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  He offered her the tissue box, again, and Kendal took one and dabbed her eyes.

  “Would you like to talk with a sexual assault counsellor?” he asked.

  “I wasn’t raped.”

  “You were sexually assaulted, Miss Smith.”

  “I just want to finish this up and go…”

  Go where? She felt as if she were stalked everywhere she went. And how many people were actually after her?

  Or was this all just in her head?

  Kendal sobbed. The nice policeman waited patiently until she resumed self-control.

  “Do you have any enemies?” he asked, gently. “Or has anyone been harassing you?”

  Kendal wasn’t sure what to say. That it might be her own brain, playing tricks? That maybe she clamped her own breast down in that horrible machine? That her cyberstalker, and the man in her closet, and the nurse and doctor could all be hallucinations?

  “I think someone’s after me,” she said, breaking down once more.

  Then she told the cop almost everything.

  • • •

  “Where would you like me to drop you off?” Detective Ledesma asked.

  Kendal yawned. It wasn’t nighttime yet, but she was exhausted. She’d been at the police station for five hours. Detective Ledesma had bought her pizza while she worked with an artist to create a picture of Nurse Demeter. She’d gone through everything that had happened to her in the last few days, and even mentioned some of the traumas of her past; stopping short of revealing her childhood schizophrenia diagnosis, and the fact that her sorority was filled with cameras that broadcast subscription webcam on the Internet.

  But she told him the rest. She even told him about her OCD.

  It felt good to talk about everything, and Kendal had never felt safer in her life. Something about Detective Ledesma—whose first name, she found out, was Jacob—had a calming effect on her. She didn’t want to leave his squad car.

  “I don’t know,” she said. The thought of going back to the house scared her. The thought of going anywhere scared her. “I just want to stay here.”

  “Fine by me.” Jacob took his hands off the steering wheel and laced them behind his head. “We can park here forever.”

  “I like that idea. But what if we need to go to the bathroom?”

  “No problem. We can always make a trucker bomb.”

  “What’s a trucker bomb?”

  “We pee in a plastic bottle, then throw it onto the street.”

  Kendal giggled. “That’s gross. Cops shouldn’t talk like that.”

  “Cops do it all the time. On a long stakeout. No toilet anywhere. Just drank that half gallon bottle of Gatorade. Just fill it back up, chuck it out the window.”

  “You don’t really.”

  “Of course not. The men and women of the Evanston Police Department would never litter. We’re responsible and law-abiding. So every trucker bomb gets put in the recycle bin.”

  They shared a laugh.

  “So have you ever caught a murderer?”

  “No. Population eighty thousand, only one murder in the last two years.”

  “How about a rapist?”

  “Dozens.”

  “Stalkers?”

  “I just delivered a restraining order last week. A man threatened to slap his wife, and she went to a judge. I had to physically remove him from his residence.”

  Kendal’s eyes widened. “Was it dangerous?”

  “Very. The man was eighty-eight years old. I was worried he was going to die on the way to the new retirement home.”

  They laughed again. “I think I figured out where I want to go,” Kendal said. “College library.”

  Kendal had a research paper due in Biology and needed Internet access, but was still skittish about turning on her computer back at home.

  “Done.”

  He started the car, and they enjoyed a pleasant, albeit silent, five minute trip back to campus. Kendal opened the door but didn’t get out.

  “It’s okay,” Jacob said. “I’ll be right out here.”

  That wasn’t the reason Kendal hesitated. She was actually trying to figure out how many steps there were, from this curb, to the library front door.

  “You have my number in your phone, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m not going anywhere, Kendal. Did you want me to come inside with you?”

  Kendal did some quick math in her head and decided she could start her count at 1167. “No. I’m good. Thanks, Detective Ledesma.”

  Kendal left the car and didn’t look back. Sixty-seven steps later, Kendal logged into Computer #17 using her Student ID as User 11892.

  Twenty minutes into taking notes, her screen froze. After several seconds of ineffective tapping on the mouse and keyboard, she pushed her chair back and began to feel under the desk for an off switch to reboot.

  Then a pop-up appeared onscreen.

  Library Help Desk: What seems to be the issue?

  Kendal tried the keyboard.

  User 11892: Screen froze. Seems fine now.

  Library Help Desk: Were you trying to turn off the computer?

  User 11892: No. I didn’t touch anything.

  Library Help Desk: It is against Library Policy to manually turn off the computers.

  Whatever, Kendal thought. She hit the esc button, but the chat box remained.

  How do I get back to surfing the net?

  It is against Library Policy to browse for online pornography.

  Seriously? WTF?

  I wasn’t looking at porn.

  I know. I’m watching you.

  Kendal immediately looked around her. Her eyes found the Help Desk. Several librarians were at their computers, but no one was looking Kendal’s way.

  You were thinking about porn, weren’t you, you bad girl?

  This was getting freaky. Kendal removed her student ID from the card slot.

  The screen remained.

  You think squeezing your tit was the only punishment you’d get? You’re going to suffer, Kendal. Suffer for your sins.

  Kendal turned away from the computer.

  Froze.

  How many steps to the exit? Was it sixteen or seventeen?

  Behind her, the computer began to broadcast a voice.

  Kendal’s voice.

  “I just got a really weird phone call.”

  “Like obscene weird?” It was Linda’s voice. “Some guy yanking his crank and moaning? You lucky slut! I never get calls like that.”

  “I mean like someone being beaten.”

  “That’s even kinkier.”

  Kendal glanced over her shoulder, and saw the monitor screen showing the webcam video of her and Linda in the kitchen, from yesterday.

  “Really beaten. Screaming for their lives beaten.”

  “Was it some kind of joke?”

  “If it was, it wasn’t funny.”

  “Who was it from?”

  “It said caller unknown.”

  Then the image switched to the most violent thing Kendal had ever seen. Some guy with a chain around his ankle, getting beaten bloody with a whip as he screamed.

  Kendal made it to the staircase in fourteen steps, then had to take two extra, plus touch the railing three times, before she could take the twenty-five steps back to the lobby.

  Detective Ledesma was still parked in the loading zone, ten steps away. Kendal hurried to his car, then knocked on the window three times.

  He rolled it halfway down.

  “Done so soon?”

  “Yes.”

  What else could she say? Kendal knew that if she dragged him upstairs to show him the computer screen, it would be gone by the time she got there.

  If it was ever there at all.

  “So where to?”

  She considered the question. “Back to my sorority.”

  If her stalker was real, and could follow her anywhere, Kendal wanted to be in a place with eighteen cameras that broadcast live 24/7.
r />   Being at that house was like living in a fishbowl, eyes on all sides. And that seemed like the safest place to be.

  They drove in silence, and arrived at the house far too soon. When they pulled up, Kendal made no move to get out of the car.

  “I used to work patrol in this area,” Detective Ledesma said. “I know the Epsilon Epsilon Delta house.”

  “You do?”

  Was he hinting that he knew about the webcams?

  “Solid doors, front and back. Deadbolts. You’ve even got security windows. University rules. They want to keep their students safe.”

  “Locks can be picked,” Kendal said.

  “Sure. But I’ll be out here all night, making sure everything is okay.”

  “How about when you leave?”

  He smiled kindly. “When I leave, someone will replace me.”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Where is your bedroom?”

  “Right there,” Kendal pointed to one of the windows facing the street.

  “Do you have a lock?”

  “One of those flimsy, privacy locks with the slit you can turn with your fingernail.”

  “I’ve got something better than that. Step into my office.”

  Officer Ledesma got out of the car. Curious, Kendal followed him to his trunk. He popped it open, and there was a small cardboard box. He pulled out a small, blue bag, about the size of a cell phone. He opened it up and took out an odd-looking device made of metal and orange plastic.

  “This is called an Addalock. Travelers use them in hotel rooms. You place the metal strip inside the door over the latch, close it, then put this orange piece in the slot. Now the door won’t open, even if the knob is turned or the lock is picked.”

  He handed it to Kendal.

  “It’s so small.”

  “It works. Trust me. Once it’s on, the door won’t open unless you remove the whole frame.”

  She gripped the Addalock, tight. “Thanks.”

  “You’ve got my cell number. If anything happens, call me. Or just open your blinds and wave at me through the window. I’ll be out here all night, drinking coffee and making trucker bombs.”

  Kendal nodded, gave the detective a quick hug, and then ran into the house, clutching the Addalock like a talisman.

  CHAPTER 36

  For the first time in as long as he can remember, Walter Cissick feels no pain.

  He wonders if he has finally suffered enough for his sins. If his Penance is over.

  And then he begins to laugh. He laughs so hard and so loud that a nurse comes in to sedate him.

  Walter closes his eyes, blissful in the utter majesty of atonement.

  CHAPTER 37

  Tom opened his eyes, his brain still foggy from his drug-assisted nap. He checked the clock. A little past eight pm.

  They hadn’t put him under for surgery, but whatever they’d given him was enough for him to lose all memory of the last few hours. Not a bad thing, either. The last thing he remembered was Dr. Jones digging a scalpel into his stitches, which was an ugly, and gross, thing to see no matter who it was happening to.

  He was thirsty, and reached for the water cup next to his bed. His cell was also there. He’d left it on, and the battery was dead. Tom plugged in his charger, then pressed the call button on his bed. His male nurse had been replaced by an older, Asian woman.

  “Do we know how my surgery went?”

  “The doctor is really the best person to discuss that with you.”

  “Is the doctor here?”

  “He left.”

  “So can you tell me anything?”

  “I’ll see if I can find anything out. Is there anything else?”

  “I think I missed dinner. Anything to eat?”

  “Do you have any dietary considerations?”

  “I’d prefer not to eat something lousy.”

  She smiled. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Thanks.”

  Tom checked his phone. It had a 2% charge.

  Joan hadn’t called. Neither had Roy.

  He thought about calling Joan one more time. If he did it from the land line, maybe she wouldn’t know it was him and she’d finally pick up. And then…

  And then, what?

  If you had to fool your girlfriend into talking to you, the relationship was probably in trouble.

  Instead of calling Joan, he went on Google and looked up the Tor thing Firoz had told him about, the browser that let you surf the deep web. He found out there was an onion browser for iPhones, downloaded it, and soon was poking around the darknet anonymously.

  After quickly figuring out how to navigate, he went to a site called Ahmia.fi, a hidden-service search engine listing thousands of websites with names like fzqnrlcvhkbgwdx5.onion. Tom began to click on URLs.

  Apparently, with Bitcoin, you could purchase practically anything, including all kinds of drugs (illegal and prescription), escorts, firearms, suppressors, cigarettes, electronics, passports, stolen credit card numbers, gift cards, counterfeit currency, and more drugs. You could hire assassins, hackers, and cyber bullies to target your enemies with online harassment or homemade computer viruses. There were a plethora of sites about mining bitcoins, most of them labelled scam by whoever did the labels on Ahmia.

  Some sites were amateurish, looking like they were created with Dreamweaver back in ’99. Tom couldn’t imagine anyone, even the stupidest person on the planet, thinking they could get a real rocket launcher for the equivalent of four hundred dollars. But other sites looked like modern online retailers. Put some banana kush cannabis in your virtual shopping cart for only 0.0052 Bitcoin a gram. Add-on a hit of blotter acid for 0.0025.

  Tom found it fascinating. Until it got weird.

  While a firm believer in privacy and freedom, Tom grew increasingly uncomfortable surfing the hidden web. It was doubtful that the website selling leg-amputated Thai children—guaranteed to never run away—was legitimate. But the very idea of it was awful. And Tom knew that hate speech occurred on the Internet, but on darknet it went to a whole new level, with actual calls to violence. There were live webcams for things that were definitely illegal and non-consensual. There were pictures that made Fournier gangrene appear downright appealing.

  On hunch, he searched for “Fight the Feeling”. As he suspected, the web owner had an onion site that mirrored the public one.

  Though mirror probably wasn’t the right word. Rather than sex offenders trying to help one another avoid temptation, this forum had them trading tips on how not to get caught, tricks on how to seduce minors, advice on how much Rohypnol was needed to knock out a forty pound child.

  According to the bot, the moderator was online.

  There was a chat box. Tom turned his phone sideways so the onscreen keyboard was larger, then pecked out:

  I’m looking for Erinyes.

  Who’s looking? came a quick reply.

  Tom from Chicago.

  There was no answer. Then, in a flurry of typing:

  You pigs have sure done a number on my house.

  He was chatting with The Snipper. Tom glanced at the phone, wondering if he could call Firoz to trace the…

  Oh. Right. That was the point of darknet. No one could trace anyone.

  Not me. Tom typed. I’m nursing my wounds. Your friend in the basement bit me.

  You should see a doctor about that, Tom. That might get infected.

  Thank you for your concern. He must have been a real bad boy for you to keep him locked up for years.

  He was a very, very bad boy.

  Did you enjoy keeping him chained up like a dog?

  I have my job. You have yours. Do you enjoy your job, Tom?

  I don’t like the violence.

  Neither do I. But it has to be done.

  Why does it have to be done?

  I punish sinners. I give them Penance.

  Aren’t you a sinner, too? We’re chatting on a site dedicated to helping child rapists.

  I onl
y help them by making them pure.

  Castrating them is making them pure?

  Of course it is. I’m saving their souls. And saving future victims.

  How about the webcam models? How did you save Kendal Hefferton?

  Women are different than men. You know this. Men can’t help themselves. They’re led around by their cocks. Remove the cock, remove the sin.

  And women?

  I can’t cut off something they don’t have. Their sins run deep inside. There is no way to remove it.

  So you torture them to death?

  I cleanse them, Tom. I make them pure. Some need more cleansing than others.

  Webcam models named Kendal?

  Kendals are the worst sinners of all.

  Why is that? Was your mother named Kendal?

  No.

  Tom took a shot. Was your mother named Lilyana?

  I’ll tell you about my mother sometime.

  What’s wrong with now?

  I’m busy now. I’ve got to cleanse my next sinner.

  That was exactly what Tom didn’t want to happen. This chatting thing is so impersonal. How about we meet?

  We will.

  Now?

  We’ll meet. But it won’t be how you imagine it.

  So you’ve picked out the next Kendal?

  Yes.

  And you’re killing her tonight?

  Cleansing isn’t killing, Tom. Your body has an expiration date. Your soul is eternal. If Kendal suffers for her sins while she’s alive, she’ll be saved in the afterlife.

  Tom wracked his brain for the ancient Greek version of heaven. Where? The Illusion Fields?

  It’s the Elysian Fields. And don’t be stupid. That isn’t real.

  But you believe you’re a Furie, don’t you? Is that real?

  I am a product of my reality.

  Tom recalled a conversation with a psychopath named Torble that went a lot like this one. The man seemed perfectly sane one minute, and then a raging loon the next.

  Don’t kill anyone else. Please.

  Are you willing to make a deal, Tom?

  Sure. What do you want?

  The response was immediate. Castrate yourself.