This is perhaps the thing that rattles me the most. How long have I been on his mind? Is he going to be another Joseph Sands?
I'm afraid. I admit this to myself. I'm terrified.
So I keep feeding that rage, making myself more and more angry at him for making me feel that fear.
It doesn't dispel the fear completely.
But it'll see me through the moment.
35
I HAD TAKEN Alan and Elaina up on yesterday's offer of dinner. I needed some normality, and Elaina did not disappoint. She was looking better, closer to her old self. She got me to laugh more than once, and, most important, she drew multiple smiles from Bonnie. I could tell Bonnie was falling in love with her. I knew just how she felt.
Elaina is getting Bonnie ready to go home with me, and Alan and I are sitting together in the living room, waiting. It's a companionable silence.
'She seems to be doing good,' I say.
He nods. 'She's doing better. Bonnie's helped.'
'I'm glad.'
Bonnie bounds into the living room, ending the moment, with Elaina behind her. 'You ready to go, honey?' I ask her. She gives a smile and a nod. I stand up, hug Alan, hug Elaina, give Elaina a kiss on the cheek.
'Alan told you we're starting early tomorrow?'
'He told me.'
'It's going to be okay if I bring Bonnie by at seven?'
She smiles, reaches down, and ruffles Bonnie's hair. Bonnie looks back up at her, eyes adoring. 'Of course it's okay.' She kneels down.
'Give me a hug, honeybunch.'
They exchange hugs and smiles and we head out the door.
'Go up to bed, honey,' I tell Bonnie. 'I'll be up in just a minute.'
She nods her head and patters up the stairs. My phone rings.
'It's Leo.'
'What's up?'
'Alan and I got the warrant for Annie King's subscriber list,' he says.
'Didn't have a chance to tell you that before you left. I got in touch with the company. They were cooperative.'
'So you have it?'
'I've been going over it for the last four hours. Just came up with something too.'
'Tell me,' I reply, hopeful.
'It turns out that your friend had a fairly extensive list of members. Nearly a thousand. I thought it would be worth a try to set the search parameters for names that relate to the whole Jack the Ripper scenario. You know, London, hell, that kind of thing.'
'And?'
'I found it right away. Frederick Abberline. The name of the inspector who's most famous for hunting our old buddy Jack back then.'
'Why didn't you call me?'
'Because I'm not done yet. Think about it. It's too obvious. They wouldn't give up a real address that easily. I checked it anyway. It's a post-office box.'
'Damn,' I say.
'But it's still a lead,' he says. 'I'm also following up on it from another angle. Whenever someone signs up using a credit card, their IP
number is logged.'
'Which is . . . what?'
'Everything that exists on the Web, whether it's a dot-com or your dial-up connection, has a number behind it. That's an IP, or Internet Protocol number. Anytime you are surfing on the Web, you have an identity--you are your IP number.'
'So when you sign up for something using a credit card, that number gets logged.'
'Yes.'
'Where is that likely to lead us?'
'That's the problematic part. There are two ways that IP numbers can be related to your Internet connection. One is good for us, one is not so good. The IP numbers are owned by the company providing your access to the Internet. In most cases, each time you dial up or connect, you are assigned a different IP number. No continuity.'
'That's the one that's not so good for us,' I say.
'Right. The other kind is an 'always on' connection. Your IP is actually assigned to you by the service provider and always remains the same. That's good for us, if that's what he used. Because that number is specifically traceable to an individual.'
'Hmmm . . .' I muse. 'I could be wrong, but I think our guy is smarter than that.'
'Probably,' Leo replies. 'But maybe not. Even so, it'll be helpful. The Internet service provider he used will have logs showing when the IP
numbers were used, and you can get a general location from that. Maybe even an exact location.'
'That's good, Leo. Good work. I want you to follow up on this aggressively.'
'I will.'
I believe him. I hear the excitement in his voice, and I doubt he'll be getting any sleep tonight. He smells blood, the hunter's intoxicant, irresistible. I head to bed, Bonnie, sleep.
I have a dream. It's a strange one, disconnected from the others. This one is a true memory.
'Soul like a diamond . . .'
This is something Matt said to me once, in a fit of anger. I had been involved with a case that had stolen all of my time for a period of three to four months. I almost never saw Matt or Alexa. He bore this for the first three months, being supportive, not saying anything. One night I got home to find him sitting in the dark.
'This can't go on,' he'd said. I could hear the poison in his voice. I was dumbstruck. I had thought that things were fine. But that had always been Matt's way. He'd be stoic about something that bothered him until it boiled over and exploded. It was always unfortunate when it happened, because it was always like it was at that moment: from no hint of a storm to a full-blown hurricane.
'What are you talking about?'
His voice had been taut, trembling with anger. 'What am I talking about? Jesus, Smoky! I'm talking about you not being here. One month, okay. Two months, not good, but okay. Three months--no fucking way. I've had it! You're never here, and when you are, you don't interact with me or Alexa, you're snappish and irritated--that's what I'm talking about.'
I've never dealt with direct attacks well. In lazy moments I ascribe this to the Irish side of me, but in truth, my mother was a testament to patience. No, this personality trait is all mine. Back me into a corner, and concepts of right or wrong go out the window. All I care about is getting out of that corner, and I'll fight as dirty as I have to to make it happen. Matt had his fault: letting his anger simmer. It didn't go well with my fault: attacking without hesitation or thought of consequences if you put my back against a wall. This mismatch never resolved; it was one of the imperfections of our relationship. I still miss it. Matt had shoved me into that no-escape dead end, and I responded as I always did when left without an exit: I delivered a sucker punch, well below the belt.
