Thomas Perry - Runner

He knew that his father was having him watched, but he wasn't sure how. Richard had searched his office several times for bugs and cameras, but had found nothing. He still hadn't eliminated the possibility that Marlene was working for his father. He glanced at the small forest of tropical plants in the glassed-in atrium behind her. There could be a camera in every tree, for all he knew, and a microphone in each drawer of her desk. He wasn't prepared to have a discussion with his father about getting involved with another receptionist, so he took his coffee, returned to his office, and shut the door.

He sat at the desk, turned to his computer and looked at the list of screen names, and clicked on the first one, which was in his name. There was nothing from Christine, and there was nothing from Demming, and anything else barely mattered. He was devoting his full time to finding Christine. Then he patiently changed his screen name to each of the ones he had invented. He had sent e-mails to Christine from each of them about twice a week.

Richard opened Emma Peterson's mailbox, and saw that it had received its first piece of mail. He opened the e-mail and took in a quick breath. Christine had written to Emma Peterson. He could hardly believe it. He read the long paragraph eagerly, and felt the disappointment settle on his stomach. She wasn't writing to her old friend to reveal anything about what she'd been doing or where she was. She was giving her friend the final kiss-off. When Richard found virtually the same message in the e-mail for Alexis Donaldson, he was in despair. He almost closed it before he realized that this message had something more. There was a telephone number. He plucked a pen from the cup on his desk to copy it on paper. He pulled a sheet of white paper from the printer tray.

Richard knew that there was no need to do this, because all he had to do was save the e-mail or print it, and the information would be preserved. But he had an almost superstitious fear that the electrical impulses that had brought the e-mail would be cut off unexpectedly and the precious number would disappear forever. When he had written it down, he felt a heart-thumping moment of excitement. It was as though he had closed his hand to capture and hold a wild bird.

He clicked on Print to make the capture more secure, and when he saw the page slide out into the tray he felt a calm settle over him. He had done it. He had all but found Christine. He wanted to call his father on the phone. He wanted to say, "You old bastard, you self-righteous old sack of shit. You kept goading me and taunting me and saying you knew my girlfriend better than I did. Now I have her phone number, area code and all, and you've got nothing."

He knew he wouldn't do that. Even having the phone number wasn't good enough. The old man would say, "I was the one who had to tell you that the way to get to a twenty-year-old was the Internet." He would say that to his last breath, in the face of any evidence Richard put in front of his face to prove he had been using e-mails since the very beginning. He had put the fake e-mails out as bait in the first few days, and then had added more bait nearly every day to lure her in. That was why it was called phishing. And now he had hooked her.

Richard stepped out of the office, across the hall to the door that led to the parking lot. He went out, leaned on his car, and dialed Demming.

"Yeah?"

"It's me. I did it."

"Did what?"

"I set up some e-mail addresses that looked like they belonged to friends of hers. She just sent one of them her phone number."

"You didn't call it, did you?"

"No," he said. "You're the only call I've made."

"Then don't."

"I thought you'd congratulate me."

"I'm happy. It's good. I just don't know how good yet. It could be her house, but it could also be a cell phone that she got somewhere along the way. If it's a cell, then the number won't tell us where she is, only where she got it. We need to check it out before I say anything more. Give me the number."

Richard read the phone number.

"Area code 612," said Demming. "Give me a minute." Richard could hear Demming clicking the keys of a computer. "Minneapolis. The phone is from Minneapolis, anyway. Let me look into this, and I'll get back to you within a couple of hours." There was a brief pause, and then Demming said, "And Richard?"

"What?"

"You're ready for her, right?"

"What do you mean?"

"The house and everything? If we show up with her in a few days, you've got the place ready? She isn't going to wait until you're asleep and then walk out the front door again?"

"Oh, no. Don't worry. It's hard to know everything that could happen, but I think it's all set."

"I'm glad to hear that. But maybe I'll have Sybil take a look around this morning and see if she has any suggestions."

"That would be good," said Richard. "I'd appreciate that."

22

Linda Welles felt reluctant to go out tonight, but she wasn't quite sure why. Nothing had happened. It was nine in the evening, the time when she had found it was best to go out shopping. After night had fallen she usually felt a bit safer than in daylight. People were out, but not in such crowds, and they couldn't see her as well. The ones who were out buying groceries were too tired to pay much attention to her. They had worked all day, then probably cooked and washed dishes, then had to drag themselves out to buy more food, a process that would leave little time before going to bed and starting over tomorrow. As long as Linda was back home before around ten-thirty, the ratio of good people to people who made her nervous was very high.

The thought of the timing made her want to get started before more minutes went by. She picked up her list from the kitchen counter, put it into her purse, and went to the door. Before she took her hand out of the purse, she touched the center section, so she could feel the reassuring hard, round shape of the gun inside. She locked her door, walked down the hall to the back stairs, opened the steel door a few inches, and looked before she entered the underground garage. Linda was glad that nobody else was there, even though she knew it was not a wise preference. The more neighbors who knew her and watched out for her the safer she would be, but she didn't feel much like cheerful conversation right now. She got into her gray Passat, locked the doors, started the engine, drove to the ramp, and pressed the remote control to open the steel grate.

She drove up to street level, stopped to see if anyone was coming, and then whether there was anyone parked nearby, and drove out to the traffic signal at the entrance to the apartment complex. She drove the half mile to the parking lot of the big grocery store, turned left into the lot, and looked for a parking space. She felt the urge to park very close to the entrance this time, but she knew that impulse was laziness. It wasn't smart to have her car sitting right out there under the bright lights. People would see her get out of the Passat, and know that was where to wait for her when she came out. Linda drove to the far edge of the lot, where there was less light, and parked at the end of the last row of cars. She got out, locked the car door, dropped her keys in her purse, and took a few steps toward the store.

The car seemed to appear behind her rather than to drive up. Suddenly it was there, over her left shoulder. Doors opened, and two men lurched out toward her. It was a second before she recognized Steve Demming and realized the other must be Pete Tilton. She thought of the gun in her purse, slung the strap off her shoulder, but wasn't fast enough. Demming snatched the purse away from her and tossed it to Sybil Landreau. Linda tried to scream, but the two men were so strong and fast that they had her in the back seat of their car between them before she could make a sound, and one of them slapped a length of duct tape across her mouth, so her scream became a muffled moan. The doors slammed, and she could see Sybil Landreau moving quickly toward the gray Passat, fumbling in Linda's purse.