James PATTERSON - The Big Bad Wolf

I would rather have given up my right arm than my little boy, though. Just thinking about it gave me a headache that throbbed continuously and made the long wait for a solution even worse.

The phone on my desk rang around ten on the second evening and I picked up right away. ‘Waiting for my call? How’s it going?’ It was Jamilla, and though she sounded close, she was all the way across country in California.

‘Sucks,’ I said. ‘I’m stuck in a small, windowless room with eight smelly FBI hackers.’

‘That good, huh? So I take it the Wolfman hasn’t called back with an answer.’

‘No. And it’s not just that.’ I told Jamilla about my phone call with Christine.

She wasn’t nearly as sympathetic as I was. ‘Who the hell does she think she is? She walked on her little boy. She was for all that time.’

‘It’s more complicated than that,’ I said.

‘No, it isn’t, Alex. You always like to give people the benefit of the doubt. You think people are basically good.’

‘I guess I do. That’s the reason I can do my job. Because most people are basically good and they don’t deserve the shit that gets heaped on them.’

Jamilla laughed. ‘Well, neither do you. Think about that. Neither does little A, Damon, Jannie, Nana Mama. Not that you asked for my opinion. I’ll shut up now. So what is going on with the case? Change the subject to something more pleasant.’

‘We’re waiting on this Russian hood and his creeped-out friends. I still don’t understand why he’s involved in a kidnapping ring.’

‘You’re at FBI headquarters, the Hoover cube?

‘Yes, but it’s not exactly a cube. It’s only seven stories on Pennsylvania Avenue, because of the D.C. building codes. And eleven stories in the back part of the building.’

‘Thanks for sharing that. You’re starting to sound like a Feebie. I’ll bet it feels weird to be in there.’

‘No, I just figure I’m on the fifth floor. Could be in either part of the building.’

‘Ha, ha. No, working the other side, the dark side. Being in the J. Edgar Hoover Building. Being a Feebie. Just thinking about it makes me shiver.’

‘The waiting is the same, Jam. The waiting’s always the same.’

‘At least you have good friends to talk to some of the time. At least you have some nice phone pals.’

‘I do, don’t I? And you’re right, it’s easier waiting here with you.’

‘I’m glad you feel that way. We need to see each other, Alex. We need to touch each other. There are things we have to talk about.’

‘I know that. As soon as this case is over. I promise. I’ll be on the first plane.’

Jamilla laughed again. ‘Well, get cracking, boy. Catch the big bad Wolf psycho bastard. Otherwise, I’ll be on my own plane East.’

‘Promise?’

‘Promise.’

A dozen or so agents had been sitting around eating thick roast beef sandwiches, German potato salad, and drinking iced tea when contact with the Wolf’s Den was made again. ‘Roast beef’ has a special meaning inside the FBI, but that was another story. The Wolf was calling.

Potter. We’ve made a decision on your request , the e-mail said. Get back to us .

The group continued to eat. We agreed there was no need to get back to the Wolf instantly. It would raise his suspicions if Potter was there waiting for the call. An agent was already playing the part of Dr Homer Taylor in Hanover at Dartmouth. We had spread a lie that the professor had the flu and wouldn’t be conducting any classes for the next day or two. Occasionally, ‘sightings’ of Professor Taylor were arranged at his house – sometimes looking out windows, or sitting out on the front porch. To our knowledge, no one else had inquired about Taylor at Dartmouth, or at his house in Webster. Both locations were being watched closely by agents.

I hoped that the agents in the field knew what the hell they were doing. At this point we had no idea how careful the Wolf was, or whether his suspicions had already been aroused. We didn’t know enough about the Russian. Not even if he had someone in the Bureau feeding him information.

It was agreed that I would wait an hour and a half, since I hadn’t been on-line when he established contact, and the Wolf would know that. During the past day we’d been unsuccessful in trying to connect the Wolf’s Den to an owner or even to one of the other users. This probably meant that a high-level hacker had protected the site well. The Bureau’s experts were confident they would breakthrough, but it hadn’t happened yet.

Homer Taylor had been transported to D.C. again, and we used his eyes for the retina scan. Then I sat down at a computer and began to type. I was following the model of communication to the Wolf’s Den provided by Homer Taylor as part of our deal.

This is Mr Potter , I began. Can I have my lover?

I waited for the Wolf to answer Potter’s insane question. We all did.

No response came. Shit. What had I done wrong? I’d gone too far, hadn’t I? He was clever. Somehow, he knew what we were up to. But how?

‘I’ll stay on for a while,’ I said as I looked around the room. ‘I want what he has to offer. He knows it. I’m supposed to be horny.’

This is Potter , I typed again, a few minutes later.

Suddenly words began to appear on my screen.

I read: Wolf: That’s redundant, Potter. I know who you are .

I typed some more words in Taylor’s strident ‘voice’. UR rude to make me wait like this. U know how I feel, what I’m going through .

Wolf: How could I? You’re the scary freak, Potter, not me .

I typed: Not so. UR the real freak. The cruellest of all .

Wolf: Why do you say that? You think I take hostages like you?

My heart raced. What did he mean by that? Did the Wolf have a hostage? Maybe more than one? Could Elizabeth Connelly still be alive after all this time? Or some other hostage? Maybe one we didn’t even know about?

Wolf: So tell me something, faggot. Prove yourself to me .

Prove myself? How? I waited for more instruction to come. But it didn’t.

I typed: What do U want to know? UR right – I’m horny. No, not really. I’m in love .

Wolf: What happened to Worcester? You were in love with him too .

The chat was heading into uncharted waters. I was guessing – hoping I could maintain continuity with things Homer Taylor might have shared before. The other question made me edgy: was this really the Wolf I was speaking to?

I typed, Francis was incapable of love. He made me very angry. He’s gone now, never to be heard from again .

Wolf: And there will be no repercussions?

I’m careful. Like U. I like my life; I don’t want to be caught. And I won’t be!!!

Wolf: Does that mean Worcester rests in pieces?

I wasn’t sure how to answer. With a cruel joke of my own? Something like that , I typed: UR funny .

Wolf: Be more specific. Give me the bloody details, Potter. Give!

Is this a test? I don’t need this shit .

Wolf: You know it is .

I typed: The septic tank. I told you that .

No response came from the Wolf. He was rubbing my nerves raw.

So when do I get my new boy? I typed.

A pause of several seconds.

Wolf: You have the money?

Of course I do .

Wolf: How much do you have?

I felt I knew the correct answer to that, but I couldn’t be sure. A week earlier, Taylor had taken one hundred twenty-five thousand dollars from his account with a money manager at Lehman in New York.