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Online the whole time . . .
Which meant to Wahl that there might be some way to trace what Galt had searched for or who he'd emailed. Wahl watched all those crime shows on TV, and did some continuing education in security on his own dime. Maybe the police could get the identification number of Galt's computer and find out where he was hiding.
Sonja had reported the killer had also made a lot of cell phone calls.
That was interesting. Galt was a loner. He was attacking people because he was pissed off about getting cancer from high-tension wires. So who was he calling? A partner? Why? That was something they could find out too.
Hurrying back to the office now, Wahl considered how best to handle this. Of course he'd have to get word back to the police as fast as he could. His heart was slamming at the thought of being instrumental in catching the killer. Maybe Detective Sachs would be impressed enough to get him a job interview with the NYPD.
But, hold on, don't be cagey here, he cautioned himself. Just do what's best and deal with the future in the future. Call everybody--Detective Sachs, Lincoln Rhyme and the others: FBI Agent McDaniel and that police lieutenant, Lon Sellitto.
And, of course, tell Ms. Jessen.
He walked quickly, tense and exhilarated, seeing ahead of him the red and gray smokestacks of Algonquin Consolidated. And in front of the building, those damn protesters. He enjoyed a brief image of turning a water cannon on them. Or, even more fun, a Taser. The company that made them also had a sort of a shotgun Taser, which would fire a number of barbs into a crowd for riot control.
He was smiling at the thought of them dancing around on the ground, when the man got him from behind.
Wahl gasped and barked a cry.
A muzzle of a gun appeared against his right cheek. "Don't turn around," was the whisper. The gun now pressed against his back. The voice told him to walk into an alley between a closed car repair shop and a darkened warehouse.
A harsh whisper: "Just do what I say, Bernie, and you won't get hurt."
"You know me?"
"It's Ray," came the whisper.
"Ray Galt?" Wahl's heart thudded hard. He wondered if he'd be sick. "Oh, man, look. What're you--"
"Shhh. Keep going."
They continued into the alley for another fifty feet or so, and turned a corner into a dim recess.
"Lie down, face first. Arms out at your sides."
Wahl hesitated, thinking for some ridiculous reason about the suit he'd proudly put on that morning, an expensive one. "Always look better than your job title," his father had told him.
The .45 nudged his back. He dropped like a stone into the greasy dirt.
"I don't go to Leni's anymore, Bernie. You think I'm stupid?"
Which told him that Galt had been tailing him for a while.
And I hadn't even noticed. Oh, some fucking cop I'd be. Jesus.
"And I don't use their broadband. I use a prepaid cell connection."
"You killed those people, Ray. You--"
"They're not dead because of me. They're dead because Algonquin and Andi Jessen killed them! Why didn't she listen to me? Why didn't she do what I asked?"
"They wanted to, man. There just wasn't enough time to shut the grid down."
"Bullshit."
"Ray, listen. Turn yourself in. This is crazy, what you're doing."
A bitter laugh. "Crazy? You think I'm crazy?"
