The Big Bad Wolf Read online

  Chapter 81

  I WASN’T SURE how to react to the Wolf, or his message to Sphinx. Should I speak now? Did he know we were on to him? How could he?

  Sterling 66: Now what’s your problem, Mr. Potter?

  This was my chance. I wanted to try and draw out Wolf if I could. But could I pull it off? I was aware that everyone was watching me in the operation room.

  I don’t have a problem, I typed. I’m just ready for another boy. U know I’m good for it. Haven’t I always been?

  Sterling 66: UR ready for another boy? U just recently received “Worcester.” About a week ago?

  I typed: Yes, but he’s left us.

  Sphinx 3000: That’s very funny. UR so cute, Potter. Such a cute psycho killer.

  Sphinx didn’t like Potter, did he? I had to assume the feeling was mutual. I typed, I love U too. We should get together and bond in person.

  Sterling 66: When U say “He’s left us,” I assume U mean that he’s dead?

  Mr. Potter: Yes, the dear boy passed. I’m over my grieving, though. Ready to move on.

  Sphinx 3000: Hilarious.

  This bickering was starting to get on my nerves. Who the hell were these sick bastards? Where were they? Besides cyberspace?

  I have someone in mind. I’ve been watching him for a while, I typed.

  Sphinx 3000: I’ll bet he’s gorgeous.

  I typed: Oh, he is. One of a kind. The love of my life.

  Sterling 66: U said that about Worcester. What city?

  I typed: Boston. Cambridge, actually. He’s a student at Harvard. Working for his doctorate. Argentinean, I believe. Rides polo ponies in the summer.

  Sterling 66: Where did U bump into this one, Potter?

  The next tidbit I’d gotten from Homer Taylor himself. Actually, I did bump into him. He’s so firm.

  Sphinx 3000: Where did you meet him? Tell, tell.

  I typed: I was at Harvard for a symposium.

  Sterling 66: On?

  I typed: Milton. Of course.

  Sterling 66: He was attending?

  I typed: No—I literally bumped into him. In the men’s room. I watched him for the rest of the day. Found out where he lived. Been studying him for three months.

  Sterling 66: So why did U purchase Worcester?

  I knew the question was coming. Impulse, I typed. Then, But this boy in Cambridge, that’s true love. Not a casual thing.

  Sterling 66: So U have a name? An address?

  I typed: I do. And I have my checkbook.

  Sterling 66: Worcester won’t be found? UR certain?

  I could hear Potter’s voice in my head as I typed. Good Lord, no. Not unless someone goes swimming in my septic tank.

  Sphinx 3000: Gross, Potter. I love it.

  Sterling 66: Well, if U have checkbook in hand.

  Wolf: No. We’ll wait on this. It’s too soon, Potter. We’ll get back to you. As always, I’ve enjoyed our talk, but I have other matters to attend to.

  Wolf signed off. He was gone. Shit. He’d come and gone just like that. The mystery man, as always. Who was this bastard?

  I stayed on-line, chatting with the others for a few minutes—expressing my disappointment at the decision, my eagerness to make a purchase. Then I left the site too.

  I looked around the operation room at my colleagues. A few began to clap, partly mocking me, but mostly it was genuinely congratulatory. Cop-to-cop stuff. Almost like old times. I felt marginally accepted by the others in the room. For the first time, actually.

  Chapter 82

  WE WAITED TO HEAR from the Wolf’s Den. Everyone in the overcrowded room wanted to take the Wolf down in the worst way. He was a complicated and twisted criminal, but besides that, the FBI needed a win; a lot of people working their asses off needed it. Snaring the Wolf would be a tremendous victory. If we could just find him. And what if we could get all of the other sick bastards too? Sphinx. ToscaBella. Louis XV. Sterling.

  Still, something was bothering me a lot. If the Wolf was as powerful and successful as he seemed to be, why was he involved in this at all? Because he’d always been into lots of kinds of crimes? Or because he was a sex freak himself? Was that it, the Wolf was a freak? Where could I go with that line of thinking?

  He’s a freak, and therefore . . . ?

  Except for a couple of hours when I went home to see the kids, I remained inside the Hoover Building for the next day and a half. So did a lot of other agents on the case, even Monnie Donnelley, who was as emotionally invested in this as anybody. We continued to collect information, especially about Russian mobsters in the States, but mostly we waited for a message from the Wolf’s Den to Mr. Potter. A yes or a no, a go or a no go. What was the bastard waiting for?

  I talked to Jamilla several times—good talks—also to Sampson, the kids, Nana Mama. I even talked to Christine. I had to find out where her head was at about Little Alex. After our talk, I wasn’t sure if she knew, which was the most disturbing thing of all. I began to detect an ambivalent tone in her voice when she spoke about raising Alex, even though she said she was prepared to sue for custody. Considering all she’d been through, it was hard for me to stay angry at her.

  I would rather have given up my right arm than my little boy, though. Just thinking about it gave me a headache that throbbed continuously and made the long wait for a resolution even worse.

  The phone on my desk rang around ten on the second evening, and I picked up right away. “Waiting for my call? How’s it going?” It was Jamilla, and though she sounded close, she was all the way across the country in California.

  “Sucks,” I said. “I’m stuck in a small windowless room with eight smelly FBI hackers.”

  “That good, huh? So I take it the Wolfman hasn’t gotten back with an answer.”

  “No. And it’s not just that.” I told Jamilla about my phone call with Christine.

  She wasn’t nearly as sympathetic to Christine as I was. “Who the hell does she think she is? She walked out on her little boy.”

  “It’s more complicated than that,” I said.

  “No, it isn’t, Alex. You always like to give people the benefit of the doubt. You think people are basically good.”

  “I guess I do. That’s the reason I can do my job. Because most people are basically good and they don’t deserve the shit that gets heaped on them.”

  Jamilla laughed. “Well, neither do you. Think about that. Neither do Little A., Damon, Jannie, Nana Mama. Not that you asked for my opinion. I’ll shut up now. So what is going on with the case? Change the subject to something more pleasant.”

  “We’re waiting on this Russian hood and his creeped-out friends. I still don’t understand why he’s involved in a kidnapping ring.”

  “You’re at FBI headquarters, the Hoover cube? That’s where you’re calling from?”

  “Yes, but it’s not exactly a cube. It’s only seven stories on Pennsylvania Avenue because of the D.C. building codes. And eleven stories in back.”

  “Thanks for sharing that. You’re starting to sound like a Feebie. I’ll bet it feels weird to be in there.”

  “No, I just figure I’m on the fifth floor. Could be in either part of the building.”

  “Ha ha. No, working the other side, the dark side. Being in the J. Edgar Hoover Building. Being a Feebie. Just thinking about it makes me shiver.”

  “The waiting is the same, Jam. The waiting’s always the same.”

  “At least you have good friends to talk to some of the time. At least you have some nice phone pals.”

  “I do, don’t I. And you’re right, it’s easier waiting here with you.”

  “I’m glad you feel that way. We need to see each other, Alex. We need to touch each other. There are things we have to talk about.”

  “I know that. As soon as this case is over. I promise. I’ll be on the first plane.”

  Jamilla laughed again. “Well, get cracking, boy. Catch the big bad Wolf psycho bastard. Otherwise I’ll be on my own plane east.”r />
  “Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  Chapter 83

  A DOZEN OR SO AGENTS were sitting around eating thick roast beef sandwiches and German potato salad and drinking iced tea when contact with the Wolf’s Den was made again. “Roast beef” had a special meaning inside the FBI, but that was another story. The Wolf was calling.

  Potter. We’ve made a decision on your request, the e-mail said. Get back to us.

  The group continued to eat. We agreed there was no need to get back to the Wolf instantly. It would raise his suspicions if Potter was there waiting for the call. An agent was already playing the part of Dr. Homer Taylor in Hanover. We had spread a lie that the professor had the flu and wouldn’t be conducting any classes for a while. Occasionally, “sightings” of Professor Taylor were arranged at his house—sometimes looking out windows or sitting out on the front porch. To our knowledge, no one had inquired about Taylor at Dartmouth or at his house in Webster. Both locations were being watched closely by agents.

  I hoped that the agents in the field knew what the hell they were doing. At this point we had no idea how careful the Wolf was or whether his suspicions had already been aroused. We didn’t know enough about the Russian. Not even if he had someone in the Bureau feeding him information.

  It was agreed that I would wait an hour and a half, since I hadn’t been on-line when he established contact and the Wolf would know that. During the past day we’d been unsuccessful in trying to connect the Wolf’s Den to an owner or even to one of the other users. This probably meant that a high-level hacker had protected the site well. The Bureau’s experts were confident they would break through, but it hadn’t happened yet.

  Homer Taylor had been transported to D.C. again, and we used his eyes for the retina scan. Then I sat down at a computer and began to type. I was following the model of communication to the Wolf’s Den provided by Taylor as part of our deal.

  This is Mr. Potter, I began. Can I have my lover?

  Chapter 84

  I WAITED FOR the Wolf to answer Potter’s insane question. We all did.

  No response came. Shit. What had I done wrong? I’d gone too far, hadn’t I? He was clever. Somehow, he knew what we were up to. But how?

  “I’ll stay on for a while,” I said, as I looked around the room. “I want what he has to offer. He knows it. I’m supposed to be horny.”

  This is Potter, I typed again a few minutes later.

  Suddenly words began to appear on my screen.

  I read, Wolf: That’s redundant, Potter. I know who you are.

  I typed some more words in Taylor’s strident “voice.” UR rude to make me wait like this. U know how I feel, what I’m going through.

  Wolf: How could I? You’re the scary freak, Potter, not me.

  I typed: Not so. UR the real freak. The cruelest of all.

  Wolf: Why do you say that? You think I take hostages like you?

  My heart raced. What did he mean by that? Did the Wolf have a hostage? Maybe more than one? Could Elizabeth Connolly still be alive after all this time? Or some other hostage? Maybe one we didn’t even know about?

  Wolf: So tell me something, faggot. Prove yourself to me.

  Prove myself? How? I waited for more instruction to come. But it didn’t.

  I typed: What do U want to know? I’m horny. No, not really. I’m in love.

  Wolf: What happened to Worcester? You were in love with him too.

  The chat was heading into uncharted waters. I was guessing, hoping I could maintain continuity with things Homer Taylor might have shared before. The other question made me edgy: Was this really the Wolf I was speaking to?

  I typed: Francis was incapable of love. He made me very angry. He’s gone now, never to be heard from again.

  Wolf: And there will be no repercussions?

  Mr. Potter: I’m careful. Like U. I like my life; I don’t want to be caught. And I won’t be!!!

  Wolf: Does that mean Worcester rests in pieces?

  I wasn’t sure how to answer. With a cruel joke of my own? Something like that, I typed. UR funny.

  Wolf: Be more specific. Give me the bloody details, Potter. Give!

  Mr. Potter: Is this a test? I don’t need this shit.

  Wolf: You know it is.

  I typed: The septic tank. I told you that.

  No response came from the Wolf. He was rubbing my nerves raw.

  So when do I get my new boy? I typed.

  A pause of several seconds.

  Wolf: You have the money?

  Mr. Potter: Of course I do.

  Wolf: How much do you have?

  I thought I knew the correct answer to that, but I couldn’t be sure. Two weeks earlier, Taylor had taken one hundred twenty-five thousand dollars from his account with a money manager at Lehman in New York.

  Mr. Potter: One hundred twenty-five thousand. The money isn’t a problem. It’s burning a hole in my pocket.

  No response from Wolf.

  I typed: U told me not to be redundant.

  Wolf: All right then, maybe we’ll get you the boy. Be careful! There might not be another!

  I typed: Then there won’t be another hundred twenty-five thousand!!!

  Wolf: I’m not worried. There are lots of freaks like you. You’d be amazed.

  Mr. Potter: So. How is your hostage?

  Wolf: I have to go back to work. . . . One more question, Potter. Just to be safe. Where did you get your name?

  I looked around the room. Oh, Christ. It was something I hadn’t thought to ask Taylor.

  A voice whispered close to my ear. Monnie’s. “The kids’ books? They call Harry Mr. Potter at the Hogwarts school. Maybe? I don’t know.”

  Was that it? I needed to type something; it had to be the right answer. Was the name from the Harry Potter books? Because he liked boys? Then something from Taylor’s office in the farmhouse flashed in my brain.

  My fingers went to the keys. Paused for a second. Then I typed my answer: This is absurd. The name is from the Jamaica Kincaid novel—Mr. Potter. Fuck U!

  I waited for a response. So did everyone else in the room. Finally it came.

  Wolf: I’ll get you the boy, Mr. Potter.

  Chapter 85

  WE WERE IN BUSINESS again, and I was back working the streets, the way I liked it, the way it used to be.

  I had been in Boston several times before, loved the city enough to consider moving there, and was comfortable. For the next two days we shadowed a student named Paul Xavier, from his apartment on Beacon Hill, to his classes at Harvard, to the Ritz-Carlton, where he was a waiter, to popular clubs like No Borders and Rebuke.

  Xavier was the “bait” we had set out for the Wolf and his kidnapping crew.

  Actually, Xavier was being impersonated by a thirty-year-old agent from our field office in Springfield, Massachusetts. The agent’s name was Paul Gautier. Boyishly handsome, tall and slender, with fluffy light brown hair, he looked like someone in his early twenties. He was armed, but also being closely watched by a minimum of six agents at all times of the day and night. We had no idea how or when the Wolf’s team might try to grab him, only that they would.

  For twelve hours each day, I was one of the agents watching and protecting Gautier. I had spoken about the dangers of using “bait” to try and catch the kidnappers, but nobody had paid attention.

  On the second night of surveillance, and according to plan, Paul Gautier went to “the Fens,” along the Muddy River near Park Drive and Boylston Street. Actually called the Back Bay Fens, it had been imagined by Frederick Law Olmsted, who’d also designed the Boston Common and Central Park in New York. In the evening hours after the clubs closed, the real Paul Xavier often cruised the Fens looking for sexual encounters, which was why we had sent our agent there.

  It was dangerous work for all of us, but especially for Agent Gautier. The area was dark, and there were no streetlights. The tall reeds along the river were thick and provided cover for pickups and liaisons
—and kidnappings.

  Agent Peggy Katz and I were on the edge of the reeds, which resembled elephant grass. During the past half hour, she had admitted that she wasn’t really interested in sports but had learned about basketball and football because she wanted to be able to talk with her male counterparts about something.

  “Men talk about other things,” I said as I scouted the Fens through night glasses.

  “I know that. I can talk about money and cars too. But I refuse to talk to you horny bastards about sex.”

  I coughed out a laugh. Katz could deliver her lines. She was often wry, with a twinkle, and she seemed to be laughing with you, even if you happened to be the butt of her jokes. But I also knew that she was very tough, a real hard-liner.

  “Why did you join the Bureau?” she asked as we continued to wait for Agent Gautier to appear. “You were doing well with the Washington PD, right?”

  “I was doing just fine.”

  I lowered my voice and pointed toward a clearing up ahead. “Here comes Gautier now.”

  Agent Gautier had just left Boylston Street. He was walking slowly across the Fens toward the Muddy River. I knew the area pretty well from an earlier scouting trip. During the day this same section of the park was called the victory gardens. Area residents raised flowers and vegetables, and there were signs pleading with night visitors not to trample them.

  The team leader, Roger Nielsen, spoke in a whisper that seeped into my earphones. “Male in the watch cap, Alex. Stout guy. You see him?”

  “I’ve got him.” Watch cap was talking into a microphone on the collar of his sport shirt. He wasn’t one of ours, so he must have been one of theirs—the Wolf’s.

  I began to scour the area for a partner or two. The kidnapping crew? Probably. Who the hell else could they be?

  Nielsen said, “I think he has a mike on. You see it?”

  “He’s definitely miked. I see another suspicious male. Near the gardens to the left of us,” I said. “Talking into his collar too. They’re moving on Gautier.”

  Chapter 86

  THERE WERE THREE of them, bulky males, and they began to converge on Paul Gautier. At the same time, we moved on them. I had my Glock out, but was I really ready for what might happen in this small dark park?