The Monitor Read online

  Maybe it was just my mood, but the conversation seemed to veer between the edgy and the banal all evening. Sometimes it feels as if people go on-line just to pick fights, as if they avoid confrontations in real life if they beat up on some ether people. Meanwhile, the rest of them seemed to have been dipped in Prozac.

  Maybe this was how policemen doing surveillance felt, but there was a sense of boredom tinged with an edge of panic. Bizarre. I thought of the word petrified and how it applied in both its definitions in this situation. The last thing I wanted was the upcoming confrontation with an alleged assassin, but if it had to happen, why couldn’t I just get it over with?

  I took a look at the clock on the wall. It was almost 10:00, way too late to call even close friends, but maybe I could squeak a call in to Steve, given that his police genes might extend the etiquette time. What if Alchemist was right about Chatgod being upset about me talking with the police, though? If I lost the job with Babel, my resources would get frighteningly slim. There was still no mention of any spring classes nor any talk of more distance courses at Grant MacEwan, and I wasn’t sure how to broach the possibility of other assignments.

  Of course, if the police believed a killer was haunting Babel, it wouldn’t be too long before they just closed the place down anyhow, and I’d still be out of a job. The flip side was that the killer might make me permanently redundant.

  Instead of calling Steve and possibly jeopardizing my job, I opted to make more coffee. When I got back to the computer with a steaming cup of mocha roast in my hand, there was a flashing note at the top of my screen telling me to check my e-mail. Alchemist, true to his word, was letting me know of his response from Tremor.

  To: [email protected]

  From: [email protected]

  Subject: An Answer Came

  Hey kiddo,

  He bit. We’re supposed to meet him in Babel in a private room called Lair tomorrow evening at seven. I’m game. The line is, we want to off your husband. Come prepared to discuss his habits and whereabouts. It’s going to cost $10,000. And we thought life was cheap.

  A.

  To: [email protected]

  From: [email protected]

  Subject: What the heck

  Wow.

  So, do you think I should alert the task force? This is the sort of thing they’d likely want to monitor, right? I don’t think we can handle this alone.

  R.

  To: [email protected]

  From: [email protected]

  Subject: The boss won’t like it

  Randy,

  I am not sure what to say. My instinct says that Chatgod will get really upset if we haul in the feds, but that doesn’t mean it’s not the best thing to do. What matters is that you feel safe throughout this, and if that means bringing in the police at your end, I can understand that. I would appreciate it if it became your decision, though, rather than our decision. I don’t want to influence you either way.

  A.

  To: [email protected]

  From: [email protected]

  Subject: lonely

  Yeah,

  I know what you’re saying. I agree. If Chatgod gets annoyed, it might as well be just one of us who gets canned. I don’t suppose you could see your way clear to coming up here to protect me, eh?

  R.

  To: [email protected]

  From: [email protected]

  Subject: You’ll never walk alone

  Hon,

  If I could I would in a second, but it’s just not possible. Sorry.

  Things are going to be okay, though. After all, there is no actual target for him to kill, right? You don’t have a husband you’re not telling me about, do you? So, even if he takes the bait, nobody’s going to get hurt.

  Don’t panic. See you tomorrow.

  A.

  There it was. Alchemist wasn’t going to help me with my moral quandary, after all. He had laid it neatly back in my lap. If I wanted to get Chatgod’s dander up and possibly get fired from the only steady work I had at present, it would have to be my decision and mine alone. Of course, if I wanted to have some back-up while a hired killer roamed the streets, trying to find my mythical, irritating husband, I had to make that decision on my own, too.

  After three more cups of coffee and a long game of ­Spiderette in the corner of my screen, I decided to call Steve. After all, if a killer really did come to town looking for a man associated with me, Steve himself might be a target and in some danger. He had a right to know what foolishness I was cooking up. I had no misconceptions about my own strength or judgment as it related to the capacity for the police to do their job. I wasn’t some sort of one-woman vigilante clean-up squad.

  I had finally talked myself into calling Steve when the phone rang, startling me out of my socks. Who the heck would call at midnight? I picked up the phone and wiped up my spilled coffee with my sleeve.

  “Are you okay?” Steve’s voice sounded a little strained, as if there was someone with him, listening to his side of the conversation.

  “Sort of, although phones ringing at this time of night scare me, even when I’m still up working.”

  “Yeah, sorry about that. You are still up though, right? Mind if I pop over? I think we need to talk.”

  “I’d like that. I have something I want to talk to you about, too.”

  “I can be there in fifteen minutes.”

  “I’ll make tea.”

  “Great, Randy. See you then.”

  I wondered what Steve had to say to me that needed to be said at this time of the night. Maybe that was the way with great relationships; each partner knew when the other needed to talk. On the other hand, maybe that was more the situation of people who worked odd shifts; any time they could find to connect was a good time to talk.

  Babel was closing down for the evening. Tracy and Dion were spooning in private messages to each other. They were separated by an ocean and still seemed to manage a strong relationship. Maybe there was hope for Steve and me yet, separated by nothing more than a few quibbles about levels of commitment. Of course, that was provided neither of us was killed in the next few days. It’s always the little things like that that make or break a relationship, I find.

  44

  Things couldn’t be too bad. Steve had stopped off to pick up doughnuts at Tim Hortons on the way to my place. I bit into my Canadian Maple while Steve inhaled his two honey glazed. Every once in a while sugar and lard is what is required, I don’t care what Dr. Andrew Weil says.

  The doughnut-induced smile on his face disappeared as I began to inform him of what Alchemist and I had set in motion.

  “Oh God, Randy, you don’t do things by halves, do you?”

  “So I take it you think it’s not a great idea?”

  “I wouldn’t say that. No, I’d say seriously insane idea. How’s that?”

  “Well, we needed to do something, Steve. I need to keep this Babel job. Once the last of my distance students check in for their exams, I might be out of a teaching job. I have no idea whether there’s any more work from Grant MacEwan on the horizon. If Ray and his crowd decide to close Chatgod down, then there goes my livelihood. On the other hand, if we managed to corral the killer so that you and Ray could nab him, then we would be heroes, and we’d keep Babel going, and Chatgod wouldn’t can me for insubordination, maybe.”

  “When were you planning on telling me about this plan? When the killer was knocking on your apartment door?”

  “Well, actually, I was just about to call you when you phoned. Why did you phone so late, anyhow?”

  Steve stretched back and set his feet on the edge of the coffee table. “Maybe I just wanted to see a smiling face before I went to sleep.”

  “And maybe you’re full of manure, too. Tell me, why did you call? I know you were with someone when you were on the phone. Was it Ray Lopez?”

  “No, it wasn’t. It was my chief, who is, as you can imagine, not in the least happy that you are
involved in this.”

  I cringed as I recalled my last run-in with Steve’s boss, Staff Superintendent Keller. He had been condescendingly officious about the need to keep civilian personnel out of the middle of an investigation. I had ­inadvertently found myself up to my neck in a serious police matter, and Steve had felt caught in the middle of things. One of the main reasons we had called it quits at the end of the summer had been a residual effect of this man’s attitude, as far as I was concerned.

  “Oh Lord, I will bet Keller thinks I invented the Internet just to vex him and get in your hair.”

  Steve laughed. “I don’t think he’s gone as far as crediting you with the Internet, but let’s say he wasn’t ­altogether surprised when your name came up in conjunction with this joint task-force investigation.”

  “There’s more going on than just the murder of Thea’s husband, isn’t there?” This was just a sudden guess on my part, but from the way Steve stiffened beside me, I ­figured I’d hit the mark.

  “Honestly, Randy, the murder is way more than you should be involved in, anyhow, so why don’t we leave it at that?”

  “Fine. I don’t care in the least. This is my livelihood we’re tromping all over, though. I do have an interest that is more than just prurient.”

  “That is one of the myriad things I love about you, Randy Craig. You are the only person I know who would use the word prurient in a conversation. I have no idea what half the words in the English language would do without you around to take them out for an airing once in a while.”

  Teasing me was Steve’s way of deflecting my annoyance at his superiors. I could think of better ways to get my mind off police restrictions. Of course, with a potential killer aiming at me, the thought of being caught in the altogether wasn’t altogether appealing. That ­reminded me of something I had been meaning to ask Steve.

  “Do you wear your Kevlar vest all the time?” Okay, so maybe that was blurting it out a bit, but it occurred to me that Tremor looking for a husband to off might see Steve and not bother to check for wedding bands. The last thing I wanted was for Steve to walk into a bullet based on all of this.

  “It’s regulation. You know that.” Steve looked at me, and I could see the gears turning. “I’m thinking I should requisition one for you for the time being, too. I’m not too sure that this guy isn’t going to smell a rat and drill everyone he holds responsible.”

  “Nonsense, there are no rats in Alberta.” I didn’t sound as secure as I wanted to, though. Maybe a bulletproof vest would do something for my sense of security. I wondered if it would make me look fat.

  “He’s not going to know that unless he’s already an Albertan, though. Right? That’s the trouble with all of this. I don’t know how much stock to put in Ray Lopez’s usage reports pointing out Edmonton as a hot spot. I don’t know how much I want to trust your instincts on whether this Sanders guy is on the level, either. After all, I’ve heard of assassin games, but he’s pretty long in the tooth to be playing games, isn’t he? Maybe it’s all a cover.”

  “Everything is a maybe at this point, aside from the fact that Thea’s husband was electrocuted by his ­computer and a suspected killer is going to be contacting us tomorrow night in Babel. Aside from that, the only other certainty I know is that you are standing right here. And I love you.”

  I hadn’t been meaning to say that out loud, so it came out as much a surprise to me as it did to Steve. His face seemed to lose an outer layer of stern solidity, as if a veneer was shattering off in little quarter-sized pieces. Underneath was a shining look that turned into a broad smile very quickly. About as quickly as it took him to close the space between us.

  “Well, I’d say learning something like that is worth having a hired killer on your trail. Randy Craig, I love you, too.”

  45

  We decided to pop into Tremor’s private room before we closed things up for the night. If Tremor was going to be stalking my man, I wanted to know everything I could about the guy.

  The appropriately named Lair had been created quite some time ago, and there were a few signs of it. The background wallpaper was the same blobby purple that had been all over Babel when I first joined, before Alchemist had taken it upon himself to do a complete make-over of the place. If Tremor had created this private room before that changeover, then it had to be three or four months old, at least.

  I couldn’t figure out why either Alchemist or I hadn’t tripped over it if it had been in Babel this long. Maybe Tremor had a way of keeping it current by not logging off, and that was how he seemed to be able to appear without logging in. Maybe he was continually changing the name of the room from inside. If that was the case, then maybe his IP address was either a low-grade constant buzz or recorded so long ago that it didn’t show up on the daily lists.

  Whatever the case, Tremor wasn’t there now, and he hadn’t left anything incriminating on the screen. Unless I worked through a process of digging into the logs, which would involve Chatgod, I would never know what had ever been discussed in that room. There might be no record of it at all, seeing as it was a private room.

  I decided to leave myself connected to Babel through Lair, just as I suspected Tremor of doing, and check back in the morning for any activity. It would be a drain on the electricity, but no greater than someone leaving a store sign on all night. I put my Sierra Club conscience on hold for the night.

  Steve stayed the night. Aside from the glow we had wrapped ourselves in with our—okay, my—admissions of vulnerability, I was feeling a lot more secure having him by my side through that night. We had determined that we’d call Steve’s boss and Ray in the morning. Steve was going to organize a task-force meeting at my apartment, and we would run the operation like a sting, hoping to draw Tremor to us. All I could think was that I didn’t want bullet holes over my mantelpiece. However, I was keeping my own council on that one. I was just relieved that Steve was taking this seriously and keeping me in the loop throughout it all.

  We showered and dressed, ready for a long day—comfortable but presentable. Lord knew how many people were going to gather in my tiny apartment by the end of the day. Because of that, I raced about dusting and cleaning and putting away items too personal for casual eyes while Steve whipped up a couple of omelets in the kitchen. Our efficiency as a couple amazed me. The place was sparkling, we were fed and watered and nodding to each other that the day had better begin, and the clock hadn’t yet hit 8:00 a.m. Man, this was going to be a long day. I poured myself another cup of coffee while Steve took the phone and his clipboard into the living room and started the ball rolling.

  While he was calling Ray Lopez and his detachment, I got on-line and e-mailed Alchemist. I wanted to let him know I had called in the cavalry. In the first draft I spelled it calvary. I was uneasy about the Freudian slip. Did I really think I was heading toward self-sacrifice with this exercise?

  Alchemist e-mailed back, saying not to worry, he would keep things on track in Babel through the day. He also mentioned that Chatgod had been in the chat room already, which was unusual in itself, and that there was an overwhelming number of private messages to Alvin for what reason he couldn’t imagine, since none of them sounded particularly worried about anything.

  That was odd. Aside from the women who seemed to fantasize about the mysterious host of Babel, the only people who usually contacted Alvin were folks who ­wanted to complain about someone else in the room or some function, like lag, which bothered most people more than traffic jams in real life. Apparently, these messages were all personal, like, “Haven’t seen you around in a while, are you feeling okay, buddy?” I put it down to the social pulse of the room. The participants weren’t sure what was up, but they felt something out of whack, and they felt it ­viscerally. Interesting psycho-sociological phenomenon.

  I e-mailed him back, telling him I’d checked out Lair and was ready and able to jump into things at 5:00 p.m. my time, which was Tremor’s appointed hour. In the meantime, I had work
to do in the real world. Steve was now off the phone and making lists. He stopped long enough to tell me that Ray and one of his teammates was heading over, and that two of Steve’s colleagues who worked predominantly in the computer-crime field were coming over, as well. One of them would be bringing Kevlar for everyone, as well as some sort of plastic wrap for the windows that would undercut the possibility of shattering glass everywhere. Boy, that made me feel all warm and cozy.

  Ray and Kate Brouder, who had flown in from Florida the day before, showed up with four large cups of Tim Hortons coffee and a box of Timbits. Kate was an interesting study in contrasts. She was a very attractive woman in her mid-forties, who obviously knew how to pack for international travel. At present she was wearing an emerald green big sweater and brown suede pants. Behind that stylish façade, though, she had the demeanor of a departmental secretary, that sort of efficient but comforting presence who could whip up a Thanksgiving dinner for twenty just as easily as sort out class size problems with one or two well-placed phone calls. She seemed like someone who would be a terrific grandmother when the time came. When she spoke, however, everything was so precise and pointed that you had the feeling you were listening to the CEO of a Fortune 500 company. I was betting that people underestimated Kate Brouder all the time, to their eternal chagrin, and that Kate knowingly used that as part of her arsenal. She and Ray seemed to get along very well, and that—coupled with the fact that she didn’t turn up her nose at my apartment—made me willing to give her a chance.

  I wasn’t as sure of the folks from Edmonton’s Finest. Steve didn’t know them all that well, and they seemed to be a team unto themselves. Detective Scott Lewis was a slender, nervous type, who pulled on his mustache as he spoke. Detective Iain McCorquodale, on the other hand, had a booming laugh and didn’t seem to be taking things seriously enough. Of course, these guys were normally on the hunt for money launderers and child pornographers, but surely a hired killer warranted a little bit of decorum? Maybe it was just that he seemed a bit blasé when handing me a bulletproof vest, as if we were all overreacting a tad, that made me rankle.