32

We skidded to a stop at the sheriff’s department and I tromped in, Heather close behind me. Deputy Ben St. Martin had left for the day, so I talked to the deputy at the desk. I filed a complaint of road rage against the other driver and identified the big pickup as a Chevy Silverado.

When I finished filling out the mundane data, the deputy asked me an obvious question. “Did you give that driver any reason to come after you?”

I told him no.

“You sure? Didn’t cut him off? Didn’t go too slow, way below the speed limit? Make an obscene gesture? Try to provoke him?”

I started to explode. “I don’t know what passes for entertainment down here, but that maniac came after us for no reason. It was all I could do to keep him from killing us. It was unprovoked, attempted vehicular homicide. My daughter here was in the front seat with me. Ask her.”

But he didn’t. Instead he calmly spoke as he finished the report on his keyboard. “Complainant says he did nothing to provoke the driver.”

I signed my statement and left.

“Hey,” Heather said with a sly grin on her face. “‘We can’t stomp into a place like that and treat law enforcement like they owe us something.’”

I stopped in my tracks and my mouth eventually spread into a grin. Couldn’t argue with that.

I suggested we check in to a motel chain that we had passed. On the way over I told her I was sorry about the aggressive driving scare.

She offered an explanation. “Maybe he was on drugs.”

“I wondered that. But his driving was too intentional. Too precise. We were being targeted.”

“Why? And please, no demon stuff.”

“Okay, here’s a question: Who knew we were here?”

Heather didn’t have to think long. “You texted Attorney Canterelle. You told him you were down here.”

“Nah. I may have trust issues with Canterelle, but that’s a stretch.”

“Deputy St. Martin knew we were here,” Heather said. “And so did that pastor he talked with on the phone.”

The list was getting longer.

We checked into the motel, and I made sure we had adjoining rooms. Heather hung out in my room for a while, watching TV on my bed. I knew down deep that she was frightened.

Then my cell lit up. It was Dick Valentine.

“Dick, why aren’t you snuggling with your lovely wife, rather than calling me?”

“She’s at a ladies’-night-out thing again. Women wearing red hats. I don’t get it, but she’s into it.”

“So you’re stuck with me?”

“Yeah, fun city. Briefing a guy who’s all hot on devils and such.”

After the chuckles, he launched in. “Got a little more on the Jason Forester case. When he died, he was homing in on an international child abduction and porn ring. Really sophisticated. Well-financed. Very high-tech. Part of the ‘dark net.’ The dirty basement of the Internet that’s heavily encrypted and accessed by twisted types with expensive passcodes. Back-alley stuff. Except it’s all digital.”

“Where’s the command center of this disgusting website?”

“The server is overseas. But there’s a control administrator somewhere in the continental United States. Also, there’s a Russian name attached to this group of creeps. You’ll need a pen to write this down.”

I told Dick I was ready.

“Kuritsa Foks Videoryad,” he said, following up with the spelling.

I took a moment to absorb that. “Any hint of voodoo in this?”

“Depends on how you define voodoo.”

I needed more. “Dick, I know you’ve got homicides to crack up there in NYC. And you do me a lot of favors. Don’t ever think I take this for granted. . . .”

“Yeah, blah, blah. Listen, how many times do I have to tell you, it’s the least I could do for you after you broke that rogue cop case for me up here.”

“Okay, then here it is: it would be grand if you could get me more on this international criminal bunch. And that control center in America, that’d be a home run.”

“Anything I can, I’ll do. Shouldn’t be a problem, seeing as there is always a New York City tie-in on those criminal enterprises. In my contacts log, I’ll mark these as calls with one of my confidential informants. Which I guess you are.”

I laughed. “But, Dick, you’re the one informing me . . .”

“So you’re saying the informant would be me? Dunno. I’m getting on in years. I get mixed up.”

By the time the jokes were over and I was off the phone, Heather was asleep on my bed and snoring. I clicked off the TV and pulled the covers over her. I jotted down a note for her that I was sleeping in her room and put it on the nightstand next to her. I took a moment to give her a fatherly look. Neck tattoo and all.

Thank you, God, for my daughter.

As I lay in bed in the other room, fading into sleep, I wondered whether it was fair for me to have pulled Heather into danger. I was willing to assume the risks. But she had no idea what she was venturing into.

At what point should I pull the plug, get her safely away from me and light-years away from the hideous organization that I was messing with?