vote. All they have to do is click a button.’ He paused for effect. ‘And this is how it’s going to work, Detective: the first of the two death methods to reach a thousand votes wins. That sounds like fun, doesn’t it?’
‘Why are you doing this?’ Hunter asked.
‘I just told you. Because it sounds like fun, don’t you agree? But I’ll tell you what, Detective Hunter: to make this even more fun, I’ll give her a chance to live. Let’s make this into a race against the clock, what do you say? If I don’t get a thousand votes for one method in . . . let’s say . . . ten minutes . . . I give you my word that I will set her free, unharmed. How does that sound?’
Hunter breathed out.
‘I think that sounds like a pretty fair deal, don’t you?’
‘Please don’t do this,’ Hunter pleaded, but the caller simply ignored him.
‘Would you like to be the first one to vote, Detective Hunter?’ The caller laughed, not waiting for an answer. ‘I didn’t think so. But there’s hope for her yet. The site has just gone online. Maybe no one will see it, or even if they do, maybe no one will vote. Who knows? But at least we’re about to have ourselves ten very exciting minutes.’
In the bottom left-hand corner of the screen a blue digital clock appeared and began counting down – 10:00, 9:59, 9:58 . . .
Suddenly the zero under the word BURIED changed to 1, and then very quickly to 2.
The caller laughed loudly. ‘Oops, that wasn’t me. I promise you. I’m not cheating. I guess the race is on.’
The line went dead.
Twenty-Five
Hunter immediately reached for the phone on his desk and called Dennis Baxter at the LAPD Computer Crimes Unit. He answered it after the second ring.
‘Dennis, it’s Robert Hunter in Homicide Special. The website is back online.’
‘What?’
Hunter heard a hurried shuffle followed by keyboard clicks.
‘No, it’s not,’ Baxter replied.
‘He’s not using the same IP address. He’s got a web domain this time.’
‘You’re kidding.’
‘www.pickadeath.com.’
More keyboard clicks. Hunter heard Baxter breathe out heavily.
‘Sonofabitch.’ Baxter paused a beat. ‘What the hell is all that on the screen?’
As quickly as he could, Hunter explained what he knew.
‘So if he gets a thousand votes in ten minutes she’s either going to be BURIED alive or EATEN alive?’
‘That’s what I gathered,’ Hunter replied.
‘Eaten by what?’
The number besides the word BURIED reached 22. EATEN was at 19.
‘Don’t think about that right now,’ Hunter replied. ‘Click whatever buttons you need to click. Do whatever you need to do. Trace this transmission or find a way to interrupt it so people can’t vote. Call your buddies at the FBI Cybercrime Division, I don’t care what you do, but get me something.’
‘I’ll do all I can.’
The countdown clock on the bottom left-hand side of the screen read 8:42, 8:41, 8:40 . . .
BURIED – 47.
EATEN – 49.
‘This is just fucked up,’ Garcia said, running both hands through his hair.
The woman in the box was sobbing so heavily it looked like she was running out of air. She had stopped hammering the glass walls with her fists and feet, and had started clawing at them like a crazed animal. Blood smears started to color the glass.
A moment later she gave up and brought her bleeding and trembling hands to her face. Her lips started moving, and though Hunter could lip-read, everyone watching could easily understand what she was saying.
‘HELP ME. HELP ME.’
‘C’mon,’ Hunter said through gritted teeth. ‘Hang in there.’ Both of his hands had locked into tight fists.
CLOCK – 7:05, 7:04, 7:03 . . .
BURIED – 189.
EATEN – 201.
‘How is this happening?’ Garcia asked, shaking his hands in the air. ‘How are people coming across this website so fast?’
Hunter just shook his head. His eyes were glued to his screen, his expression grave.
Without knocking, Captain Blake opened Hunter and
‘Why are you doing this?’ Hunter asked.
‘I just told you. Because it sounds like fun, don’t you agree? But I’ll tell you what, Detective Hunter: to make this even more fun, I’ll give her a chance to live. Let’s make this into a race against the clock, what do you say? If I don’t get a thousand votes for one method in . . . let’s say . . . ten minutes . . . I give you my word that I will set her free, unharmed. How does that sound?’
Hunter breathed out.
‘I think that sounds like a pretty fair deal, don’t you?’
‘Please don’t do this,’ Hunter pleaded, but the caller simply ignored him.
‘Would you like to be the first one to vote, Detective Hunter?’ The caller laughed, not waiting for an answer. ‘I didn’t think so. But there’s hope for her yet. The site has just gone online. Maybe no one will see it, or even if they do, maybe no one will vote. Who knows? But at least we’re about to have ourselves ten very exciting minutes.’
In the bottom left-hand corner of the screen a blue digital clock appeared and began counting down – 10:00, 9:59, 9:58 . . .
Suddenly the zero under the word BURIED changed to 1, and then very quickly to 2.
The caller laughed loudly. ‘Oops, that wasn’t me. I promise you. I’m not cheating. I guess the race is on.’
The line went dead.
Twenty-Five
Hunter immediately reached for the phone on his desk and called Dennis Baxter at the LAPD Computer Crimes Unit. He answered it after the second ring.
‘Dennis, it’s Robert Hunter in Homicide Special. The website is back online.’
‘What?’
Hunter heard a hurried shuffle followed by keyboard clicks.
‘No, it’s not,’ Baxter replied.
‘He’s not using the same IP address. He’s got a web domain this time.’
‘You’re kidding.’
‘www.pickadeath.com.’
More keyboard clicks. Hunter heard Baxter breathe out heavily.
‘Sonofabitch.’ Baxter paused a beat. ‘What the hell is all that on the screen?’
As quickly as he could, Hunter explained what he knew.
‘So if he gets a thousand votes in ten minutes she’s either going to be BURIED alive or EATEN alive?’
‘That’s what I gathered,’ Hunter replied.
‘Eaten by what?’
The number besides the word BURIED reached 22. EATEN was at 19.
‘Don’t think about that right now,’ Hunter replied. ‘Click whatever buttons you need to click. Do whatever you need to do. Trace this transmission or find a way to interrupt it so people can’t vote. Call your buddies at the FBI Cybercrime Division, I don’t care what you do, but get me something.’
‘I’ll do all I can.’
The countdown clock on the bottom left-hand side of the screen read 8:42, 8:41, 8:40 . . .
BURIED – 47.
EATEN – 49.
‘This is just fucked up,’ Garcia said, running both hands through his hair.
The woman in the box was sobbing so heavily it looked like she was running out of air. She had stopped hammering the glass walls with her fists and feet, and had started clawing at them like a crazed animal. Blood smears started to color the glass.
A moment later she gave up and brought her bleeding and trembling hands to her face. Her lips started moving, and though Hunter could lip-read, everyone watching could easily understand what she was saying.
‘HELP ME. HELP ME.’
‘C’mon,’ Hunter said through gritted teeth. ‘Hang in there.’ Both of his hands had locked into tight fists.
CLOCK – 7:05, 7:04, 7:03 . . .
BURIED – 189.
EATEN – 201.
‘How is this happening?’ Garcia asked, shaking his hands in the air. ‘How are people coming across this website so fast?’
Hunter just shook his head. His eyes were glued to his screen, his expression grave.
Without knocking, Captain Blake opened Hunter and
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