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  The nurse blinks first. “I’ll see if he can squeeze you in, Mister…?”

  “Dunwich. Brad Dunwich.”

  “I’ll need a copy of your ID, and for you to fill out some forms.”

  She trades a clipboard and pencil for Dunwich’s Driver’s License and trots off. Cissick helps himself to a cone of water from the cooler, dribbling most of it on his robe, and quickly conquers the paperwork.

  I wonder if there’s a pet store nearby.

  I could use a nice, wiggly, meal worm snack.

  “Dr. Kline will see you, Mr. Dunwich.”

  Cissick follows her through a carpeted hallway, keeping an eye out for a surgery suite. They arrive at a closed door. She opens it and he walks into the empty exam room and uses the footstool to get up on the padded table.

  He considers undressing—doctors are always more sympathetic when they see how scarred his body is—but decides to wait. Cissick feels chilly, and shivering hurts.

  Everything hurts.

  That’s why I’m here.

  Mostly.

  Dr. Kline doesn’t bother knocking before he enters, his eyes on a clipboard. Cissick puts him in his early forties, short and stocky but obviously a gym buff, the tie peeking out from under his lab coat probably worth four figures.

  “Hello, Mr. Dunwich. My nurse tells me you are in pain.”

  He glances up at Cissick and his face twitches.

  “Terrible pain, Dr. Kline. I was chained in a basement for years. Horribly tortured. Every breath is agony.”

  “Did you come here for reconstructive surgery, Mr. Dunwich?”

  “I’ve been told it’s impossible. Do you do your surgery on the premises?”

  “No. We book at the nearby hospital.”

  A pity. That won’t do.

  “I specialize in cosmetic enhancement, Mr. Dunwich. You require… do you even have ears?”

  “What was that?” Cissick cups a hand to the scarred hole on the side of his head.

  Dr. Kline doesn’t laugh.

  “I’m afraid I’m not the surgeon for you, Mr. Dunwich.”

  “Can you refer me to someone? And give me something for the pain?”

  “Of course.”

  Cissick expects the prescription pad to come out, but instead Dr. Kline hands him a business card.

  “His name is Dr. Absalt. He specializes in cases like yours. Make an appointment with his office, tell him I sent you.”

  “And my pain?”

  “Do you have an MMIC?”

  “What’s that?”

  “A Medical Marijuana Identification Card?”

  Cissick shakes his head. He’s been down this path before. “Can you get me one?”

  “Physicians don’t give out cards. I can give you a medical recommendation. You have to apply for one in the county where you live. But you no doubt know that cannabis is legal. You can go to any dispensary and buy something for your pain.”

  “I require something stronger than weed, Dr. Kline. Would you like to see what my captor did to my genitals? I can show you. Well, what’s left of them…”

  As expected, Kline gives in, pulling out his pad. When he hands over the script, Cissick sees it was for Vicodin.

  Not a halogenated ether. No surprise there.

  But it’ll get me through, until I find what I need.

  “Thank you, Doctor.”

  “Good luck to you, Mr. Dunwich.”

  I don’t need luck.

  I’m a goddamned force of nature.

  TOM

  He noticed a high-tech espresso machine on Harry McGlade’s kitchen counter, considered it for half a second, and dismissed the thought.

  I’m already jittery. Caffeine won’t help.

  Roy, at home in anyone’s home, was rooting through the giant stainless steel fridge.

  “Dude has a whole tray of sandwich wraps. He could feed forty people with all this. Want one?”

  “Sure.”

  Roy took out two wraps, handing one to Tom.

  “Day-am. That’s a good wrap. What do you think that cheese is? Sort of tastes like Swiss, but can’t be Swiss. Not ritzy enough, Tilsit, you think?”

  Tom hadn’t tried his sandwich yet.

  “The hell, Tom? You in the kitchen with me, or off somewhere else?”

  “Sorry, Roy.” Tom took a bite of the wrap. “It’s Havarti.”

  “Seriously?” Roy sniffed his sandwich. “How can you tell?”

  “Tastes like hazelnuts. That’s Havarti.”

  “Okay, so your taste buds are working. What’s up with your head? Is it Joan?”

  I’ll just spill it.

  “It’s more than just Joan.”

  Roy waited, then said, “You gonna tell me, or tell me more cheese-monger bullshit?”

  Deep breath.

  Here it goes…

  “I don’t want to bring a child into the world with him out there, Roy.”

  “Cissick?”

  “Erinyes.”

  “Ain’t that what I said? Ain’t Cissick Erinyes?”

  “Cissick… he’s an emotionally disturbed man.”

  “An emotionally disturbed, crippled-as-fuck man.”

  “It’s California, Roy. We’ve talked about being more politically correct in front of charters.”

  “Fine. He’s an emotionally disturbed, crippled-as-hell man.”

  “I was shooting for handicapped instead of crippled.”

  “You worried that nutbag will get upset I called him crippled? Or is nutbag bad too?”

  Tom rubbed his eyes. “I don’t know how to put this. I’m not worried about Cissick. I’m worried about Erinyes.”

  Roy ate more wrap and nodded. “I get it. Not the man. The concept. Like Jason from Halloween.”

  “Jason was Friday the 13th. Michael Myers was Halloween.”

  “I don’t give a shit about those scary movies you white people watch, Tom. I lived that shit, same as you. I know the first Erinyes got you pretty bad, but I went through hell in South Carolina.”

  “I was in South Carolina too, Roy.”

  I still have the scars.

  “But here’s the difference, Tom. I left South Carolina in South Carolina. Cissick ain’t some unstoppable, supernatural killing machine. He ain’t the boogeyman. He’s just some sick son of a bitch who’s fixated on you. And we’ll stop him. We got good people here. Jack, her badass hubby, even McGlade. We’ll stop him.”

  Roy patted Tom on the shoulder, then went for another sandwich wrap. McGlade popped into the kitchen.

  “You guys ready to rock?”

  “Yo, Harry, what kind of cheese is in these. It Havarti?”

  “Naw. Tilsit.”

  “I knew it was Tilsit! Hazelnuts my ass.”

  Roy grabbed two more sandwiches, a Panna water, and walked off.

  That wasn’t much help.

  “What’s up, Tom? You’re looking less energetic than usual. Need some espresso?”

  McGlade didn’t look so hot either, but Tom chose to stay quiet about that. Instead he asked, “You’ve had killers after you, right, Harry?”

  “All the time, Tom. I’m not a magnet for psychos like Jack is, but I’ve pissed a lot of people off, and some of them come calling.”

  “And how do you deal with it?”

  “It’s a state of constant vigilance and acute hyper-awareness. I always know what’s going on around me, at all times.”

  “You’re aware your fly is open.”

  “Of course. That’s a lifestyle choice.”

  Tom winced. “Is no underwear a lifestyle choice?”

  “I roll commando, Tom. You can’t hold all this back. Gotta air it all out, let it breathe.”

  “You had no idea your zipper was open.”

  “None whatsoever.”

  When Harry turned to leave he zipped himself up. Tom followed.

  Back in the great room, Jack appeared as nervous as Tom felt. He yanked out his cell, texting Firoz in Chicago, asking if he
was ready for a call.

  Time to face my demons.

  As Tom sat on the sofa, Harry said, “Tom, I took the liberty of hooking up your laptop to my TV screen. In the future, I suggest a password on your lockscreen. Also, your screensaver is stupid. Ziggy hasn’t been relevant since 1980.”

  Tom had only been able to endure the videos Erinyes had sent when he minimized the screen and turned the sound off. While fast-forwarding.

  Big screen, surround sound, real time… it will be unbearable.

  Harry McGlade nodded gravely. “Take your time, Tom. And by that I mean move your ass, we all got shit to do.”

  Tom stared at his laptop, feeling a little ill.

  Here we go…

  “Okay, uh… a year ago we moved to LA. I was still doing rehab on my knees. Roy and I pooled our savings and got a loan and bought a charter boat. Joan and I got a place, Roy and Trish… uh…”

  Tom got distracted by movement; McGlade was making a hurry-up gesture with his hand.

  “Okay… so… ten weeks ago I get some mail forwarded to me from Chicago. Addressed to me at District 26. A videotape. VHS. No return address, no label.”

  “CPD didn’t open it?” Jack asked.

  “They followed standard procedure. K-9 sniffing, metal detector, opened it, played the first few minutes. Some old cartoons. Had a birthday card in it. Mickey Mouse. Personalized, Enjoy the video, Tom. Love, E.”

  “You watched more than the first few minutes.”

  Tom nodded. “I did. I don’t want to watch it again. I didn’t even watch it when I converted it to an .avi file. Are we sure Sam isn’t going to walk in?”

  “She’s face deep in a dish of ice cream,” Phin said. “A nuke could drop outside, she wouldn’t know.”

  Tom exhaled.

  Found the video file in his folder.

  Clicked on it to bring up the player.

  Clicked on play and turned away.

  A few minutes of begging and crying.

  A younger, circa 2002 Walter Cissick, ranting about penance and sinners and redemption and the furies.

  Then Cissick picked up a drill.

  And the screaming started.

  Tom ground his molars, caught eyes with Jack, who was also looking away.

  The screaming got louder, climbing above the drill whine.

  Roy got up and turned to the wall, jaw clenched and arms folded over his chest.

  The screams didn’t even sound human anymore. Just an agonized animal, bellowing, going on and on.

  That’s how I’d scream if Cissick did that to me.

  “Tom, can you pause it?”

  Tom gladly did.

  Harry, his cherubic quality masked by obvious disgust, said, “Video quality is awful. How did you know it’s Walter Cissick?”

  “I wasn’t sure. After I made a copy, I turned it into the local Feebies. Three days later they called me.”

  “They IDed Cissick?”

  “Face of the killer on tape was consistent with Cissick’s IL driver’s license. They took apart the tape to dust it for prints. Found two latents that matched, from a previous domestic violence charge.” Tom swallowed. “They also found a store-bought GPS tracker in the tape case.”

  “Traceable?” Jack asked.

  “GSM/GPRS was backtracked to a burner email account. Dead end. But two weeks later, I got a second package at our house. Cissick knew CPD would forward it, used the GPS to find my address. This time, instead of a VHS, the video was on a memory stick. Inside a Donald Duck card. He signed it Erinyes.”

  Jack said, “The Greek deities of vengeance. The name Cissick’s kid used when killing those webcam models.”

  Tom nodded. “Yeah. Right after the thing in Wisconsin, Cissick disappeared. CPD checked his house, and it had been burned down the day before. They did a thermal probe. Twelve bodies found on the property. They’ve only identified three, but seven others have matched up with the videos he’s sending me.”

  McGlade rubbed his chubby chin. “Wasn’t the guy disfigured and disabled from being chained up in the basement for years? You think he’d be easy to spot. Where could he go?”

  “Did he have money?” Jack asked. “Get money? With enough money, anyone can disappear.”

  “Only thing worse than a nut is a rich nut,” Roy said. “No offense, McGlade.”

  “None taken. I can’t be offended by the comic-relief sidekick.”

  Roy made a face. “Who are you calling a sidekick?”

  “Trust me. I know.” Harry blew a kiss at Roy and faced Tom. “I can figure out if Cissick has money. I just need to make a few calls. Is there anything more to get from the video so we don’t have to watch the rest?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t have the stomach for it. But you guys are free to watch it, and all the others, and look for details.”

  No one volunteered.

  “Okay,” McGlade said. “I got buds at the FBI. I can find out what they know. How’d you find the other video? The one with Jack in it?”

  “I didn’t find it. Do you all know Firoz Nafisi?”

  “Cop at the 26th,” Jack said. “Computer geek.”

  “Best let him explain it. He’s waiting for me to call. I can put him on speaker.”

  Everyone agreed, Jack reiterating that she wanted the world to continue to think she was dead, and Tom dialed him. Firoz picked up on the first ring.

  “Hey, Tom. How’s the earthquakes?”

  “Bearable. How’s the weather in Chi-town?”

  “Unbearable, as usual.”

  “I’m here with Harry McGlade.”

  “From the Private Dick Live and Streaming in Your Face vlog? I love that channel, man.”

  Harry spoke up. “Thanks. You got a premium membership to my website?”

  “Of course. Those pix of you with the fruit, those are tight.”

  “Some of the fruit was tight, too. That’s why I buy lube by the gallon.”

  “Roy is also here.”

  “Sup, Firoz.”

  “Hey, Roy. Glad you’re there to take care of Tom. This is one bad mofo.”

  Huge understatement. “Firoz, can you take us through what you found on darknet?”

  “Right. When you first asked me to analyze those snuff vids you’ve been getting, I checked the deep web to see if I could find any matches. You obviously know anything with a .onion address isn’t indexed, so searching is hard. There’s DuckDuckGo and Hidden Wiki, but finding stuff on Tor is really hit or miss. But I did know a few snuff sites from previous cases. One of the newer ones is Usher House 2.0. Torture, rape, murder, gore; everything a sexual deviant can think of, all totally private and accessible with crypto.”

  “How is that allowed?” Roy asked.

  “It isn’t allowed. It’s just off the grid and impossible to trace. The Feebies, the CIA, and Interpol have been trying to bust this place since it opened. But unlike Silk Road, the folks running UH2 haven’t made any mistakes. They don’t fall for honeypot stings, and hiding IP has become more sophisticated. UH2 accepts user uploads, so I checked online to see if any videos matched what you sent me. I found fifteen of them. I also found that one I sent to you, the one with the woman who looks like the late Lt. Jack Daniels.”

  “Was that related to the Erinyes videos?”

  “Not in any way I could find. Even that last Erinyes vid, the Thirsty one shot on digital, uses a different resolution. I didn’t see any connection, but I wanted to show it to you to let you see how fast the tech is coming up. What’s real vs. what’s fake.”

  “So that video of the late Jack Daniels, my best friend forever may god always watch over her eternal soul…” Harry winked at Jack. “That was fake?”

  “Sort of. It’s a deepfake.”

  Harry nodded. Roy spread his hands. “What’s a deepfake, Firoz?”

  McGlade answered. “Like most new technology, it started with porn, decades ago. Guys wanted to see celebrities naked, so they photoshopped a famous person’s head o
n a porn star’s body. As the tech got better, it became more sophisticated and harder to detect, and the latest imaging software can superimpose video using machine learning. Sort of like motion-capture.”

  “Correct, Harry. Deepfakes are fueling a worldwide security crisis. People are already predisposed to believe and pass along baseless and sourceless information they find on the Internet. When this tech is added, it can be devastating. This is more than putting a movie star’s face in a fake pornographic video. These fakers can make it look like a cop or politician is corrupt, or destroy someone’s reputation and life. We’re already in the midst of cancel culture without due process. Soon anyone can accuse anyone of anything, and have video proof.”

  “Are deepfakes detectable, Firoz?” Tom asked.

  “At this point, yes, with the right software. But it’s an arms race. As the fakers get better, detection gets harder.”

  “So the Jack Daniels video was fake,” Harry said.

  “Jack’s face was faked. Unfortunately, the video was real. That poor woman, whoever she was, died in the most horrible way possible.”

  “How about the Erinyes videos?”

  “The old VHS tapes are real, for sure. But the last one, the digital one of the woman with the tattoo of the word THIRSTY. That video had been manipulated.”

  This is new. “In what way?”

  “I found two ways. Last I checked, the Feebies still haven’t IDed the victim.”

  “Correct,” Tom said.

  “That’s because they’re not looking for the right missing person. The video is real. But that big THIRSTY tatt on her neck? Fake.”

  Tom’s mind reeled at that. “We’ve been using that to rule out people who didn’t have tattoos.”

  “Right. You need to get with the Feebies and do another search, ignoring the ink.”

  “And the Feebies couldn’t figure this out?”

  “Maybe they could,” Firoz said. “But they aren’t me.”

  “What’s the second way the vid was manipulated?” Roy asked.