WEBCAM (22 page)

They hadn’t put him under for surgery, but whatever they’d given him was enough for him to lose all memory of the last few hours. Not a bad thing, either. The last thing he remembered was Dr. Jones digging a scalpel into his stitches, which was an ugly, and gross, thing to see no matter who it was happening to.

He was thirsty, and reached for the water cup next to his bed. His cell was also there. He’d left it on, and the battery was dead. Tom plugged in his charger, then pressed the call button on his bed. His male nurse had been replaced by an older, Asian woman.

“Do we know how my surgery went?”

“The doctor is really the best person to discuss that with you.”

“Is the doctor here?”

“He left.”

“So can you tell me anything?”

“I’ll see if I can find anything out. Is there anything else?”

“I think I missed dinner. Anything to eat?”

“Do you have any dietary considerations?”

“I’d prefer not to eat something lousy.”

She smiled. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thanks.”

Tom checked his phone. It had a 2% charge.

Joan hadn’t called. Neither had Roy.

He thought about calling Joan one more time. If he did it from the land line, maybe she wouldn’t know it was him and she’d finally pick up. And then…

And then, what?

If you had to fool your girlfriend into talking to you, the relationship was probably in trouble.

Instead of calling Joan, he went on Google and looked up the Tor thing Firoz had told him about, the browser that let you surf the deep web. He found out there was an onion browser for iPhones, downloaded it, and soon was poking around the darknet anonymously.

After quickly figuring out how to navigate, he went to a site called Ahmia.fi, a hidden-service search engine listing thousands of websites with names like
fzqnrlcvhkbgwdx5.onion
. Tom began to click on URLs.

Apparently, with Bitcoin, you could purchase practically anything, including all kinds of drugs (illegal and prescription), escorts, firearms, suppressors, cigarettes, electronics, passports, stolen credit card numbers, gift cards, counterfeit currency, and more drugs. You could hire assassins, hackers, and cyber bullies to target your enemies with online harassment or homemade computer viruses. There were a plethora of sites about mining bitcoins, most of them labelled
scam
by whoever did the labels on Ahmia.

Some sites were amateurish, looking like they were created with Dreamweaver back in ’99. Tom couldn’t imagine anyone, even the stupidest person on the planet, thinking they could get a real rocket launcher for the equivalent of four hundred dollars. But other sites looked like modern online retailers. Put some banana kush cannabis in your virtual shopping cart for only 0.0052 Bitcoin a gram. Add-on a hit of blotter acid for 0.0025.

Tom found it fascinating. Until it got weird.

While a firm believer in privacy and freedom, Tom grew increasingly uncomfortable surfing the hidden web. It was doubtful that the website selling leg-amputated Thai children—guaranteed to never run away—was legitimate. But the very idea of it was awful. And Tom knew that hate speech occurred on the Internet, but on darknet it went to a whole new level, with actual calls to violence. There were live webcams for things that were definitely illegal and non-consensual. There were pictures that made Fournier gangrene appear downright appealing.

On hunch, he searched for “
Fight the Feeling”
. As he suspected, the web owner had an onion site that mirrored the public one.

Though
mirror
probably wasn’t the right word. Rather than sex offenders trying to help one another avoid temptation, this forum had them trading tips on how not to get caught, tricks on how to seduce minors, advice on how much Rohypnol was needed to knock out a forty pound child.

According to the bot, the moderator was online.

There was a chat box. Tom turned his phone sideways so the onscreen keyboard was larger, then pecked out:

I’m looking for Erinyes.

Who’s looking?
came a quick reply.

Tom from Chicago.

There was no answer. Then, in a flurry of typing:

You pigs have sure done a number on my house.

He was chatting with The Snipper. Tom glanced at the phone, wondering if he could call Firoz to trace the…

Oh. Right. That was the point of darknet. No one could trace anyone.

Not me.
Tom typed.
I’m nursing my wounds. Your friend in the basement bit me.

You should see a doctor about that, Tom. That might get infected.

Thank you for your concern. He must have been a real bad boy for you to keep him locked up for years.

He was a very, very bad boy.

Did you enjoy keeping him chained up like a dog?

I have my job. You have yours. Do you enjoy your job, Tom?

I don’t like the violence.

Neither do I. But it has to be done.

Why does it have to be done?

I punish sinners. I give them Penance.

Aren’t you a sinner, too? We’re chatting on a site dedicated to helping child rapists.

I only help them by making them pure.

Castrating them is making them pure?

Of course it is. I’m saving their souls. And saving future victims.

How about the webcam models? How did you save Kendal Hefferton?

Women are different than men. You know this. Men can’t help themselves. They’re led around by their cocks. Remove the cock, remove the sin.

And women?

I can’t cut off something they don’t have. Their sins run deep inside. There is no way to remove it.

So you torture them to death?

I cleanse them, Tom. I make them pure. Some need more cleansing than others.

Webcam models named Kendal?

Kendals are the worst sinners of all.

Why is that? Was your mother named Kendal?

No.

Tom took a shot.
Was your mother named Lilyana?

I’ll tell you about my mother sometime.

What’s wrong with now?

I’m busy now. I’ve got to cleanse my next sinner.

That was exactly what Tom didn’t want to happen.
This chatting thing is so impersonal. How about we meet?

We will.

Now?

We’ll meet. But it won’t be how you imagine it.

So you’ve picked out the next Kendal?

Yes.

And you’re killing her tonight?

Cleansing isn’t killing, Tom. Your body has an expiration date. Your soul is eternal. If Kendal suffers for her sins while she’s alive, she’ll be saved in the afterlife.

Tom wracked his brain for the ancient Greek version of heaven.
Where? The Illusion Fields?

It’s the Elysian Fields. And don’t be stupid. That isn’t real.

But you believe you’re a Furie, don’t you? Is that real?

I am a product of my reality.

Tom recalled a conversation with a
psychopath named Torble
that went a lot like this one. The man seemed perfectly sane one minute, and then a raging loon the next.

Don’t kill anyone else. Please.

Are you willing to make a deal, Tom?

Sure. What do you want?

The response was immediate.
Castrate yourself.

Cut off my balls, and you won’t kill anyone else?

Yes. You have my word.

I need to think about it.

No time for that. This deal expires in thirty seconds. And that’s more than enough time to do the deed. I know, from experience.

Okay. I’ll do it.

So do it, Tom.

I need to find a knife.

Tom waited. Then he typed,
OK, got one.

Liar, Tom. The next whore I kill, I’m carving your name all over her body.

Erinyes left the chatroom, and the forum. Off to kill again.

And Tom had no idea what he could do to stop him.

CHAPTER 37

Erinyes goes through her mental checklist. What’s in the van, and what’s on her person?

Duct tape.

Butcher knife.

Cardboard box.

Hand truck.

Moving blankets.

Master keys.

WD-40.

Stun gun.

Gamma-Hydroxybutyric acid.

Ball gag.

Taurus 9mm with suppressor.

Adult diapers.

Ethyl ether.

Ammonia ampules.

Doorstop.

Antique ether mask.

Thank you, Internet. What Amazon and eBay can’t supply, the dark net does.

It’s 2
A.M.
, and Erinyes is both tired and riled up. The chat with the cop was strangely exhilarating. The voyeuristic aspect of it added to the excitement.

You got a knife, Tom?

No… you don’t. I know because I’m watching you on your cell phone camera.

Things have gotten more difficult. More complicated. Changing agendas at the last minute can lead to mistakes. But Erinyes is patient.

Erinyes is
patience
.

Slow and steady.

Silent and careful.

Erinyes is outside the sinner’s door.

She takes out his cell.

Uses the app.

Turns on the sinner’s phone.

Accesses her camera and speakers.

The room is dark. Only the sound of breathing.

The sinner is asleep.

Erinyes sprays inside the deadbolt lock with lubricating oil. She also sticks the thin, red tube into the door cracks and hinges, making sure everything gets a squirt.

The door used to squeak; Erinyes knows this from her online surveillance. Now, courtesy of the correct master key, it pushes open with a faint sigh.

Erinyes enters the dark, slipping inside quickly, securing the door behind her.

You shouldn’t have lied, Tom.

You should have made the deal, and cut your naughty man parts off.

Because now I’m inside your house.

And I’m going to record some video. Of me carving your name into Joan’s face.

CHAPTER 38

Joan awoke to a buzzing sound. It took her a moment to get her bearings.

I’m in bed. Tom’s bed. Had a night out with Trish. Drank too much.

Another buzz.

My phone. On the nightstand next to the bed.

Joan reached for it, squinting at the text message. It was from Trish, in all caps.

INDENTITY THEFT!!!!

As Joan puzzled over what that could mean, and why it warranted four exclamation points, a follow-up text appeared.

Roy didn’t go to Hilton! Someone cloned his credit card! He’s not cheating!!!

Joan texted back an emoji smiley face. Then she checked her messages.

Nothing new from Tom.

She frowned in the darkness. Joan still hadn’t listened to any of his previous messages. She had been waiting for him to come home, to deal with it in person.

Was he still at the hospital? Had that bite been more serious than Joan had guessed?

Or was he someplace else?

A bar?

A hotel?

With his incredibly hot, bisexual co-worker, Eva?

At work, chasing The Snipper?

Joan tried to tune into her feelings. Earlier, she’d been self-righteous in her anger. The man couldn’t even take a few days off work to spend time with her. Yet he thought proposing marriage—something Joan didn’t even want—was perfectly logical.

Marriage was a lifelong commitment, and Tom couldn’t even commit to a week.

She had a right to be mad.

But now, all Joan felt was concern.

Was Tom okay?

They’d had fights in the past. On more than one occasion, Joan had turned her phone off to let things calm down. And things always worked out.

Wait… wasn’t my phone off? How did it get back on?

Joan switched on the bedside light and sat up. The house looked empty.

But it didn’t feel empty. It felt like someone was in there. Watching her.

“Tom?”

As her heart rate kicked up, fear and common sense fought for control over Joan’s brain.

What was the likelihood someone had broken in, turned on Joan’s phone, and now was hiding somewhere?

Unlikely.

But Tom was a cop. He had enemies. He chased killers. Joan had looked evil in the eye before, and an ounce of prevention far outweighed a pound of cure. Fear is your body telling you something. You should listen.

Joan eyed the front door. It was only three meters away. She could run for it, get into the hallway, and then—

Then what?

Call the police? Tell them she thinks someone is in the house?

If she was wrong, she’d look foolish. She and Tom would be the butt of jokes forever within the Chicago Police Department.

Call Tom?

That was a better option. In fact, it was the perfect excuse to talk to him.

But what if he didn’t pick up? If he ignored her, like Joan had ignored him? Or if he was on a little bender at the neighborhood pub, like Joan had done earlier with Trish?