Mortal Fear

“I started thinking about Erin. And you. Your separate pasts, when things might have happened between you. And I realized that your marriage dates were pretty close together.”

“Miles-”

“So I called the Methodist Church down in Rain and found out exactly when Erin and Patrick were married. Then I checked the Social Security computer and got a birth date on Holly Graham-”

“You son of a bitch!”

“I’m sorry, Harper. I had to know. And that’s the answer. Brahma became obsessed with ‘Erin’ because she had this semi-incestuous angle to her past. And because you played her so convincingly. Erin had a child by her sister’s husband. She ignored the rules for the sake of love, just like Catherine. She’s a combination of Brahma’s mother and the sister he never had. Or at least that’s what Brahma started to think under the stress of his other problems.”

“We’re done talking, Miles.”

“Wait! Can’t you see I’m only doing this to stop this motherfucker?”

“I don’t think anybody can stop him.”

“I can. The question is, what will Brahma do now? When he got to your place and found he’d been fooled, he must have flipped out. But why kill Erin? She was the girl in the JPEG, after all. Why not kidnap her? Did he take her pineal gland?”

“No. But he took something. Probably her ovaries.”

Miles’s mouth falls open.

“She had a surgical incision down there.”

“Christ. You see? With his pineal work going down the tubes, Brahma fixated on extending his gene line through children. It’s that simple. Wait… Erin killed Kali, you said. That means Erin fought like a banshee, right?”

I close my eyes, remembering Kali’s mutilated corpse.

“Brahma had to kill Erin,” Miles concludes. “She left him no choice. Just like Karin Wheat. So he tried to salvage what he could. He probably carries some special transport container for the pineals. He just loaded up her ovaries instead.”

“Stop, Miles! I don’t even want to hear that shit. There’s got to be something else on that hard drive to give you an idea who or where he might be.”

He looks at me in silence for several moments. Then he says, “Two things. There’s a WordPerfect file called ‘Clarus.’ It’s not set up like the murder letters. It’s more of a memo-to-myself kind of thing, like something he typed out while talking on the phone. It looks like specs for some type of new medical instrument. Clarus is the name of the company that makes it.”

“What kind of instrument?”

“The kind Drewe thought didn’t exist. And until recently, it didn’t. It’s called a neuroendoscope. It’s a long, thin, flexible tube called a cannula that you can pass instruments through. It’s made to operate on the brain. There’s a fiber-optic camera attached, and a bright light source. You can visualize the interior of the patient’s brain by running the scope’s camera signal to a TV or a video camera with a built-in screen. Harper, the cannula is only four-point-five millimeters wide.”

“My God. Are there any names in the file? People from the company that Brahma might have talked to?”

“No.”

“What’s the second thing?”

“I’ve got a serial number off a Microsoft program that might be traceable. It’s a beta version. Microsoft handed them out like popcorn in ninety-two, but I’ve got some friends in Redmond who might be able to track it down.”

“Good. Do it. And fax everything you have to Baxter at Quantico. Right now.”

“Harper-”

“Do it, goddamn it!”

He nods assent. “Don’t you think Baxter is probably on his way to you by now?”

This hasn’t occurred to me. “I don’t know. It looks like Brahma’s already clear. He used a private plane. They found fresh tire tracks on the same strip you used.”

“Harper, I am so sorry about Erin. How’s Drewe holding up?”

“I sedated her.”

“Oh.”

“You just fax that stuff to Baxter.”

“I will.” He pauses. “Maybe you should split for a while, you know?”

“What do you mean?”

“Brahma, for one thing. He knows where you live. And if Erin killed Kali… do I have to draw you a picture?”

“Don’t worry about me.”

“Dr. Anderson isn’t exactly Mr. Understanding either, as I recall. If he thinks it’s your fault his daughter is dead-”

“It is my fault.”

“Only to the extent that you trusted me.”

“Look at it this way, Miles. Next time Lenz asks us what the worst thing we’ve ever done is, we won’t have to think very hard to find the answer.”

Before he can respond, I click the mouse on TERMINATE VIDEO LINK and sink lower into the chair.

After a minute, Nefertiti reappears, turning slowly. The muscles in my neck are knotted from scrubbing, and my backbone feels like it could splinter through the skin. I should get up and check on Drewe, but I can’t summon the energy. Miles’s warning about Drewe’s father replays endlessly in my head. Bob must be home by now. He could show up here any time.

I need caffeine. I force myself up out of the chair and walk to the minifridge, but it’s empty. As I head for the kitchen, my eyes follow the floorboards, checking for bloodstains I might have missed. I see none.

There are no Tabs in the kitchen refrigerator, but there is a six-pack of Diet Coke. I pop the top on one and lean back against the counter, swallowing the burning fluid and letting the cold from the open refrigerator wash over me. When that drink is empty, I open another and let the door swing closed. The kitchen is so narrow here, it looks like a monk’s sleeping quarters.

You’re punch drunk, I tell myself. You can make it to the bedroom.

Glancing through the laundry room to the back door, I realize that the last cop through it probably didn’t think about locking up. I set down the Diet Coke and walk past the closed pantry door to the laundry room to shoot the bolt and-

Freeze.

At least twenty cops have trooped through this house in the past two hours, but I’m positive that not one of them knew of, much less searched, the bomb shelter. Leaving the bolt unshot and the Diet Coke on the stove, I back through the kitchen into the hallway, my heart hammering, my fear for Drewe overcoming all else.

Should I try to get her out of the house? No. We’d be totally vulnerable as I carried her to the truck. My.38 is out there too. I’ve got to have a gun. I dart into an offshoot of our main hall, toward the neglected bedroom we use for storage.

The door creaks as I push it open, but I follow through and leave it ajar behind me. In the far corner of the bedroom, standing like an upended deep freeze amid the sentimental flotsam of five generations of Coles, is my father’s gun safe. Inside it is a motley collection of antique pistols and flintlock muskets, many dating back to the War between the States, some even to the Revolution. The combination lock is easy to open, the numbers those of my father’s birthday: 10-6-32.

The hard tang of gun oil and good steel hits me in a reassuring wave. Shoving apart the muskets to reach the back shelf, I set aside a can of Elephant brand black powder and grab the suede zip case containing the single modern weapon in the safe, my father’s Smith and Wesson.357 Magnum. There’s a box of shells on a thin metal shelf in back. I quickly unzip the case and load the pistol, putting the remainder of the rounds in my pocket. The cartridges are old, but with luck they will still cook off if I actually have to fire the thing. The big checked wooden