD: I’m curious. We’re about to do something pretty intimate together. Here: I’ll go first. I’m doing this because I’m sick of being picked on at school. I have no friends and everyone makes fun of me for being clumsy and ugly and poor. I figure whatever’s in the afterlife has to be better than here, right? I’m better off dead.
