Shadow Man (32 page)

The normality of this lifts my hopes, for just a moment.

“Someone cut off all his legs. I have to put him down.” I stand, gaping. Poleaxed. Then his voice breaks. The clean, poignant break of a china plate hitting brick. “Who would do something like that, Smoky? I got home and he was there in the living room, trying to . . . trying to . . .” His grief makes him sound like he is gagging, as he finds the words. “Trying to crawl to me. There was blood everywhere, and he was making these awful sounds, like . . . like a baby. Looking at me with those eyes, it was like . . . he looked like he thought he’d done something
wrong.
Like he was asking me, ‘What, what did I do wrong? I’ll fix it, just tell me. See? I’m a good dog.’ ”

Tears track down my cheeks.

“Who would do something like that?”

If he really thought about it, he’d know who. What he’s really saying
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is that no one should exist who could do this. “Jack Jr. and friend, Leo. That’s who.”

I hear him gasp, and it is filled with agony.
“What?”

“They either did it or had someone do it. But it was them.”

I sense him putting it all together. “What they said in that e-mail . . .”

“Yeah.” Yes, Leo, I think. They do exist, and what they did to your dog, that was
nothing
to them.

A long, hard silence. I can imagine his thoughts. My dog was tortured because of who I am. Guilt coming home to roost, debilitating and awful. He clears his throat, a miserable sound. “Who else, Smoky?”

So I take a breath and I tell him. About Elaina and James. Omitting the specifics of Elaina’s illness. He’s quiet when I’m done. I wait him out.

“I’ll be fine.” It’s a short statement, and full of lies. But he’s letting me know he understands.

I say the phrase again, the one I’m growing to hate. “Call me if you need me.”

“Yeah.”

I hang up and stand there for a moment in my kitchen, forehead in one hand. I can’t get that picture out of my mind. Those pleading eyes.
What did I do wrong . . . ?
And the answer is a terrible one, all the more terrible because the dog will die never knowing the truth. Nothing. You did nothing wrong.

“They’re really turning up the volume,” Callie says.

“Yeah. I wanted you to know. Be careful.”

“Both ways on that, honey-love.”

“Don’t worry.”

After hanging up, I go to the kitchen table, sit down, put my head in my hands. This has been the worst day in a long time. I feel beaten up and I feel sad and I feel empty. I also feel alone. Callie had her daughter, Alan had Elaina. Who did I have? So I cry. It makes me feel silly and weak, but I do it because I can’t help it. It goes on long enough that it makes me feel angry, and I wipe
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my face with my hands, willing the weakness away. “Stop with the pity party already,” I growl to myself. “Fact is, this is your own fault. You wouldn’t let them come and be with you when you were hurting, so if you want to blame anyone, blame yourself.”

I feel anger building, and I go with it. It dries my eyes. Jack Jr. and his buddy were messing with my family. They were reaching into their lives and harming the most intimate parts of them.

“They’re dead meat,” I say to the empty house. Which makes me smile. Still loony after all these months, giving pep talks to the air. This is it, I realize. The new me. The way it’s going to stay. I still have the dragon waking up inside me, and I can still see the dark train and fire my gun. But I’m not built from straight lines and certainty anymore. I bounce and jostle, and parts of me get knocked out of place. I have a new feature: fragility. It is alien, I don’t really like it—but it’s the truth.

I move up the stairs toward my bedroom, feeling like I’m dragging chains behind me, I’m so tired. So much emotion.

I pass the little home office Matt had set up for us, and something makes me stop and peer in. I see my computer, dust-covered and unused for so many months. And I wonder. I sit down in front of it, wait as it powers up. Do I still have an Internet connection? I can’t remember how it’s billed. But I open up a browser and see that I do. I lean back for a moment, looking at the icon on my desktop that leads to my e-mail program. Thinking. I double-click it and it opens up. I hesitate for a moment, then click the
check mail
button. All kinds of things begin to download. Months of messages and spam ignored. What I thought I might see is there as well. The most recent message, sent just an hour ago. The subject is
How
Much Is That Doggy in the Window?

I feel energized by my hatred of him at this moment. I open it up, and read.

Dearest Smoky,

By now I'm sure that you've found I am a man of my word. Callie Thorne has had to face her daughter, Alan Washington's wife has to wonder if she's going to die. Poor Leo, he's grappling with the untimely demise of man's best
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friend. As for young James—well...I'm looking at Rosa as I write this. She's a bit worse for wear, but you would be amazed at the efficacy of the preserving fluids they use on the dead. Her eyes are gone, but her hair still looks lovely. Be sure to pass that along to James for me, will you? I think vengeance is the most effective way to sharpen a sword, don't you? Well, think about it. If you didn't think so before, I'm sure that you do now. How you all must want my blood! Perhaps some of you will even dream about it. Me, begging for mercy and receiving none. You, giving me a bullet in the head instead of a jail cell.

But there are two sides to this coin, and I wish to up the ante. To make something clear, if it is not already so: Nothing you hold dear is safe.

Hunt me well, because as long as I am out here, free to slink through the woods at the edges of civilization, I will take and take and take from you. These things I have now touched and taken will seem like nothing.

Every week that you fail to catch me, I will take something from each of you. I will take Callie Thorne's longlost daughter and grandchild. I will take Alan's wife. I will kill James's mother. On and on and on until everyone lives the life you do, Smoky. Until everything they love is gone, until their houses are empty and they are left with only one thing: the terrible knowledge that all of it happened because of who they are and what they do. I hope you know by now that I mean what I say. And I hope this ever-present gun to the head provides the final impetus needed to bring you all to a state of focused readiness. I need you, all of you, honed. I need you to have killer's eyes.

Now run along and do your best. You have one week. During that time, the things you love are safe. After that, I begin to eat your worlds, and your souls begin to die. Can you feel the excitement? I know that I can. Best of luck. From Hell,

Jack Jr.

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P.S. Agent Thorne, perhaps you are wondering—did I really take something from you? Perhaps, in truth, you feel I have done you a service by mistake. In some ways, this may be possible. But think upon it more. Perhaps I simply reminded you of what you have lost forever. Have you figured it out yet? What have you lost? I look at these words for a long, long time, sitting here in my empty home. I’m not sorrowful, or even angry. Instead, I am filled with what they wanted all along.

Certainty.

I will die before anyone else in my small family ends up as I have: talking to themselves as they weep alone.

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I
T IS MORNING,
and I have given the team an edited version of Jack Jr.’s e-mail. I look at them, take stock of my troops. They all look like hell. But they all look angry. No one is interested in talking about what happened. They want to hunt. And they look to me for guidance, waiting.

It’s funny, I think. Responsibility is such an easy coat to put on, such a hard one to take off. Just a week ago, I was thinking about blowing my brains out. Now they want me to tell them what to do.

“Well,” I say, “we’ve established one thing firmly.”

“What’s that?” Alan says.

“Jack Jr. and his buddy? They’re real assholes.”

There is a brief silence, and then everyone is laughing. Everyone except for James. Some of the tension leaves the room. Some of it.

“Listen up,” I say. “Round one goes to them, hands down. No question. But they’ve made a big mistake. They wanted us to want to get them, and they’ve gotten their wish. They have no idea what that means.” I pause, gauging their reaction. “They think they’re ahead of us. What else is new? They always think that. But we have fingerprints on one of them, and we know that there are two of them. We’re closing the gap. Okay?” Nods. “Good. So let’s get down to business. Tell me
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again what Dr. Child said about the profile on our killers, Callie, I wasn’t paying attention.”

Dr. Kenneth Child is one of the few profilers whose opinion I respect. I had asked Callie to get him a copy of all the information on Jack Jr. and to ask him for a consultation, soonest.

“He said to tell you that he read the letter and has some opinions, but he wants to wait until after he sees whatever is in the package. The one that’s supposed to arrive on the twentieth.” She shrugs. “He was pretty firm about it.”

I let it go. Dr. Child has never brushed me off. I’ll have to trust his instincts on this. I turn to Alan and Leo. “What’s the status on the warrant for Annie’s subscriber list?”

“We should have it in an hour,” Leo says.

“Good. Stay on that.” I snap my fingers. “Do we have someone from the LAPD bomb squad lined up?”

Alan nods. “Yep. They’re bringing a bomb sniffer with them.”

“Bomb sniffer” is the name given to a machine utilizing ion mobile spectrometry. In short, it can detect traces of ionized molecules that are specific to explosive materials.

Much debate had gone on about how to set things up for the twentieth. AD Jones wanted a SWAT team there, in case Jack Jr. or friend decided to make this delivery personally. I had nixed this idea.

“That’s not how they’ve operated so far,” I had said. “And that’s not how they’re going to operate now. I expect it to be simple. Regular delivery.”

He’d agreed after some protest. And after I’d made the point that bringing in SWAT would likely bring the media with it. He and I had seen eye-to-eye on having a bomb tech there, however. Not taking that precaution would be foolhardy.

“Something’s still bothering me about Annie’s file,” Alan says. He glances at James. “Be nice to get another point of view on it.”

“Help him out, James.”

James nods. He hasn’t said a single word this morning.

“There is another question that begs an answer, honey-love,” Callie murmurs. “How are they getting all their information? I mean—we found the bugs in Dr. Hillstead’s office, but medical records, my daughter?”

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“It’s not that hard,” Leo pipes up. We look at him. “Information just isn’t as secure as people think it is. Elaina’s medical records?” He shrugs. “A white coat and attitude, and you can walk just about anywhere in a hospital. Combine that with computer know-how, and you’ve hacked into the hospital servers. You can buy information, steal information, hack information.” He shrugs. “You’d be shocked at how easy it can be. I’ve seen it, working in Computer Crimes. Good hackers, or identity thieves, can get their hands on all kinds of personal data. Things that would surprise you.” He looks at Callie. “Give me a week, and I could find out everything about you. From your credit rating to what medications you take.” He looks around at all of us. “The stuff he’s come up with so far? Disturbing, I know. But not rocket science to acquire.”