Michael Connelly - The Poet

"Sorry that's all I've got, Greg," I said. "Tell Jackson I'm sorry. So what's Sheedy going to do besides the press conference?"

Sheedy was an up-and-comer. She had recently been appointed to the go team-reporters who have packed suitcases in their car trunks and are ready to hit the road within minutes of any calamity, disaster or other breaking news story outside of Denver. I had been a go team reporter once. But after covering my third airline crash and talking to people whose loved ones had been reduced to crispy critters or found in small parts, the job got old and I went back to the cop beat.

"I don't know," Glenn said. "She'll hunt around. When are you coming back?"

"They want me to stay around in case the district attorney's office wants to interview me. I think by tomorrow I'll be done."

"Okay, well, if you hear anything let me know right away. And give them shit down at the front desk for not giving you my message. I'll pass this computer thing on to Jackson. I'll see ya, Jack."

"Okay. Oh, and Greg? My hand's okay."

"What?"

"I knew you were concerned. But it's feeling a lot better. It will probably be fine."

"Jack, I'm sorry. It's been one of those days."

"Yeah. I know. I'll see you."

The pain pill I had taken was beginning to kick in. The discomfort in my hand was subsiding and a calm current of relaxation was overtaking me. After I hung up with Glenn I connected the phone line back into my computer, engaged the fax program and transmitted the book proposal to the number the literary agent had given me. As I listened to the braying sound of the computers coupling, a thought hit me like a bolt. The calls I had made on the flight out to L.A.

I had been so concerned about proving and exposing Thorson as the leak to Warren, I had paid only passing attention to the other calls on his hotel bill, the calls I had repeated myself on the plane to L.A. One of them had been answered by the high-pitched tone of a computer in Florida, possibly at UCI in Raiford.

I grabbed my computer satchel off the bed, pulled out my notebooks and flipped through both of them but found no notes on the calls I had made on the plane. I remembered then that I had not written notes or the phone numbers down because I had not expected someone to steal the hotel bills from my room.

Clearing my mind of everything else, I tried to review the exact course of events on the plane. The main concern I'd had at the time was the record of the call to Warren that was on Thorson's bill. That had confirmed for me that Thorson was Warren's source. The other calls made from his room-though made within minutes of each other-had held little interest to me at the time.

I had not seen the number that Clearmountain had said was called the most often from Gladden's computer. I thought about calling him and asking for the number but I doubted that he would hand it over to a reporter without seeking approval from Rachel or Backus. And that would tip my hand, something that an instinct told me not to do yet.

I slid my Visa card out of my wallet and turned it over. After reconnecting the phone I dialed the 800 number on the credit card and told the operator I had a billing inquiry. After three minutes of Muzak, another operator came on the line and I asked if it was possible to check on charges added to my credit account as recently as three days earlier. After verifying my identity through my social security number and other details, she said she could check my records on the computer to see if the charges had been posted and I told her what I was looking for.

The calls had just been posted on the Visa billing computer. And the phone numbers I had called were also part of the billing record. In five minutes I had copied all the numbers I had called on the plane into my notebook, thanked the operator and hung up.

Once again I plugged the phone line into my computer. I opened the terminal window, typed in the phone number that had been called from Thorson's room and ran the program. I looked at the bedside clock. It was three here, six in Florida. There was one ring and then a connection. I heard the familiar squeal of computers meeting and then mating. My screen went blank and then a template printed across it.

____________________

WELCOME TO THE PTL CLUB

____________________

I exhaled, leaned back and felt a surge of electricity go through me. After a few seconds the screen moved up and there was a coded prompt for a user's password. I typed in EDGAR, noticing that my good hand was shaking as I did this. Edgar was approved and followed by a prompt for a second password. I typed in EDGAR PERRY. In a moment this, too, was approved and followed by a warning template.

____________________

PRAISE THE LORD!

____________________

RULES OF THE ROAD

1. NEVER EVER USE A REAL NAME

2. NEVER PROVIDE SYSTEMS NUMBERS TO ACQUAINTANCES

3. NEVER AGREE TO MEET ANOTHER USER

4. BE AWARE THAT OTHER USERS MAY BE FOREIGN BODIES

5. SYSOP RESERVES THE RIGHT TO DELETE ANY USER

6. MESSAGE BOARDS MAY NOT BE USED FOR DISCUSSION OF ANY ILLEGAL ACTIVITIES-THIS IS FORBIDDEN!

7. PTL NETWORK IS NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR CONTENT

8. PRESS ANY KEY TO CONTINUE

____________________

I hit RETURN and got a table of contents for the various message boards available to users. These were, as Clearmountain had said, a cornucopia of subjects catering to the modern pedophile. I hit the escape key and the computer asked if I wanted to exit PLT. I hit the yes prompt and disconnected. I wasn't interested in exploring the PTL Network at the moment. I was more interested in the fact that Thorson, or whoever had made that call early Sunday morning, knew about the PTL Network and even had access to it at least four days ago.

The call to the PTL board had been placed from Thorson's room so it seemed obvious that he had made the call. But I carefully considered other factors. The call to the PTL board had been made, as I recalled, within minutes of the call from the same room to Warren in Los Angeles. Thorson had vehemently denied being Warren's source on at least three occasions. Warren twice denied it as well, including after Thorson was dead and it didn't matter anymore if he had been the source. The seed planted by Warren during that second denial just a few hours before weighed on me now. It was blossoming in my mind into a flower of doubt I could not put aside.

If Warren and Thorson were to be believed, who had made the calls from Thorson's room? As the possibilities played through my mind they invariably came back with a dull thud in my chest to one person. Rachel.

It was the fermentation of various and unrelated facts that led me down this path.

First, Rachel had a laptop computer. This, of course, was the weakest piece. Thorson, Backus, everyone possessed or had access to a computer that would have allowed them to make the linkage to the PTL board. But second, Rachel was not in her room late Saturday night when I called and then even knocked. So where was she? Could she have gone to Thorson's room?

I considered the things Thorson had said to me about Rachel. He had called her the Painted Desert. But he had said something else. She can play with you… like a toy. One minute she wants to share it, the next she doesn't. She disappears on you.

And last, I thought of seeing Thorson in the hallway that night. I knew it had been after midnight by then and roughly near the times of the long distance calls placed from his room. As he had passed me in the hall I noticed he carried something. A small bag or a box. I now remembered the sound of the little zippered pocket opening in Rachel's purse and the condom-the one she carried for emergencies-being placed in my palm. And I thought of a way Rachel could have gotten Thorson out of his own room so that she could use the phone.