Mortal Fear

I took the precaution of using curare prior to Jenny’s euthanization, to prevent her screaming or making any other sounds that might alarm May. But it was no use. As Bhagat and Kali struggled to get May onto the table, she spied a few drops of blood that had resulted from Jenny’s procedure. She began to shriek and flail, using her bound hands like a club. Even Kali could not frighten her into submission.

It was then that I made my mistake. I imagined that if I explained the simplicity of the procedure, and the remarkable benefits that would likely accrue to her because of it, May would calm down. But my speech had the opposite effect. When she heard me explain the necessity of opening the sternum, her face went white and she gripped her left arm. Needless to say, I attempted to save her, but it was useless. In four minutes she was dead.

She died of a massive myocardial infarction, and no one could have been more surprised than I. There were no relevant risk factors in her history. As unscientific as it may sound, I believe the woman died of pure terror. When she flatlined, doubt assailed me like a shadow. Should I stop? Should I go on?

Then I thought of Ponce de Leon, thrashing through the bug-infested jungles of Florida, fighting the mosquitoes and the mud and the alligators and the natives and disease, searching, ever searching for the mystical mythical Fountain of Youth. How the image of it must have burned inside his brain, gushing with pure shining water, liquid with restorative power, holding out its promise to mankind, the possibility of revoking God’s harshest decree. And all the time that poor Spaniard was carrying the true fountain with him, inside his head, millimeters from the very space where his seductive vision burned.

We know that now.

Soon I shall stand alone at the pinnacle of the species, the only man with the courage to reach into the fountain.

Soon I shall spit in the face of God.

FOURTEEN (#ulink_326f0f1d-e9a8-56c8-805c-5711f7b7371e)

It’s 10.30 A.M. and I am tired of talking to cops. Houston cops. L.A. cops. Oregon cops. San Francisco cops. Mill Creek, Michigan, cops. I’ve repeated the same story I told the New Orleans police and the FBI so many times that I know it like the Lord’s Prayer, and to detectives who seemed to be writing each word with the slowness of fourth graders practicing penmanship.

“Stupid sons of bitches!” I shout to my empty office. “You never heard of tape recorders?”

I feel a little better. Some of the cops I talked to want to arrest me, I could tell. Me, Miles, and the other seven people who have access to the master client list. All of them asked why we haven’t shut down EROS, and some yelled while they asked me. The Michigan cops were the worst, probably because they’re dealing with a kidnapping rather than a murder. I referred them all to Daniel Baxter of the FBI. Let them take their complaints to the Great Stone Face.

When the phone rings again, I grab it as if to smash it against my desk, but I restrain myself and put it to my ear.

“Harper, it’s me.” Drewe’s voice is tight with pent-up emotion.

“What is it? What happened?”

“A lot of things.”

A wave of heat rolls up my back and neck as an image of Erin flashes in my mind. “Where are you?”

“Woman’s Hospital.”

“Can you talk? What is it?”

“The FBI,” she says quietly.

“What? They called you?”

“No. They called my bosses. They called my friends.”

“What?”

“And not just the FBI. A detective from New Orleans called the hospital administrator and asked permission to question colleagues about me.”

Mayeux. “What kind of questions are they asking?”

“Embarrassing ones. Do I drink heavily. Do I ever bring you around the hospital, or even to Jackson. How you and I get along. Why don’t we have any kids.” Her voice cracks slightly at that. “Harper, this is not acceptable.”

“I know, babe. Goddamn it. I’ll try to see if I can do something about it.”

“You’ve got to do something about it. My world isn’t isolated like yours. The good opinion of these people is a prerequisite for keeping my privileges.”

“I get the message, Drewe. Let me make some phone calls.”

“Please do that. I’m being paged.”

And she is gone.

Let me make some phone calls. I said it with such confidence. Who the hell was I kidding? Am I going to call a New Orleans homicide detective and say, “Listen, shrimphead, leave my wife alone or take the fucking consequences!”

No.

Am I going to call Bob Anderson and say, “Dr. Anderson, it turns out I actually can’t take care of your little girl so could you please call the governor and ask him to get the FBI off our backs?”

Hell no.

Am I going to call the FBI and say, “Could you please stop questioning my wife about this murder case? She doesn’t like it.”

Maybe.

I take Baxter’s card from my wallet, punch in the number of Quantico, and ask for Agent Baxter.

“Special Agent Baxter is in the field at this time,” says a robotic female voice. “Would you like to leave voice mail?”

I decide to wake her up. “My name is Harper Cole,” I say too loudly. “I met with Baxter and Dr. Lenz about the Karin Wheat murder, and they told me to call immediately if I remembered anything vital to the case. Well, I have.”

“Where are you, Mr. Cole?” says a slightly less controlled voice.

“Home. And I don’t have much time.”

The voice finally becomes human. “Could you give me your number, please? Mr. Cole?”

“Baxter has it,” I snap, and hang up the phone. That ought to light a fire under somebody.

I sit down at the EROS computer, log in as SYSOP, and begin scanning the Level Two messages as they are posted. EROS traffic is basically unmoderated, which means we sysops do not screen or censor the communications of clients. This freedom is what allows Miles and me to run the busy service without much help. Certain types of communication are prohibited on EROS, and they are filtered by a simple but efficient program designed by Miles: he calls it “Ward Cleaver.” As messages are posted to the various areas of our servers, “Ward” automatically searches out all binary graphic files and references to children and deposits them in a special file called the Dumpster. (Actually, “Ward” lost his graphic filter three weeks ago.) At his leisure, Miles then attempts—usually with success—to track down the originators of these forbidden files. He doesn’t turn them over to the cops or anything. He just likes letting them know he can find them.

Theoretically, I’m supposed to be monitoring the various areas of EROS on a round-robin basis, doing what I can to assist new clients and helping to foster a sense of online community. But in the past few weeks I have become rather casual about that duty. More than a few of this morning’s messages are about Karin Wheat’s death. The themes are consistent: shock, denial, anger. Of course, none of the authors of these messages has any idea that Karin was an EROS client. They knew her only through her novels, which would interest most EROS clients, as they dealt with the darker side of the human psyche.

When my phone rings, I pick it up prepared to give Daniel Baxter a piece of my mind, but instead I find myself listening to the flat vowels of Dr. Arthur Lenz.

“You’ve remembered something of value, Mr. Cole?” he says.

“Where’s Baxter?”

“He’s not available just now.”

“Where are you, Doctor?”