Mortal Fear (63 page)

Theyre not here. Margarets voice is cold. Im here with Holly.

Whos they?

Bob and Patrick. They went out to the cemetery to visit Erin.

At night?

Thats what they wanted to do. Theyre grown men.

Do they have a cellular phone?

No. They took Bobs old truck. You sound funny. Whats

I disconnect and dig Wes Killens cellular phone number out of my back pocket. My thumb is touching the keypad of the cordless when Berkmanns voice shocks me into stillness.

Whats the matter, Drewe?

Nothing. Why?

Your voice-recognition program is missing words, sending errors. As though youre under great stress.

Drewe looks back at me, her face pale. I motion for her to keep winging it while I dial Killens number.

I shouldnt be stressed? she says. After all youve told me about my husband?

What is Harper doing?

Wes Killen.

This is Harper Cole! I need you! Berkmanns alive!

I just got off the phone with Baxter, Killen says. Im running to my car right now. You know Mike Mayeux? New Orleans cop?

Yes.

Hes out there. At your place. Right now.

What?

He never thought Berkmann died in the crash. He took
a couple of days off to watch your place. He didnt want you to know. Wanted you to act natural.

Thank God! Look, there are two guys headed out to Erins grave. Family. Dont get panicky if you see lights.

I see lights now. Are you armed, Cole?

Ive got a thirty-eight revolver and a twenty-five auto. Through the phone I hear Killens car engine firing up.

Get into a bedroom, he says. Cut off the lights, put your wife under the bed, and get low in a corner with the thirty-eight. Make sure your hall lights on. If Berkmann opens the door, youll have him in silhouette. Easiest shot in the world. Blow him down.

Just hurry!

Ill be there in twenty minutes.

Drewe is speaking too rapidly now, her voice like a fraying cable. With the news about Mayeux pumping through me like amphetamines, I dial Sheriff Buckners office. As the phone rings, I peer out at the parked cruiser.

Sheriffs department.

This is Harper Cole. Give me Sheriff Buckner right now. Its life or death.

Who is this again, please?

I SAID NOW GODDAMN IT!

A match flares in the deputys car. It glows steadily, flickers, then disappears. The tiny orange ember of a cigarette takes its place. I touch the grip of the .38 at my belt, wondering whether I should fire through the window. One shot would bring both the deputy and Mayeux running, but Berkmann could be anywhere. He might be in a position to ambush both men without even breathing hard.

This is Sheriff Buckner. Who the hells this?

Harper Cole! Youve got to get somebody out here!

Cole? Ive already got somebody out there.

The killers here, damn it! Maybe outside my house!

What?

Radio the deputy you have here! But hes got to be careful. Berkmann could be

There is no sound so dead as a dead telephone. Very slowly, not wanting to believe it, I put down the cordless.

Drewe is still speaking into the headset. I watch her trail off, then wait for Berkmanns response.

There is none.

Drawing the .38 from my holster, I walk over and say softly in her ear: Berkmanns outside. He just cut the phone lines.

She closes her eyes like someone whos just been read a death sentence. I gently pull the headset off her and drop it beside the keyboard. Strangely, the modem still shows a live connection. Maybe Berkmann left the phone line to the EROS computer open. Hitting the space bar just in case, I ask Drewe where her gun is.

In my purse, she replies.

Wheres your purse?

In the bedroom.

Did you reload it?

Yes. She grips my forearm hard enough to cause pain and looks up with terror in her eyes. Harper, lets run! Get your keys and well run for the Explorer.

Hes expecting that. I lay an open hand against her cheek. We wouldnt have a chance.

Drewe? Speak to me.

At the sound of Berkmanns voice, Drewes eyes go blank as a stroke victims. He left the data line connected, I tell her, squeezing her shoulders. There are two cops outside. Answer him. If you can keep him occupied, well be okay.

Moving like a zombie, she dons the headset again. Im thinking, she says in a cracked voice.

What about?

Everything youve said.

Youre not being truthful, Drewe.

She hits the space bar again. For Gods sake, Harper! Weve got to run!

We cant. He could be anywhere. Were safer in here. Youve got to keep talking. Give Mayeux a chance.

She shakes her head. Were sitting ducks in here! I feel it. Wild hope flashes in her eyes. You said he didnt actually kill the EROS women! And we both have guns!

Listen to me, Drewe. I know he has a tranquilizer pistol. Hed probably shoot me with a dart to get me out of the way, then take you with him.

Her mouth drops open as the enormity of the danger sinks in. But... but what if we risk that? If he takes me, I could pretend to go along, then shoot him when I got a chance.

What if he shoots me with a forty-four Magnum instead of a dart? We dont know what hes got out there, Drewe.

We cant just sit here and wait for him!

I squeeze her shoulders again, trying to reassure her. Weve got no choice.

She jumps up from the chair and pulls away from me. God, why did you bring him here? How could you be so stupid?

Why isnt he talking? I ask, turning to the EROS screen.

At that instant the muffled crack of a gunshot bounces off the front of the house.

Drewe screams. Snatching her arm, I run for the door, praying that shot came from Mike Mayeuxs gun.

Could the deputy have shot him? she asks.

As my hand touches the doorknob, Berkmanns digital voice says:
I suppose we all know where we stand now.

I tear open the door and pull Drewe after me, up the dark hall and into the kitchen. We stare dumbfounded at the two-by-six planks I nailed across the pantry door yesterday. I start to break for the back door, then stop. The gunshot came from the front of the house, but I cant be sure who fired it. Its fifty feet from our back door to the edge of the cotton field. Fifty feet without cover. Handing Drewe the .38, I try to tear one of the planks down from the pantry door, but it doesnt budge. I plant my right foot against the door frame and yank again, but Drewe stops me.

What is it? I shout.

He knows about the tunnel! Remember he talked about you hoarding your gold like Midas? He could be in there right now!

I hesitate. If he is, the gunshot doesnt make sense. I think that crack was just a figure of speech.

You want to bet our lives on that? she asks, trying to pull me away from the door. Harper, listen to me! Im
sorry I lost it back there. You were right. Weve got to stay. If we run, we might get away, but
he
will too. Then what happens? A week or a month or a year from now he snatches me out of some parking lot? Or cuts your throat while youre sleeping?

Drewe has gone from blind panic to rigid control in less than a minute. What do you want to do? I ask.

You called for help, right? Even if he killed the cops outside, somebodys got to get here in fifteen or twenty minutes.

He could kill us twenty times in twenty minutes!

But does he
want
to? Listen! Hes still talking to me.

Shes right. Berkmanns digital voice is still droning up the hall. Somewhere outside our house, he is crouched over a notebook computer and cellular phone, too afraid or unsure to make his move.

He doesnt want to kill me, Drewe says, clutching my upper arm. He wants to take me with him. Thats why he hasnt broken into the house! I can control him, Harper.
Ive
got the power right now. I can keep him on a string for twenty minutes. You just be ready to shoot him if he tries to break in.

Suddenly I see a great irony. By declaring his desire to possess my wifeand by believing he has destroyed me in her eyesBerkmann has given me the upper hand. He has made Drewe
my
hostage.

We can do it! she insists, handing the .38 back to me. Twenty minutes.

An image of Michael Mayeux comes into my mind. That hardheaded Cajun could be stalking Berkmann right now.

Okay, I tell her. Move! Get back to the computer!

Drewe races into the hall and toward the office. I veer into the bedroom for her Charter Arms .25, then follow. When I reach the office door, I remember Wes Killens advice and switch on the hall light. Then I lock the office door behind me.

Drewe is already speaking into the EROS headset.

What was that gunshot? she asks.

Time is running out,
Berkmann replies.
We must act quickly.

What do you want from me?

I want you.

But... how? What do you want me to do?

Walk outside with your car keys. I have a plane nearby. We can be airborne in three minutes.

My chest constricts with panic. Drewe whirls to face me, stunned. I can scarcely speak. The strip Miles used, I whisper. He must have stolen a plane.

I thought your plane crashed, Drewe stammers.

Of course you did. But I never meant to leave without you, Drewe. I knew that as soon as I saw your picture. Fate used Harpers sins to bring me to you. And to stay near you, I had to appear to die. I would have come to you sooner, but you moved into your fathers house. There were guards. I had no way to contact you safely.

Drewe is shaking her head. Were you at my sisters burial?

Yes.

Did you leave sunglasses in her grave?

I dropped them. I couldnt risk retrieving them.

But... where have you been staying for the last two days?

In a cotton gin. I had electricity and water... all the necessities except food.

My God.

Time is short, Drewe. You were going to leave Harper anyway. Now you know how right that instinct was. Now you have a place to go. I am taking you to a future you cannot even imagine.

But....

I know Harper is there. You must convince him that to obstruct us means death.

Its not that simple. He has a gun, and its pointed at me. Hes not about to let me go anywhere.

Silence.

Then I shall kill him.

Let me talk to him, Edward, Drewe implores. Ill make him understand how it is.

This time Berkmann does not respond. Drewe reaches out and grips my left hand in hers. I clench the .38 in my
right, looking back over my shoulder at the window blinds.

Five minutes,
Berkmann says finally.
In five minutes you walk out the front door alone, or I set the house on fire.

Hes bluffing, I say, trying to believe it myself.

Drewe throws down the headset and hits the space bar. Weve got to run! Weve got to use the tunnel now!

I lay the .25 in her lap and shake my head. We cant run. We lost our chance. We dont know where he is now.

Hes going to set the house on fire!

He wont do it with you inside.

He might!

Something is working at the edge of my consciousness, like a comet too distant to see but hurtling toward me at great speed.

Harper!

We cant run. And he knows it. We already made our choice.

What if we tell him Im coming out, then just sit here in the dark? Hed have to come in for me. Then we could shoot him. Its two against one.

Berkmann knows about killing, Drewe. Its our house, but hes been here before. If we end up in the same room with him, were going to die.

She is near to hyperventilating, and she knows it. She clutches the .25 to her chest and shakes her head as if to shake off her terror. What about?

Please
be quiet, Drewe.

She groans and closes her eyes.

I turn away and gaze around the office. Somehow, I have to kill Edward Berkmann. But the gun in my hand is not the answer. Facing him down like John Wayne would be suicide. As I turn slowly, I am suddenly and keenly aware of Miles as he was on the morning he completed
his Trojan Horse program while Buckners men hammered on my front door. Desperate for time and needing to run, he looked around this room and realized that everything he needed to fool the police was right in front of him, if only he could see it in the proper light.

A minute has passed, but for me time is dilating with possibility. The seconds pass like cars on a distant train. Berkmann is smart. That is his talent. But talents are double-edged swords. I learned that the hard way. Maybe Berkmann is too smart for his own good. As the air conditioner kicks on, something trips in my brainan echo of my own voice just minutes ago.
Remember Dallas
....

Dallas. A jerky video image of an apartment. Men in black. A harmless-looking white computer on a floor, suddenly blooming into black nothingness....

My nerve endings thrumming, I turn faster, drinking in the contents of the room. The coat sculpture. My surviving guitars. The computers. The rack for my great grandfathers sword, which now lies in some evidence room in Yazoo City

Smaller,
says a voice in my head. I tighten my focus from macro to micro. Floppy disk case, stapler, VCR. Halogen desk lamp, flashlight, canned air for cleaning electronic gear. Air freshener Drewe left in here weeks ago, toner bottle for refilling printer cartridges

Harper, for Gods sake!

I hold up my hand, looking from the sleek black EROS computer to the boxy white Gateway 2000, then at the printers attached to each, and finally the keyboards.

Drewe.

What?

I want you to type Berkmann a note. On the Gateway.

What?

Please just do it.

What do I type? she asks, sitting down at the computer.

Go into WordPerfect. Double-space the note. Write it as if youre me. Tell Berkmann you hate his guts, that youre taking your wife out of the house, that hell never have her. Tell him to wait right where he is, because
youre coming back to kill him as soon as your wife is safe.

But its the wrong computer! Drewe protests. I cant send the message to him!

Just do it! But whatever you type, make the note longer than a single screen. You understand? Youve
got
to go a few lines past the first screen.

Okay, she says, tapping slowly at the keys.

I flip on the halogen lamp near the Gateway, then move to the door with the .38 and switch off the overhead light.

Where are you going? Drewe calls, her voice high and thin.

Ill be right back. Finish the note!

I close my left hand around the doorknob and slowly turn it. Berkmann could already be inside the house, but I dont think so. And Im going to be very quick.

One pull and Im sailing up the hallway with the office door shut behind me. Hard left, into the unused bedroom that holds the gun safe. Shifting the .38 to my left hand, I kneel before the safe, spin the combination lock back and forth to the numbers of my fathers birthday, and yank the handle. My right hand parts the thicket of antique muskets, grabs a black-and-yellow can, and gives it a shake. Three-quarters full. Then Im running again, the .38 held out in front like a ram.

Thank God! Drewe cries from the pool of light at the center of the room.

I shut and lock the office door. Did you finish the note?

Four lines past the bottom of the screen. Harper, what are you trying to do?

A moment of doubt as I reach into the bottom drawer of the desk. Nothing gets lost faster than tools. But this one I used less than a week ago.

What are you looking for!

My heart leaps as my hand closes around the screw starter. Im going to blow him to hell and gone.

What?

I hold the can from the gun safe under the light.

Black powder? she asks.

You got it. I flip open the top of the Hewlett-Packard
printer and pull out the black wedge-shaped toner cartridge. Drewe stays on my heels as I carry the cartridge into the bathroom.

Tell me what youre doing! she demands. Are you making some kind of bomb?

Yes. With the screw starter, I pop out the two pins in the left end of the cartridge, then flip it around and start on the right.

What are you going to do with it?

The fourth plug gives with a pop. Kill Berkmann, I tell her, dropping the plug into my pocket. I need you to clear out a space on the floor of the closet. Move all the shoes and things to one side.
Hurry
.

Okay.

After pulling off the cartridge cover, I turn the cartridge on end, exposing the inch-wide plug in the toner reservoir. It pulls out easily. I start to invert the cartridge over the toilet bowl, then realize how stupid that would be. The ink used by laser printers is a superfine black powder of plastic and metal that looks like coal dust and spreads like an eruption of volcanic ash. If I try to flush it down the toilet, the bathroom will look like a blind man tried to paint it with India ink. Instead, I flip open the cabinet that holds my dirty clothes hamper, stick the cartridge through, turn it on end, and shake it until the weight tells me its empty. Then I pull it out, wipe my hand on a towel, and drop the towel into the hamper.

I heard something! Drewe shouts. Outside!

Looking out of the bathroom, I see her pointing the .25 at one of the front windows. Just keep to the shadows, I tell her, running back to my desk.

With the empty toner cartridge braced against the floor, I press the sharp end of the screw starter against the plastic and bear down like a blacksmith, punching a hole clean through the wall of the toner reservoir. Then I punch another hole about a quarter inch from the first.

Hurry, Harper!

Covering the holes with my thumb, I begin filling the toner reservoir with black gunpowder.

Why did I have to write that message? Drewe asks.

Thats part of the detonator. Through the plug hole, I watch the level of the gunpowder rising.

I dont understand.

When you dont go outside, Berkmann will have no choice but to come in. Just like you said. I glance at my watch. Nearly three and a half minutes have passed.

If he sets the house on fire, well
have
to go out!

He wont do it. The gunpowder keeps rising. He wont take a chance on hurting you.

Where are we going to be when this bomb of yours blows up?

Right here.

Right here? In this room?

In the closet.

What?
Waiting for him to come in here with us and set it off?

Its the only way.

You said wed die if we wound up in the same room with him!

The toner reservoir is full. I stuff the plug back into the hole, then dig through the bottom drawer of my desk for wire cutters and electrical tape. I need wire too, but theres none in the drawer.

Stop for one second! Drewe shouts, squeezing my arm so hard I have to yank it away.

Damn it! I yell, trying desperately to think of some place in the office where there might be wire. Well be buried under clothes and everything else in the closet.

How big will the explosion be?

I dont know.

You dont
know
?

Like a pipe bomb. We might get hurt, okay? But
hell
be cut to pieces.

Drewe freezes, her mouth open. Did you hear that?

My eyes lock onto a Gibson ES-335 guitar hanging from its brace above my bed. What? I ask, jumping onto the bed with the wire cutters.

My God! Do you smell that?

The first snip pops the Gibsons high E-string with a twang like a cartoon ricochet. The second gives me the length of wire I need.

Gasoline! Drewe gasps. Thats
gas
!

Shes right. The sharp tang of high-octane gasoline is seeping into the room. Maybe through the air-conditioning ducts.

Hes bluffing, I tell her, cutting the guitar string into two three-inch lengths. I pull off my watch and hand it to her. Weve got forty seconds. Tell me when our times up.

With Drewe staring wildly at me, I reach into the open cartridge with the screw starter and feel for the corona wire. This ultra-thin filament electrically charges the magnetic drum that puts the ink in the right places on the page to form text. Holding up the wire with the tip of the screw starter, I stick two small pieces of tape to it, one on either side of the tool point. Then I snip the corona wire in half.

Twenty-five seconds, Drewe says in a tight voice.

I toss her the wire cutters. Cut the mouse off the Gateway!

Why?

Just do it! Throw it in the closet!

Using the tape scraps to guide me, I attach a short length of guitar string to each loose end of the corona wire. Then I carefully feed the two wires through the holes I punched in the toner reservoir and fix them in position with tape.

Times up!

Get some towels! I shout, snapping the cartridge cover back into place. Wet them in the bathtub!

You said he wouldnt do it! Drewe wails.

Get the towels!

Fumbling like a teenager with a condom, I pop in two plugs to anchor the cover, then run to the open printer and shove the cartridge home.

The moment I close the printers lid, I have a lethal bomb. But Edward Berkmann is the detonator, and for him to function properly, I have to make a nonfatal choice impossible. My hands fly across the keyboard, closing out possibilities for failure

Harper, stop it! Drewe pleads, standing beside me with two soaking wet towels.

Get in the closet!

I wont do it!

You want to die?

We
will
die if we do this!

Berkmanns digital voice paralyzes us both.
Five minutes have fallen into eternity. Where are you, Drewe?

She watches me like a kid with her finger plugged in a leaking ocean dike. Let me talk to him! she begs.

He doesnt want to talk! Get in the closet!

Her arms fall slack at her sides, letting the wet towels plop onto the floor. I cant, she says in a broken voice. Im sorry.

Ill drag her into the closet if I have to, but first I have to arm the bomb. I stare at the printer, my stomach near spasm.

Get back, Drewe.

Do you smell the gas, Harper?
Berkmann asks.
Are you ready to burn?

Fuck you! I yell. With the knowledge that it could be my last, I take a deep breath. Then I lay myself over the printer in case it blows prematurely, and hit the ON switch.

Nothing happens. The yellow and green status lights on the face of the printer glow, blink off, then come back on, indicating the unit is warmed up, on-line, and ready to print. And I am still alive.

Can you hear me, Edward?

I whirl, my heart pounding. Drewe is seated at the EROS computer with the headset on.

Yes. Come out, Drewe.

Harper wont let me! He thinks if I come out, youll burn the house with him in it. Or shoot him if he tries to come out.

We all have to take chances in life. Come out now.

I want to. Im going to try something, okay? Youre using a cell phone, arent you?

Stop playing games, Drewe. My patience is gone.

Im going to hook a telephone to this modem line. Then I can come to the window. Youll be able to see me then. We can work this out.

Berkmann doesnt reply.

What the hell are you doing? I hiss.

Drewe motions frantically for me to bring her a phone. I dont know what shes trying to do, but every minute that ticks past is a mile and a half closer for Wes Killen and Sheriff Buckner. I toss her the cordless and run for the answering machine that is its base.