Mortal Fear. Greg Iles

Please do your best to evade me, I tell you. But you should know that I’ll be getting a bit of direction from our guest. He/she will whisper “warmer” or “colder” ever so often.

       You do not answer. And so I begin the hunt. The first thing I hear is silence. Blood beating in my ears. The suite is large. I move deeper into the bedroom to give you room to move. Then I wait motionless for two minutes. I sense you becoming more tense with each passing second. You cannot hear me. Very softly I remove my clothes. I feel the air along my body, especially on the places usually covered. I go down on all fours, allowing my body to cover more floor space, increasing my odds of touching you if you try to slip past me. I move slowly at first. Colder, whispers our guest. I change direction. Where _are_ you? I ask in a singsong voice. Warmer, says our guest. Instinct tells me my back is a few feet from the far corner of the room. You are not behind me. Slowly and soundlessly I work my way across the carpet, pausing occasionally to listen and to try to feel any movement of air against my skin. Nothing. There’s not much floor space left to cover. Could you have climbed onto one of the beds? No. I’d have heard you. Wait. A rustle of cloth ahead of me. A few feet away. Is she naked? I ask. No reply. I freeze. There is water running in the bathroom, the sound like a distant cataract in the silence. I rise and move quickly toward the sound—too quickly—and bash my head against the door frame. I’m in the bathroom now, but you aren’t. Steam coats my face and body like jungle humidity. When I reach to shut off the tap, I scald my hand. Yet even as I curse, I realize I smell you. In the blackness. The female smell. Strongly enough that I suspect you have left this as a calling card. This is not turning out the way I’d planned. As I move out of the bathroom, something swishes past me in the dark. Strangely, it seemed larger than me. Then I hear the bathroom door close. I try the handle but it’s locked. Are you really inside? Or is this a diversion? Where is she? I ask the darkness. No answer. Warmer or colder? I ask. Nothing. Then, through the bathroom door, I hear new sounds. A woman, softly moaning. A man rhythmically groaning. First I think you are teasing me. Confused, I feel my way to the wall and break a rule. Switch on the light. My assistant is gone. The noises are louder. It sounds as though you are using my draftee in the bathroom and have locked me out. This isn’t what I had in mind at all, but you sound like you’re having the time of your life. I ask what you are doing but he answers insolently, She can’t talk with her mouth full. Suddenly I am angry. I kick the door twice near the knob and it splinters open, flooding the bathroom with light. At first glance I feel relief, seeing that you still have your linen dress on. But a millisecond later the positions register: you’re sitting on the edge of the tub and you have your hand around him and are working diligently (though your eyes are locked on mine) and he seems very close to release. It’s the least I could do for him, you say, but what you’re really saying is that you have no intention of letting me manipulate you with some kinky game like this, and I’m standing there with a stupid look on my face while you finish him and he groans and you look into my eyes with barefaced defiance while he squirts copiously and again and you run your hands under the bath tap while he slips out the door of the room but not before he gives me a look like, You must be an idiot to share this lady with _anybody_. And then you lift the linen dress over your head and say, Take me to the bed, please. So I do. This is finally lovemaking, as you are.

      ELEANOR RIGBY> :) Shriek of ecstasy. I’m done. I know that was quick, but I was reading some pretty steamy threads before you queried. At least your fingers won’t be too sore.

      HARPER> I was just getting to the good part. The part I’ve really fantasized about.

      ELEANOR RIGBY> Sorry. You shouldn’t have let me near that insolent voyeur/bellboy/stranger. He was huge in my hand, by the way. I don’t like that in intercourse, FYI, but since I was merely servicing him manually, I liked that my hand wouldn’t nearly go all the way around the thickest part of him.

      HARPER> You’re embellishing my scenario.

      ELEANOR RIGBY> Certainly, dear. Don’t feel threatened. He was huge, but dumb as a doorpost—as well as being hard as one <g>.

      HARPER> Feeling better, I take it?

      ELEANOR RIGBY> Lovely. Although I consider that subject sacred, to be honest.

      HARPER> What?

      ELEANOR RIGBY> Our first f2f meeting. I would never want a third person present for that.

      HARPER> Sorry if I tainted your fantasy. I should have realized.

      ELEANOR RIGBY> No, it’s fine. But you are my secret friend, Harper. That is sacred to me. You have no idea.

      HARPER> I do have an idea, Eleanor. You know that.

      ELEANOR> Well, don’t be a stranger. It was too long between rendezvous this time. Meet me tomorrow.

      HARPER> We’ll talk soon. And alone this time.

      ELEANOR> I like that better. Bye.

      HARPER> Bye.

      I thrust my chair away from the keyboard and focus on the sculpture of my father’s coat. Why would I thrust someone between myself and Eleanor like that? I suddenly want to warn her again, but I know Miles is looking over my virtual shoulder.

      And then I realize something very disturbing.

      The bellboy in the bathroom was Miles.

      What the hell is going on in my brain? And how long has that son of a bitch been spying on my email? Everything’s under control, I hear myself saying to Bob Anderson.

      Who do I think I’m kidding?

      I’ve been lying in bed less than five minutes when it hits me: Miles has made a far more serious mistake than reading my email. And I’ve got to tell him about it. It’s an hour later in New York, but I don’t really give a damn. He’s usually awake all night anyway, monitoring Level Three.

      After four rings, he answers “Turner” in a voice that makes it clear he does not like being bothered by mere human beings.

      “How long have you been spying on my email, shithead?”

      I hear a soft laugh. “Don’t worry. I hardly ever look. But since you started talking to the FBI, I figured you might be getting antsy about warning some of your online friends. Which you definitely do not need to do. They’re in no danger.”

      “We’ll skip that argument for now. I want to know how you’ve been reading my mail. I’ve never been able to access yours.”

      Another laugh. “But you tried, right? There are a couple of system privileges you don’t have, Harper. One is called super-postmaster. It’s like the postmaster privilege, but it gives you access to sysop mail as well. Even Jan’s mail.”

      “What if Strobekker got the victims’ real names by hacking into a sysop account? Into super-postmaster?”

      Miles hesitates. “I don’t think that’s possible. But I’m still assessing the system. It would have taken only one deep penetration to get the master client list, and it could have happened months ago. That makes forensic analysis of the disks very difficult.”

      “But you don’t know it was only one penetration. If he’s in the system now, and he has the super-postmaster privilege, that means he could have read your messages to me, which would tell him the FBI was onto him.”

      There is a long silence. “Brahma is not in the system now. But even if he were, he could only have read my messages during the interval between my posting them and your picking them up. Unless you saved them to a file. Did you do that?”

      “No. I printed hard copies and deleted them.”

      “What time did you do that?”

      “Just before I talked to Eleanor.”

      “So stop worrying. And get off my case. All it would take is basic postmaster for Brahma to read your warning to Eleanor.”

      Miles is right. “You just stop looking over my shoulder, goddamn it.”