Mortal Fear (71 page)

 “So you’re saying—”

 “I’m saying Patrick will never know about you and Erin. Neither will Holly. It will be harder on you than anybody, watching her grow up without knowing what you really are to her. But it has to be that way. You understand?”

 I nod silently.

 “For a while they’ll be close to us, to my parents. But Patrick will eventually remarry and they’ll drift away. It will hurt you. It will even hurt me. But that’s the way life is. And somewhere out in the world, a little piece of Erin and you will be alive. Long after we’re dead even.” Drewe looks away abruptly, and I realize she is hiding tears. “She’ll be okay, though. She comes from good people. Don’t miss the damned drive.”

 I hit the brakes and wheel onto the gravel. As I pull around Drewe’s Acura and park, she says, “It’s settled, then?”

 “Yes.”

 “Good. Let’s pack the essentials and go.”

 I am packing in my office when I notice the e-mail icon blinking beneath Nefertiti’s slowly turning head on the EROS computer. Dropping a can of shaving gel into my dopp kit, I stare at the icon. The sounds of Drewe packing in her bedroom echo up the hallway. Willing myself to be calm, I walk over and click the mouse on the icon. At the top of the message I see this:

 SENDER:
SYSOP/Edward Berkmann, M.D.

 CHAPTER 46

 Waiting for Miles to answer his cellular phone, I try desperately to remember whether my e-mail icon was blinking last night, whether I could possibly have missed it in the insanity of viewing Erin’s body or mopping up the blood. I don’t think so. Nor was it blinking this afternoon. This message arrived in the past hour, as its time stamp indicates. Still, with my breath coming shallow, I pray that Berkmann somehow planted the message for delayed delivery while in the house yesterday.

 “Turner here.”

 A cacophony of road noise threatens to drown Miles’s voice. He is obviously walking or riding down a street somewhere.

 “It’s Harper. Berkmann may be alive.”

 “Why do you say that?”

 “I just got an e-mail message from him, via EROS.”

 “Time stamped?”

 “Thirty minutes ago.”

 “What does it say?”

 “How did you like my little documentary? I’d love to hear your comments. I’ll be waiting for you in the Blue Room.”

 There’s a pause. “He could have sent that from his plane. Before it went down. What’s the alias?”

 “None. It’s from SYSOP 1.”

 “It can’t be!”

 “Man, are you in denial or what?”

 “Look, Berkmann got that last e-mail message into the system through an old toll access line on a backup server. I found it and closed it off. Maybe this is one of my assistants. Fucking with us for a joke.”

 “Where’s Baxter, Miles? Can you contact him?”

 “He’s still in Connecticut. The state police are canvassing homes in the area of the airstrip Berkmann used, looking for the killing house. You at home?”

 “Yes.”

 “I’ll call Baxter, call you right back.”

 I don’t move a foot from the phone while I wait. From the noise coming up the hallway, Drewe is still wading through her drawers and closet. In less than two minutes Miles is back on the line.

 “You’re right,” he says, his voice strangely muted. “Berkmann’s in the system right now. The son of a bitch is alive.”

 “Jesus. I knew it.”

 “The night he stole the master client list, he must have put a back door into the system. But he never used it. He knew the logs would catch him.”

 “Never used it until now, you mean.”

 “Right.”

 “Can you trace him, Miles?”

 “No. The FBI pulled their equipment off our switching system when we closed to clients, and the phone company won’t help me without the FBI.”

 “So what do I do?”

 “Log into the Blue Room and see what he wants.”

 “Hell no!”

 “Baxter agrees, Harper. Keep him on-line long enough to check for typos. If there aren’t any, at least we know he’s back on his voice-recognition system. Back in New York.”

 “How could he have gotten back to New York?”

 “Same way I got to Mississippi from Manhattan. Paying cash for air tickets. Hell, he could have ridden a Trailways up here by now. He could have stolen a plane down there. I’ll get Baxter to start checking that stuff.”

 “I think he’s still down here, Miles.”

 “Why?”

 I relate the story of the sunglasses in Erin’s grave, but Miles puts about as much stock in it as Sheriff Buckner did.

 “Just talk to him long enough to look for typos,” he says. “If he’s back in New York, we’ll have him.” His voice drops in volume. “Baxter’s wasting his time in Connecticut. The killing house is here, Harper. Somewhere close to the medical school. I’ve already found people who’ve seen Berkmann before. Washington Heights people. I’m on 169th Street right now.”

 I hesitate. “Dr. Lenz said Drewe and I should split. Get somewhere safe.”

 “Yeah? Where’s that?”

 When I don’t answer, Miles says, “Safe for us is a function of Edward Berkmann no longer breathing. At some level you know that.”

 “Okay . . . damn.”

 Not giving myself time for second thoughts, I hang up and log into the system as HARPER/SYSOP 2, then click into the Blue Room. It’s empty. I type a quick query—
Where are you?
—route it to SYSOP 1, then activate the voice-recognition program.

 Almost immediately, “BERKMANN/SYSOP 1” appears in the top left corner of my screen under “WHO’S HERE?” Then, like a voice from the grave, the now chilling digital baritone fills the office as letters appear on my screen.

 BERKMANN> Hello, Harper. How did you like my little film?

 This final proof that Berkmann is alive starts my heart pumping like a fist clenching and unclenching in my chest. Fighting fear, I pull on the headset and begin speaking—not as Erin this time, but as myself.

 HARPER> Not as well as the FBI did.

 BERKMANN> Don’t lie, little ankle biter. You didn’t show that tape to anyone.

 HARPER> Where are you, Doctor?

 BERKMANN> South of the border, north of the Antarctic. I’m quite safe, as I told you I would be. That’s why I’m not worried about being traced.

 HARPER> A lot of people thought you died in a plane crash.

 BERKMANN> Very gratifying. It took a bit of effort to create that illusion.

 HARPER> Why bother creating an illusion? Why not use the plane to run?

 BERKMANN> Obviously Daniel Baxter told you to keep me on the line. I’ll oblige. You deserve a little entertainment before the remainder of your pathetic life turns to shit.

 HARPER> What does that mean?

 BERKMANN> The mills of the Gods, remember? When I left your house, I managed to reach the plane all right, and get airborne. But the plane developed engine trouble. I considered ditching in the river, but my nerve failed. I ended up setting down on a spur levee. I’d heard of a Venezuelan crew that landed a 727 on a levee near New Orleans in an emergency. It was simple enough. The difficult part was taxiing down the slope and into the water. Amazing that the plane turned up, though. Very dramatic. The Lord taketh away my engine but giveth confusion unto mine enemies.

 HARPER> You don’t believe in God.

 BERKMANN> You are not qualified to discuss the concept of God with me.

 I’ve yet to see a single typo in Berkmann’s words, but I want to be absolutely sure I’ve given him enough time.

 HARPER> I’ve asked Baxter to let me view your execution. He said he’d do all he could, but there’s a long waiting list. It’s the gas chamber here in Mississippi, you know.

 BERKMANN> Empty words. I honestly can’t believe you fooled me for a minute. But you did, didn’t you? You and your Southern charm. It turned out to be as hollow as Southern honor.

 The sudden ring of the telephone jars me. Hitting the space bar to mute the mike, I answer it.

 “Well?” says Miles, as Berkmann’s voice continues from the speakers.

 “I’m on with him now.”

 “Any typos?”

 “None yet. Two screens worth of text.”

 “He’s back in New York!”

 “He says he’s outside the country, Miles. Sounds like maybe South America.”

 “Out of the country? Shit. How could he get out?”

 “Same way he could get back to New York.”

 “Keep him on as long as you can.”

 “I don’t want to talk to him!”

 “
Please
, Harper. I’m getting close to him. I can feel it.”

 Berkmann’s voice shocks me back to reality.

 BERKMANN> Having a nice chat with Daniel Baxter?

 HARPER> My mother-in-law was trying to come into the office. I had to get her out.

 BERKMANN> Another lie. She wouldn’t be speaking to you at all. Not after you got her daughter killed.

 The ringing sibilance of water rushing through pipes breaks my concentration. Drewe is taking a shower. I guess I can put up with Berkmann’s crap for a few minutes in the hope that Miles could be right about the killing house.

 HARPER> Did you really try to save Erin?

 BERKMANN> Yes. There was no need for her to die. Were it not for you, she would be alive tonight.

 HARPER> Turn yourself in, Doctor. This game’s over. They know who you are. It’s just a matter of time.

 BERKMANN> No, no, no. I still have much to do.

 HARPER> Such as?

 BERKMANN> I am smiling, Harper. Smiling with cosmic humor at fate’s great joke. You lured me to your house to capture me and instead led me to the threshold of my apotheosis.

 HARPER> I don’t understand.

 BERKMANN> How could you? You are a polyp of fetid protoplasm in the cesspool of the herd. I speak to you for only one reason. You have something I want. And very soon I shall have it.

 Lenz’s warnings echo in my head like the shouts of an unheeded prophet.

 HARPER> What do you want?

 BERKMANN> Don’t you know? I want Drewe.

 I have to squeeze my hands together to stop them shaking.

 HARPER> What connection do you think you have with Drewe?

 BERKMANN> What connection do we not have? Erin was an illusion. A Caucasian Kali, expanded into symbol by your imagination. But Drewe is real. Everything that has happened, each apparent mistake, every seeming obstacle was but a waypoint on the road to Drewe. She is my mother and my father together. She is Apollonian woman, pale and proud, Aryan, brilliant, uncontaminated by your corrupt seed because she is incorruptible. She is a vessel full yet waiting to be filled. She is OMPHALOS, a navel of the world. Through her loins I SHALL CONQUER TIME. For years she has waited, uncertain why. But soon she will know. And she will come to me like the moth to the flame.

 HARPER> She’ll laugh in your face. Or spit in it.

 BERKMANN> You tremble at every word I speak. You KNOW she is a seed you have not brought to flower. Because you are unequal to her. How she must have dreaded your clumsy carnal attentions. It SICKENS me.

 HARPER> How do you plan to bring her to flower?

 BERKMANN> By separating her from you.

 HARPER> How can you do that?

 BERKMANN> With the truth. We are broken from within, remember? Your life holds the key to its own destruction. You are a liar and a coward. The truth of your betrayal with Erin, and her child, will separate you from Drewe as certainly as prison walls. When she delivers my issue from her pure womb, you will feel pain as of nails being driven through your skull.

 From a whirlwind of fear, a lifeline of hope. The sword Berkmann thinks he holds over my head hangs over his own. But there’s no reason to let him know that.

 HARPER> You’ll never get close to her, you piece of shit.

 BERKMANN> Do I need to? What is truth but information? And that is the easiest thing in the world to move.

 HARPER> She’d kill herself before she’d let you touch her.

 BERKMANN> Keep telling yourself that. By tonight she will be trying to reach me.

 HARPER> You’re amazing. You’re a fucking parasite. A second-rate quack who spent his life stealing other people’s research and dreaming about his dead whore of a mother.

 This finally stops Berkmann. At length, as if he has regained his composure, he replies:

 BERKMANN> I AM to you as the SUN to a GRAIN OF SAND. As the EAGLE to the WORM. I had your friend Turner like a WOMAN. I swam in Eros like a shark in a tidal pool, feeding on what I chose. I delivered Lenz’s wife to the knife, and it was a MERCY KILLING. I am the WILL TO POWER made FLESH upon the EARTH. I AM AN ARROW TEARING THROUGH THE VEIL OF TIME.

 I’ve had enough. The line about Miles rattled me, but not enough to give Berkmann the last word.

 HARPER> You spout Nietzsche like a college sophomore. Fitting, since he died eating his own excrement.

 BERKMANN> I shall be here when Drewe calls me.

 I slam down the ESCAPE key and terminate the conversation. My hands are shaking with rage as I dial Miles’s cellular.

 “Harper?”

 “Not a single typo. Are you anywhere close to finding his place?”

 “Maybe. I’m waiting for a guy now. A homeless guy named Leonardo. He’s a sidewalk artist. Leonardo. You believe that? He’s supposed to know something.”

 “Like what?”

 “I won’t know till I see him, will I?”

 “What about Baxter? He found anything?”

 “Nothing.”

 “Damn! You’ve got to find him, Miles. He wants Drewe.”

 “Drewe?”

 “He’s fixated on her, obsessed. Like he thought he was with Erin. He bragged about you too. He
laughed
. He’s the most arrogant son of a bitch I’ve ever seen.”