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Satisfied, he locked the metal box, reattached the access cover and climbed down the ladder.
* * *
Ryan pulled out his iPhone, went to his contacts and selected Yoda. “It’s me again, Yoda. Begin sniffing.”
Yoda replied, “Sniffing on.”
“Okay, I have to ask.” Marc glanced from the contraption to Ryan. “What the hell is sniffing and how does this thing of yours work?”
A corner of Ryan’s mouth lifted in a grin. “I figured your curiosity would eventually win out. Sniffing looks at network traffic by intercepting the flow of information and trying to decipher it. In this case, I’ve married two femtocells—one CDMA, the other GSM—to a Raspberry Pi computer and a cable modem for backhaul to our office.”
“Well, now that that’s clear...” Marc shook his head in disbelief.
“Okay, translation,” Ryan said. “I’ve created a short-range cell phone network that will intercept any calls Suzanne makes. The calls will be routed over the internet connection I just tapped into, while a mirror copy of the back-and-forth phone conversation will be sent to our office, where Yoda has just turned on my tracking and analysis system. Let’s see if it works. Try each of the burn phones I gave you.”
Marc dialed Patrick.
Yoda’s voice came on. “Call intercepted from 718-123-4567 to 347-123-4567.”
The latter was Patrick’s cell number. The call went through. Marc could hear a muddied version of his own voice echoing through Ryan’s iPhone, as well as Patrick’s response. He hung up and tried the same thing again, using the other burn phone and placing the call to Casey.
Yoda responded the same way, this time noting Casey’s as the transfer number. And this time it was Casey’s voice that came from Ryan’s cell phone.
Marc gave another stunned shake of his head. “You’re good,” he told Ryan. “You amaze even me. Although, thanks to the past half hour, I’ve decided never to use my cell phone again, except to order takeout.”
Ryan chuckled. “Yeah, this kind of stuff does tend to make you feel paranoid.”
Marc retracted the ladder while Ryan removed his tool belt and packed everything back into the toolbox. Silently, the two men exited the building and returned with their equipment to the truck.
The waiting game would now begin.
* * *
Since she and Ryan had left Princeton, Claire had been plagued by the strong feeling that she was coming close to some kind of crucial energy that was just out of her reach. She determined that, by going home and shutting herself off to everything but that energy, she’d be able to grasp it. The more zoned in she was, the more productive her talk with Suzanne Fisher would be later.
The key differences between this coming visit and the earlier one were that, first, the sphere of killings was now tightly wrapped around Casey, with all the pieces locked into place. That pushed Casey’s vulnerability—and the energy she exuded— to its peak. And, second, was the fact that, for the very first time, Claire had come in contact with Glen Fisher’s energy. She’d felt it powerfully when she’d touched Trish’s books, and when she’d envisioned the attack. Having that to work with opened a whole new door.
Claire turned down the lights in her apartment, drew the blinds and lit a candle or two. She then went to her kitchen drawer and took out the pen from Fisher’s office. It was carefully wrapped in a Ziploc bag, so nothing could come in direct contact with it and compromise its integrity.
The instant Claire removed the pen and touched it, she felt a jolt of negative energy shoot through her fingertips. The feeling was so strong she almost cried out. Evil. It was pure evil.
Flashes of imagery ran through her head. Like an old-fashioned movie reel, they played out in fast motion, some of them so grotesque that they couldn’t disappear fast enough for Claire.
Woman after woman. Rape after rape. Murder after murder. It was a barbaric collage of Fisher’s crimes that zigzagged in order of magnitude, with the more recent ones in chronological order, culminating with the two-man attack on Trish.
Abruptly, an icy sense of total vulnerability and exposure came over Claire. She felt stripped naked, struggling, helpless, terrified.
With a soft cry, she dropped the pen. It clattered to the floor, the sound echoing inside her head. Her breath was coming in frightened pants. But she didn’t care. Because now that she wasn’t holding the pen, the vision was fading. She was back in her apartment, safe, with no invasion of her person or her space.
Hands trembling, she made herself a cup of nettle tea, although she had no false illusions about its ability to calm her. She just wanted the comfort of a familiar friend, the herbal tea that always warmed and grounded her.
After she’d finished a cup and a half, she went into the living room and sat on the sofa, trying to make sense out of the horrifying images.
The clarity and detail of what she was seeing made her suspect that the nightmare was about to come to a head. And the chilling image of herself in the role of a victim made her wonder if she was walking into danger tonight.
Was it possible that Glen Fisher would be at his apartment when she stopped by?
