The Watcher in the Wall (10 page)

Gruber finished ringing up their purchases. Took their money, bagged their junk food. The girl asked for a box of Marlboros, almost as an afterthought. Gruber rang those up, too. Didn’t even bother to card her.

He had bigger things to think about.

<
35
>

Windermere stayed late
at the office, worked into the night, scouring the Death Wish forum and Ashley Frey’s history for a way into the subject’s head. The Criminal Investigative Division was deserted, dead quiet, perfect working conditions. But Windermere wasn’t making any progress. Frey was a cipher; she didn’t leave clues.

The elevator dinged across the long rows of cubicles. Windermere ignored it, forgot the sound as soon as the echo died away. Stared at her computer screen and searched for an answer. Then someone knocked at her office door.

Mathers. He smiled in at her, sheepish, held up a bag of Thai takeout. “Date night,” he said. “Teach Mathers to Cook Day, remember? Did we reschedule again, and I missed the memo?”

Windermere stared at him until she got it. The freaking ceviche they were supposed to make together. They’d rain-checked the last time. Apparently, tonight was the night.

She looked back at her computer. “Give me a couple minutes, Derek,” she said. “I’m still working this Frey deal. Let me just finish up.”

“Take your time.” Mathers came into the office, sat in Stevens’s chair. Set the bag down in front of her, grease and glorious smells. “I figured you’d probably want to postpone our little cooking class, even if you didn’t tell me,” he said. “I brought nourishment.”

“Thanks.” She kept her eyes on her computer. Only, this time she wasn’t sure what she was looking for. Mainly, she was just hoping Mathers would leave.

But Mathers wasn’t getting the telepathic hint. He rooted in the bag, pulled out a paper carton, a pair of chopsticks. Chicken pad thai, panang beef. Windermere’s stomach grumbled despite herself. The bastard knew the way to her heart.

“I’ve been thinking about this case,” he said, chewing. “I know it has its hooks in you, more than most cases we’ve worked. I’ve been trying to figure out why.”

He paused, apparently to allow her to respond. Windermere ignored the opportunity. After a moment, Mathers continued.

“It’s about the kids, isn’t it?” he asked her. “That’s what’s different about this case. That’s why it’s affecting you. It’s that they’re kids, right? That’s what’s getting to you.”

She exhaled, closed her eyes. Pictured her old high school, the days after Rene Duclair, the way the halls were so quiet. Hushed voices, muffled sobs. Wanda Rose dabbing at her eyes like she and Rene had been best friends.

And then, a week later, the big game against Olive Branch. A pep rally, Wanda leading the cheer squad. No mention of Rene, as if she’d never existed.

Windermere remembered. She’d cheered as loud as the rest.

“Yeah, Derek,” she said. “It’s the kids.”

“I knew it.” Mathers was smiling a little, couldn’t meet her eyes. “It’s a tragedy, that’s for sure, but I have to say, Carla, it’s kind of cool that you actually
care
about these people.”

She frowned. “What are you talking about?”

He kind of blushed. Hemmed and hawed, like he’d jumped into the deep end and realized he couldn’t swim.

“I know we haven’t been together that long,” he said. “I guess I always wondered how you’d feel about starting a family someday. Like, I always thought you’d be against it, no debate, and maybe you are, but it’s still nice to see you caring about these kids.”

She stared at him. “That’s what you think this is?” she said slowly. “You think I’m freaking out because my maternal instinct suddenly decided to kick into gear?”

“I guess I don’t know what to think,” Mathers replied. “You won’t talk to me, Carla. I’m stuck throwing darts in the dark over here.”

“Did you forget who you’re talking to?” she asked him. “Do you know who I am, Derek? You’re asking me to bring more people into this world? To
raise
them?”

“Why not?” Mathers said. “You’re not as bad a person as you try to pretend. I think I know you pretty well by now, and I think you’d be a pretty good mother, if you wanted.”

Windermere laughed in his face. “Well, you’re wrong,” she said. “You don’t know me at all. I’m a piece of shit, Derek. You just don’t know it yet.”

Mathers leaned forward. Reached for her hand. She pulled it back.

“What on earth makes you say that?” he asked her. “How can you
feel that way? You’re the freaking Supercop, Carla. How many lives have you saved? How can you sit there and try and tell me that trash?”

Because I’m a monster,
Windermere thought.
Because there’s a girl who’s been dead, what, nearly twenty years, and she might still be alive if I was just a fraction of a decent human being, but I’m not.

She’d never told Mathers. Couldn’t do it, knew he’d leave her if he knew. Knew he’d tell everyone—Stevens, Harris, the whole goddamn Bureau. She couldn’t have that. Couldn’t deal with it. Especially not in the middle of this case.

She turned back to her computer instead. “I gotta get back to work, Derek. That means you have to go.”

He started to argue. Windermere cut him off.

“This case isn’t going to solve itself,” she told him. “Ashley Frey isn’t going to just show up in the lobby and reveal her true identity. That means I have to find her. That means you have to leave. I’ll see you back at home later, and we’ll forget this ever happened, okay?”

Mathers met her gaze, held it, seemed to be weighing his options. Finally, he deflated. “I’m worried about you, Carla,” he said.

“Don’t be,” she told him. “I’m the freaking Supercop, remember?” She eyed the cartons of food on the desk, felt her stomach growl again. “You want to do something nice for me?” she asked him. “Leave the pad thai when you go.”

<
36
>

Even with Windermere
pulling all-nighters at the office, the Ashley Frey case had stalled out.

“It’s been a week,” Windermere said when Stevens came into CID the next Monday. “I have Mathers scouring Urban Dictionary for the hottest new slang every day, and we still can’t get Frey to notice our profile.”

They’d played it cool, like they planned. Focused on building a presence in the forum, building their avatar—XXBlackDaysXX—into a fully realized personality. Mathers spent a couple hours a day trolling the forums, posting in current threads, making his own posts, juicy stuff, bait for Frey.
I’m sick of everything. Want to die. Help.

But Ashley Frey wasn’t biting.

“Says here she hasn’t even been online more than fifteen minutes, total, this past week,” Mathers told Stevens and Windermere. “Whatever our subject is doing, wherever and
whoever
she might be, she’s not focused on this site.”

“Keep trying,” Windermere told him. “She’s built a new profile because she wants a new victim. We damn well better be that victim, or another kid is going to die.”

In the meantime, Stevens and Windermere worked through the last remnants of their sex-trafficking case, closed the doors on the degenerate brothel owners and strip-club bosses who’d bought the young
women their prime target had imported. Closed the case, more or less, dropped the file on Harris’s desk and waited as he flipped through it.

“Good stuff,” he told them once he’d scanned the report. “Really good. Guess we’re just about ready to put that nasty business to bed, huh?”

“Done and done,” Stevens told the SAC. “At this point, we’re pretty confident we nailed every scumbag who even thought about buying a woman from those bastards.”

Harris slid the file aside. “And what about the current case? Any progress?”

“Nothing concrete,” Stevens said. “Our subject opened a new account on the Death Wish forum last week. Same Ashley Frey alias. We’ve been trying to attract her attention, but she’s been offline more than she’s been on. When she comes back, we’ll be ready.”

Harris thought it over. “How many of these forums do you think there could be?”

“Tons,” Windermere said. “The Death Wish site is the biggest, but there are others of comparable size. And smaller ones, too, more specialized. Newsgroups and the like.”

“But you’ve only traced this Frey person through the one big site,” Harris said. “You think there’s a chance he or she could be trolling the other sites, too?”

Stevens and Windermere looked at each other
.
“It’s a definite possibility, sir,” Windermere told Harris. “We only have a lock on the Death Wish account. No way to trace her to the other forums.”

“So she could be working her next victim as we speak,” Harris said. “On one of the other forums. And we might never know about it.”

“That’s correct, sir,” Windermere said.

“We need to change that,” Harris told them. He stood. “You closed
your big case. Did a fine job of it, too. Let’s focus our resources on this one right away. Get your subject’s attention back, and hurry.”

<
37
>

Gruber had logged on
to The End to cultivate Dylan Price. More and more, it was DarlingMadison who commanded his real attention.

They’d spent a week together now. Madison still believed he was Brandon, some disenfranchised musician type from the Midwest. Gruber played up the Jim Morrison vibe, the aimless, nihilistic artist angle. Told Madison he just didn’t
care
enough to keep living, wanted to go out in a blaze of glory.

People act like they’re going to wake up one day and their lives will suddenly be awesome,
he’d written her.
It’s just a lie they tell themselves to get through the torture. Fact: Your teenage years are the best years of your life. It doesn’t get any better. So if it’s not awesome now, you’re pretty much fucked.

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.