Andrew Vachss - Choice of Evil

I did it, thinking how on the money Terry had been.

“Okay,” she said. “But why would he—?”

“Doesn’t matter,” I told her. “It’s just a word. One he’ll recognize. You got a secure address? For yourself, I mean. One he could go to with an answer if he wanted?”

“I can make one,” she said confidently. “Take about a minute. No problem. What do you want me to do, exactly?”

“Look, I’m no pro at this stuff. You said a couple of things, remember? One, people are looking for him on the Net, right? And two, he could be out there. . .”

“Lurking.”

“Yeah. Lurking. He could see the traffic. . . but without him banging in, nobody would know he was there?”

“Sure.”

“Okay. So I want to send him a message too. Only I don’t want to make it public. And I don’t have his address. You could post like a. . . I don’t know. . . general message for him, only put it into encryption, so he’d need a program to open it and read it?”

“I could do that. But if the message itself said it was encrypted, and I used one of the regular programs—to make it encrypted, see?—anyone could open the message if they had the same program.”

“And he’d know that?”

“Yes,” she said, in one of those elongated “Isn’t it obvious?” tones all young girls can do.

“Doesn’t matter,” I said, maybe trying to convince myself. “I’ll be able to figure out who’s who.”

“Okay. So exactly what do you want to say? And is it context-sensitive?”

“What’s that mean?”

“Oh. Well, it just means, does it have to be exactly in a certain form. Like, if you wrote it like a regular sentence, you know, with capital letters and periods and all, and I just sent it in all lower-case, would that matter?”

“No. I don’t care. Here’s all I want to say, all right?”

She nodded, pencil poised.

“You just address it to him, right? To ‘Homo Erectus,’ yes?”

“Sure. And I’ll multi-post it. If he’s lurking on any of the newsgroups or on BBS stuff, he’ll see it.”

“Okay, say this: ‘I am the real thing, same as you. Here’s proof: “velociraptor.”’ Put that in quotes, okay? ‘I am not a cop. I have something you need.’ ”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it. If he sends you a message. . .”

“Oh, I’ll get lots of messages,” she assured me. “Problem’ll be telling if any of them are him.”

“I think I can do that. . . if he bites. Just get word to me. I’m counting on you, all right, Xyla?”

“I’m straight-edge,” she said, finger flicking at one of her razor earrings.

I sat there for a long time after Xyla left, thinking it through. Even if the killer got in touch, I wouldn’t be any closer to him, not really. Sure, he had to be in the city—or, at least, he had to have been in the city—to do his work. But he could have already vanished. All we really had was his footprints. And, like the Prof had said about Wesley, that trail only ran backward.

Still, I couldn’t see this guy living some double life. Couldn’t see him as a stockbroker or running a bodega. He wasn’t making his own porno flicks, the way a lot of serial killers do. And he didn’t roam the way most of them do either. He had no definable piece of work he had to finish—the way a mass murderer who comes into the workplace shooting and then eats his own gun does, or a wife-beater under an order of protection who’s going to take himself out as soon as he blows her away.

No, this one was a different breed. And he was. . . close. Had to be. As if he wasn’t so much compelled to do his work as to see its results.

Maybe he was just nuts. Or I was. I couldn’t track him in my mind the way I could other kinds of predators. Those, I knew about. Spent my life with them. They raised me. I did time with them. And I studied them close—because I knew someday I’d be hunting them. That was the prayer I put myself to sleep with every night, from when I was a little child. That I wouldn’t be prey. Inside, where I ended up, there was only one alternative to that.

That’s why he said he was doing it too—revenge. But I couldn’t connect with him. Couldn’t see him. . . feel him. Nothing.

“Burke, you take this one, okay? Say important.”

“Huh?” I felt Mama’s hand on my shoulder. Figured out she must mean the phone. Glanced at my watch. I’d been there. . . Jesus, almost three hours. That kind of thing happened to me every once in a while, but ever since I’d lost my. . . home, I guess. . . it was happening a lot.

I got up, walked to the back, picked up the dangling receiver.

“What?” is all I said.

“It’s me.” Wolfe’s voice. “I have your stuff.”

“Great. When can I—?”

“Now, if you want. Remember where we were the last time you saw Bruiser do his stuff?”

“Sure.”

“An hour?”

“I’ll be there,” I promised.

There’s places along the Hudson River where you can pull over. Sort of big parking lots. Maybe the city planners thought the rich folks on Riverside Drive would promenade over for picnics, who knows? Today, the spots are used for everything from romance to rape. Daytime, they’re pretty full, especially when the weather gets nice. At night, it’s a little different, but there’s enough room to give everybody space to operate, and the assortment of cars parked there didn’t set off any of my alarms.

I backed the Plymouth into an empty space—too near the middle for my taste, but the corners were already occupied. I was twenty minutes ahead of the meet, so I kicked back and watched.

It wasn’t long before that rolling oil refinery Wolfe calls a car rumbled in. I shuddered as she reversed, slowly and deliberately, then backed in so she was close to me. . . but this time she missed by a couple of feet. I opened my door and waited, not surprised to see that malevolent Rottweiler of hers jump right out the passenger-side window and pin me balefully, waiting for the word.

“Bruiser, behave yourself,” Wolfe told him. Not a command I’d ever heard for a dog before, but the brute seemed to understand, visibly relaxing. At least as far as I was concerned—his heavy head swiveled as he swept the surrounding area, maybe remembering the last time Wolfe had met me here. Some clowns in a four-by didn’t see me—just Wolfe standing alone—and thought they’d try their luck. Then they saw Bruiser coming for them—a skell-seeking missile already locked on to his target—just in time and peeled out before he could do his job.

“I got it,” Wolfe said by way of greeting.

I hadn’t expected a hug and a kiss, but this was a bit cold-edged, even for her.

“You also got a problem?” I asked her, getting right to it, ignoring the cheap white plastic briefcase she held in one hand.

“I might have,” she said evenly. “The word’s out that your. . . friend may be back.”

“You believing rumors now?”

“Not any more than usual. But I know a trademark when I see one.”

“Spell it out,” I said quietly, understanding now why she wanted the meet outdoors.

“I’m still. . . in touch,” Wolfe said. Not news to me. The cops Wolfe had worked with for so many years hadn’t broken off contact when she’d gone outlaw. They knew what she trafficked in, and they’d made more than one beautiful bust off info she’d provided. The only way she could walk into a courtroom and own it the way she had for so long as a prosecutor would be as a defense attorney, and she just wouldn’t go the side-switching route like so many ex-DAs. So, even though her license was gathering dust, she was still law enforcement in the eyes of a lot of working cops.