Before Cain Strikes (20 page)

The briefing had already begun in the conference room. Karl Ziegler himself was addressing the twenty or so underpaid federal agents who crowded the chairs and along the available wall space. Esme snuck in beside Tom, who conveniently stood near the door.

“Miss me?” she asked, sotto voce.

“Who are you again?” he whispered back.

Esme ran her gaze along the dozens of annotated photographs on the walls, recognizing some of them from the cached website, but not recognizing most. These must have been the older ones culled today from the live site, which they could access with Grover’s password, which they had because of her. A little pride never hurt anyone.

“—and through examination of the message boards,” Ziegler intoned, “we’ve been able to associate and verify the information you see here. We have the names of the victims. We have in many cases the locations where their bodies were discovered. We have detailed confessions from their murderers, identified here with their user names. And we are compiling profiles on each of these user names, based on the murders they committed and on any messages they may have posted.”

Someone raised a hand. “Can you trace the user names to the computers they used to post the messages?”

Mineola Wu, who stood off to the side, answered that one. “No. The website is a closed system. What we need right now is to access its servers.”

“And where’s that?”

She hesitated. “Switzerland.”

“We’ve already been in touch with the Swiss government,” said Ziegler. “And we’re coordinating with the Agency and the State Department in trying to seize the servers.”

“Good luck with that,” Esme murmured. The Swiss were notoriously unforthcoming when it came to access. Any assets stored within their ever-neutral borders were secure and private. Housing the servers there had been a stroke of genius.

Another hand went up. “Why don’t we just shut the website down?”

“We could restrict it in the United States, but that would just alert Cain42 to burrow underground and any initiative we’d have gained here would be lost. We need to remember, our goal, ladies and gentlemen, is to track down the people who committed the vicious crimes you see on these walls. This has to proceed like any other undercover operation, and that means allowing them to continue what they’re doing for a little while longer. Every minute that passes, every post that’s made, we learn more information and we get closer to shutting down a national crime syndicate. This is progress, people. Now I have your individual assignments here. Let’s do this thing.”

The agents gathered around Ziegler.

“‘Let’s do this thing’?” echoed Esme.

Tom shrugged.

Mineola weaved through the crowd. “There’s something I need to show you,” she said, and led Tom and Esme to her workstation.

“This came right before the meeting.” She went to the message-board page and clicked on the “News” header. “We’re still trying to decide what to make of it.”

It was a post from Cain42, dated an hour ago.

“W
ell,” said Esme, “this is the best bad news I think I’ve ever seen.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“Best?” Mineola looked at them both in bewilderment. “He’s riling two thousand people to go on a killing spree!”

“That’s one way of looking at it.”

The tall Asian threw up her hands.
“Are you both out of your minds?”

“Should I explain?” Esme asked Tom.

“You explain,” Tom told Esme.

Esme explained.

“He’s forcing his followers to act under a deadline, which means, despite his warnings to the contrary, they’ll get sloppy. They’ll be easier to catch, and our rat-catchers are going to be on alert this weekend, you better believe it. Finally, we’re on the proactive side of the game, rather than the reactive side.”

“But that’s not even the best part,” added Tom.

“No, it’s not. The best part is the grand prize. Personally delivered by Cain42. Which means when Grover Kirk wins the prize, we get to meet the man himself,
and cart off his sorry ass to ADX Florence for the rest of his hopefully miserable life.”

“So all we have to do is kill the most people by Sunday night.”

Both Esme and Tom nodded.

“Allow me then to backtrack for a second to a previous question.”

“All right.”

“Are you both out of your minds?”

Both Esme and Tom smiled.

“We’re not going to really kill anyone,” said Tom.

“We’re going to fake it,” said Esme.

“How?”

“Why do you want to know?” Tom replied. “I thought fieldwork wasn’t your thing.”

“I’m not allowed to be curious?”

“Of course you are.” Esme smiled at her. “That’s what makes it a magic trick.”

“Let’s go talk to Ziegler,” said Tom.

“Do we have to?”

They ambled back to the conference room, where Karl Ziegler was handing out the last of the assignments to the last of the agents. Tom and Esme waited until those agents left before they entered the room.

“Piper, what’s the status of the Hoboken operation?”

“Our suspect will be back in town on Sunday. That’s when we’re bringing them in.”

“Thank you.” Karl collected his papers, then looked up quizzically at Esme. “Mrs. Stuart, why are you still here?”

So it was going to be like that. Okay.

“We know about the Great Hunt.”

Karl Ziegler shrugged. “It’s not your concern.”

“It’s not my…? Is that stick so far up your—”

“Karl,” Tom interrupted, “I feel so sorry for you.”

“Excuse me?” He raised an eyebrow. “And why’s that?”

“Every G15 in the Bureau must be salivating over this case. I can’t imagine the pressure you’re under. I’ll bet right now the director himself is angling to get this entire case moved to Washington.”

Karl didn’t reply.

“All these careers that hang in the balance…all these lives at stake…easy for the fat cats to lose sight of what’s important, isn’t it, Karl? But you and I know what matters, and it’s got nothing to do with politics or ambition. Because that’s what separates us from the bureaucrats, and you’re not a bureaucrat, are you, Karl?”

“I happen to admire bureaucracy, Piper. It’s the engine that powers the machine.”

“You can admire an engine without having to become a mechanic.”

Karl frowned.

Esme stepped in. “Look, we’re not here to steal away any of your thunder. We’re just here to help and fade back into the shadows. You want us to say the countermove was yours? We’ll sign whatever you want.”

“Which countermove would that be?”

They told him.

He ruminated.

Finally: “It’ll work.”

“Yes. It will.”

“It’s not going to be cheap,” he added.

“Neither is the promotion you’ll get for clearing a case like this, Karl.”

Karl eyeballed the two of them, and then nodded. “Do it.”

“Thank you,” said Esme, and she and Tom headed for the door.

“Mrs. Stuart? May I have a moment with you, please?”

“Uh, sure.”

Tom waited outside the conference room.

Karl closed the door.

“What’s up?” she asked.

“You tell me.”

“I…”

“You seem to have forgotten an essential fact.”

“And what’s that, Karl?”

“You’re no longer in the Bureau. You’re a consultant. You might think of yourself as some quasi-agent, but in reality, you belong on the sidelines and that’s where you yourself chose to be. But if you regret that decision…if you want to play, then you need to be wearing a uniform again. Otherwise, go home.”

“Is that an ultimatum?”

“No. Believe it or not, it’s advice. And I’ve a feeling I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know. Split priorities keep you from contributing all that you can. Trust me, I know.”

“Why, Karl…are you opening up to me?”

“You’re incorrigible.” He shook his head and opened the door. “Go enact this countermove of yours.”

He walked away.

“What was that about?” asked Tom.

Esme shrugged, implying ignorance, which was a lie. She knew exactly what that was about, and worse, she knew that Karl Ziegler was absolutely right. By having one foot at home and one foot in the Bureau, she didn’t belong to both. She belonged to neither. In theory, consulting had sounded like the perfect compromise. In
practice, it had eroded her family and diminished her capacity in the field. It was what Rafe had been saying all along.

She had to make a choice.

“So,” said Tom, “how about some overpriced New York takeout?”

“I…can’t,” she replied. “I told Rafe I’d be home.”

“So call him again.”

She hesitated, then thought of Sophie, and shook her head. “I need to be there.”

She could see the disappointment in Tom’s face, and she knew there was no way she could make him understand. She had tried so many times in the past. That was one of the reasons she’d left the Bureau in the first place, so many years ago.

“Are you sure? I can call Penelope Sue. We could get a quick bite across the street. I know she’d love to meet you.”

“I’m sorry, Tom. I can’t. I’ll be back tomorrow, and we’ll put together what we need to do for this weekend.”

“We can’t wait until tomorrow.”

She knew.

“We’ll have to start without you.”

She knew.

“Okay,” he said. “Get home safe.”

He touched her on her shoulder and walked away.

Oh, my God—Sophie
loved
eating out. Even though she never knew what to order, the food was always better. Now that she could read (and order for herself), she took her time. Her parents never seemed to mind. They always told her that she could order whatever she wanted (as long as it was off the children’s menu).

Tonight, at Michelangelo’s, she ordered spaghetti and meatballs. It was always a reliable choice, although it had taken her the better part of fifteen minutes to decide. Even after voicing her order to the waitress, a smiley redhead in a tuxedo who had a cool diamond stud in her right nostril, Sophie wanted to keep the menu and continue to read and read and read. Some of it was in Italian and some of it was in English, and if she studied it enough, she could maybe remember what the Italian meant…

…but she handed in the menu without complaint. She was a good girl. And besides, she didn’t want to upset the peace. This was the first time they had all been together in days, and it was wonderful.

Too bad Grandpa Les couldn’t come. Something about acid reflex. It probably was an old person’s disease, like the ones they have on TV with the people on the beach. Poor Grandpa Les. Sophie hoped he felt better really soon so he could teach her some more card tricks.

“Sophie bear, do you want some bread?”

“Sure, Daddy.”

He handed her the basket and she picked out one of the warm fresh-baked rolls. Why couldn’t they find rolls like this at Stop & Shop? She’d eat them all day. But maybe if she had rolls like this every day, they wouldn’t be as special. Life was complicated.

Michelangelo’s was by the water, not too far from the lighthouse. Although the weather was too cold for them to eat out on the patio, one whole wall of the restaurant was made of glass so everyone could look out at the ocean, so dark underneath the moon, as if God tipped over a giant bottle of black ink and it ran, ran, ran.

“Mommy?”

“Yes, Sophie?”

“How do fish see in the dark?”

Her mom frowned and scratched at her chin. “I don’t know. Maybe Daddy knows.”

“Daddy, how do fish see in the dark?”

“Fish?” He chewed a hunk of his roll and washed it down with some ice water. “I think it has something to do with, uh…”

Sophie waited expectantly. Both of her parents were very smart.

While she waited, she looked around the restaurant. The dominant color was red, which was logical since this was an Italian restaurant and Italian restaurants used a lot of tomatoes and tomatoes were red (except in the South, where, according to her friend Holly, the tomatoes were green). If some of the tomato sauce stained the walls, no one would notice because they were already red. Very sensible. Each of the tables had a small white candle at their center that flickered inside a glass cylinder. Sophie wondered if the cylinder in the center of her table was hot from the flame, and was tempted to investigate with her fingertips. Everyone who worked here wore tuxedos, even the women, which was funny. Sophie tried to imagine herself in a tuxedo. How silly. The owners probably were too lazy to buy different outfits for the men and the women. Did the cooks in the back wear tuxedos, too? That would have been even sillier.

“I think, uh,” her father said, “I think at night fish rely more on, uh, vibrations.”

“Vibrations?” echoed Sophie.

“So they don’t poke one another!” Esme explained, and then proceeded to poke-poke-poke Sophie in her ticklish spot to the left of her belly button. She laughed and laughed—she couldn’t control herself! Being tickled
made her lose complete control of her body. Her legs kicked up and her arms tried to push away her mother’s single index finger but still that single finger jumped up and down Sophie’s belly and still she laughed and laughed.

The arrival of the salads ended the torture. Sophie still felt giggly, but that soon passed as she gobbled down her lettuce and tomatoes and cucumbers and olives, all drenched in tangy Italian dressing. She didn’t eat her radishes. She ostracized them to the side of her bowl. Not even tangy Italian dressing could make radishes taste good.

Next came the entrées. Her spaghetti and meatballs was steaming, and she waited a few minutes for it to cool down. It smelled perfect. There were two meatballs the size of Ping-Pong balls and a steep hill of spaghetti, all as drenched in tomato sauce as her salad was in dressing. Dressing and sauce were kind of like frosting, Sophie decided.

Both of her parents ordered the lasagna. They, too, waited a little bit before eating, but instead of sipping water, they sipped wine. Sophie tried wine once, on New Year’s Eve. It tasted like grapes mixed with paint thinner, and the only reason she knew what paint thinner tasted like was because—

“Sophie?”

She looked up at her father. While she was daydreaming, he apparently had asked her a question. “Huh?”

“I said, are you excited about Thanksgiving break?”

She nodded. Thanksgiving break started next Wednesday and lasted all the way until Monday. On Tuesday, they were having a Thanksgiving parade at her school. She wasn’t going to dress up—that was so kindergarten—but she was looking forward to the movie. Every
year before Thanksgiving break, all the classes gathered in the auditorium and watched a movie projected on a big screen. Last year it had been
Pocahontas
. What would this year’s movie be?

Her meal cooled to a nonpainful level, Sophie dug in, and vacuumed up her spaghetti. She knew she was supposed to wrap it around her fork and eat it like a lady, but that took too long. She didn’t want it to get cold. The heat was part of what made it so good!

“Slow down, Sophie. You’ll get heartburn like Grandpa.”

“I thought he had acid reflex.”

“Acid reflux,” her father corrected. “And that’s the same thing.”

“So acid is burning his heart?”

“Kind of. But it just hurts for a little while.”

Poor Grandpa.

After they were all finished, her mom asked if she had any room for dessert. Sophie very much wanted to try the ice cream—she’d seen another little girl eating it when they’d first arrived at the restaurant—but she was, tragically, too full. She didn’t even finish her second meatball. Just looking at it made her throat taste all sour and gross.

So they walked back to Dad’s car. Both her mom and her dad had the same type of car. It was a hybrid. That meant it ran on gas and electricity. But she’d learned in class that all cars needed gas and electricity. Some things, she noted, were just confusing on purpose.

A bigger mystery, though, was where they were headed. Would she be spending the night again at the lighthouse? She really loved it there. Going to sleep with the sound of the waves in the background was so peaceful. She imagined her blanket was a seashell and she
was inside and she was being rocked gently by the currents. Plus Mr. and Mrs. Worth were very friendly. Mrs. Worth let her eat all the cookies she wanted, and Mr. Worth said he needed her help repairing the outdoor shingles. How could she go home when he needed her help? Someone had to hold the nails while he hammered those new shingles beside the lighthouse windows. And what if their grandson Billy came to visit? Thanksgiving was coming up, after all.

However, if they were going home, she could sleep again in her bed, and she missed some of the dolls she’d neglected to bring with her, and she knew at least some of them missed her, too. The Amazon Queen probably was doing okay, but the others were very sensitive. Staying at the lighthouse was like a vacation, and she knew all vacations came to an end.

Her father braked at the stoplight. If he continued straight, that meant the lighthouse. If he took a left, that meant home. Which would it be?

The stoplight turned green.