Tell No One

“Okay,” she said. “So at eight-fifteen tomorrow night, the next message is supposed to come in, right?”

I nodded.

“So we wait until then.”

She put the cigarette back in the pack.

“You don’t think it’s crazy?”

Shauna shrugged. “Irrelevant,” she said.

“Meaning?”

“There are several possibilities that’d explain what you just said.”

“Including insanity.”

“Yeah, sure, that’s a strong one. But what’s the point of hypothesizing negatively right now? Let’s just assume it’s true. Let’s just assume you saw what you saw and that Elizabeth is still alive. If we’re wrong, hey, we’ll learn that soon enough. If we’re right …” She knitted her eyebrows, thought about it, shook her head. “Christ, I hope like hell we’re right.”

I smiled at her. “I love you, you know.”

“Yeah,” she said. “Everyone does.”

When I got home, I poured myself one last quick drink. I took a deep sip and let the warm liquor travel to destinations well known. Yes, I drink. But I’m not a drunk. That’s not denial. I know I flirt with being an alcoholic. I also know that flirting with alcoholism is about as safe as flirting with a mobster’s underage daughter. But so far, the flirting hasn’t led to coupling. I’m smart enough to know that might not last.

Chloe sidled up to me with her customary expression that could be summed up thusly: “Food, walk, food, walk.” Dogs are wonderfully consistent. I tossed her a treat and took her for a stroll around the block. The cold air felt good in my lungs, but walking never cleared my head. Walking is, in fact, a tremendous bore. But I liked watching Chloe walk. I know that sounds queer, but a dog derives such pleasure from this simple activity. It made me Zen-happy to watch her.

Back home I moved quietly toward my bedroom. Chloe followed me. Grandpa was asleep. So was his new nurse. She snored with a cartoonlike, high-pitched exhale. I flipped on my computer and wondered why Sheriff Lowell hadn’t called me back. I thought about calling him, though the time was nearing midnight. Then I figured: tough.

I picked up the phone and dialed. Lowell had a cell phone. If he was sleeping, he could always turn it off, right?

He answered on the third ring. “Hello, Dr. Beck.”

His voice was tight. I also noted that I was no longer Doc.

“Why didn’t you call me back?” I asked.

“It was getting late,” he said. “I figured I’d catch you in the morning.”

“Why did you ask me about Sarah Goodhart?”

“Tomorrow,” he said.

“Pardon me?”

“It’s late, Dr. Beck. I’m off duty. Besides, I think I’d rather go over this with you in person.”

“Can’t you at least tell me—?”

“You’ll be at your clinic in the morning?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll call you then.”

He bade me a polite but firm good night and then he was gone. I stared at the phone and wondered what the hell that was all about.

Sleep was out of the question. I spent most of the night on the Web, surfing through various city street cams, hoping to stumble across the right one. Talk about the high-tech needle in the worldwide haystack.

At some point, I stopped and slipped under the covers. Part of being a doctor is patience. I constantly give children tests that have life-altering—if not life-ending—implications and tell them and their parents to wait for the results. They have no choice. Perhaps the same could be said for this situation. There were too many variables right now. Tomorrow, when I logged in at Bigfoot under the Bat Street user name and Teenage password, I might learn more.

I stared up at the ceiling for a while. Then I looked to my right—where Elizabeth had slept. I always fell asleep first. I used to lie like this and watch her with a book, her face in profile, totally focused on whatever she was reading. That was the last thing I saw before my eyes closed and I drifted off to sleep.

I rolled over and faced the other way.

At four in the morning, Larry Gandle looked over the bleached-blond locks of Eric Wu. Wu was incredibly disciplined. If he wasn’t working on his physical prowess, he was in front of a computer screen. His complexion had turned a sickly blue-white several thousand Web surfs ago, but that physique remained serious cement.

“Well?” Gandle said.

Wu popped the headphones off. Then he folded his marble-column arms across his chest. “I’m confused.”

“Tell me.”

“Dr. Beck has barely saved any of his emails. Just a few involving patients. Nothing personal. But then he gets two bizarre ones in the last two days.” Still not turning from the screen, Eric Wu handed two pieces of paper over his bowling ball of a shoulder. Larry Gandle looked at the emails and frowned.

“What do they mean?”

“I don’t know.”

Gandle skimmed the message that talked about clicking something at “kiss time.” He didn’t understand computers—nor did he want to understand them. His eyes traveled back up to the top of the sheet and he read the subject.

E.P. + D.B. and a bunch of lines.

Gandle thought about it. D.B. David Beck maybe? And E.P.…

The meaning landed on him like a dropped piano. He slowly handed the paper back to Wu.

“Who sent this?” Gandle asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Find out.”

“Impossible,” Wu said.

“Why?”

“The sender used an anonymous remailer.” Wu spoke with a patient, almost unearthly monotone. He used that same tone while discussing a weather report or ripping off a man’s cheek. “I won’t go into the computer jargon, but there is no way to trace it back.”

Gandle turned his attention to the other email, the one with the Bat Street and Teenage. He couldn’t make head or tail out of it.

“How about this one? Can you trace it back?”

Wu shook his head. “Also an anonymous remailer.”

“Did the same person send both?”

“Your guess would be as good as mine.”

“How about the content? Do you understand what either one is talking about?”

Wu hit a few keys and the first email popped up on the monitor. He pointed a thick, veiny finger at the screen. “See that blue lettering there? It’s a hyperlink. All Dr. Beck had to do was click it and it would take him someplace, probably a Web site.”