threads, making his own posts, juicy stuff, bait for Frey.
I’m sick of everything. Want to die. Help.
But Ashley Frey wasn’t biting.
“Says here she hasn’t even been online more than fifteen minutes, total, this past week,” Mathers told Stevens and Windermere. “Whatever our subject is doing, wherever and
whoever
she might be, she’s not focused on this site.”
“Keep trying,” Windermere told him. “She’s built a new profile because she wants a new victim. We damn well better be that victim, or another kid is going to die.”
In the meantime, Stevens and Windermere worked through the last remnants of their sex-trafficking case, closed the doors on the degenerate brothel owners and strip-club bosses who’d bought the youngwomen their prime target had imported. Closed the case, more or less, dropped the file on Harris’s desk and waited as he flipped through it.
“Good stuff,” he told them once he’d scanned the report. “Really good. Guess we’re just about ready to put that nasty business to bed, huh?”
“Done and done,” Stevens told the SAC. “At this point, we’re pretty confident we nailed every scumbag who even thought about buying a woman from those bastards.”
Harris slid the file aside. “And what about the current case? Any progress?”
“Nothing concrete,” Stevens said. “Our subject opened a new account on the Death Wish forum last week. Same Ashley Frey alias. We’ve been trying to attract her attention, but she’s been offline more than she’s been on. When she comes back, we’ll be ready.”
Harris thought it over. “How many of these forums do you think there could be?”
“Tons,” Windermere said. “The Death Wish site is the biggest, but there are others of comparable size. And smaller ones, too, more specialized. Newsgroups and the like.”
“But you’ve only traced this Frey person through the one big site,” Harris said. “You think there’s a chance he or she could be trolling the other sites, too?”
Stevens and Windermere looked at each other
.
“It’s a definite possibility, sir,” Windermere told Harris. “We only have a lock on the Death Wish account. No way to trace her to the other forums.”
“So she could be working her next victim as we speak,” Harris said. “On one of the other forums. And we might never know about it.”
“That’s correct, sir,” Windermere said.
“We need to change that,” Harris told them. He stood. “You closedyour big case. Did a fine job of it, too. Let’s focus our resources on this one right away. Get your subject’s attention back, and hurry.”
< 37 >
Gruber had logged on to The End to cultivate Dylan Price. More and more, it was DarlingMadison who commanded his real attention.
They’d spent a week together now. Madison still believed he was Brandon, some disenfranchised musician type from the Midwest. Gruber played up the Jim Morrison vibe, the aimless, nihilistic artist angle. Told Madison he just didn’t
care
enough to keep living, wanted to go out in a blaze of glory.
People act like they’re going to wake up one day and their lives will suddenly be awesome,
he’d written her.
It’s just a lie they tell themselves to get through the torture. Fact: Your teenage years are the best years of your life. It doesn’t get any better. So if it’s not awesome now, you’re pretty much fucked.
I never thought about it like that,
Madison replied.
But I guess it makes sense. I don’t want to be miserable for another sixty years.
Of course not,
Gruber wrote.
It’s always better to go out with a bang than fade away with a whimper, right? Why not be remembered for something?
So, what?
Madison wrote.
What are you going to be remembered for?
I just want to show them the truth,
Gruber told her.
I want to show them it’s better to get out of this life on your own terms. Free yourself from this unhappiness.
I see,
Madison wrote. And then she typed the sentence that proved she was
I’m sick of everything. Want to die. Help.
But Ashley Frey wasn’t biting.
“Says here she hasn’t even been online more than fifteen minutes, total, this past week,” Mathers told Stevens and Windermere. “Whatever our subject is doing, wherever and
whoever
she might be, she’s not focused on this site.”
“Keep trying,” Windermere told him. “She’s built a new profile because she wants a new victim. We damn well better be that victim, or another kid is going to die.”
In the meantime, Stevens and Windermere worked through the last remnants of their sex-trafficking case, closed the doors on the degenerate brothel owners and strip-club bosses who’d bought the youngwomen their prime target had imported. Closed the case, more or less, dropped the file on Harris’s desk and waited as he flipped through it.
“Good stuff,” he told them once he’d scanned the report. “Really good. Guess we’re just about ready to put that nasty business to bed, huh?”
“Done and done,” Stevens told the SAC. “At this point, we’re pretty confident we nailed every scumbag who even thought about buying a woman from those bastards.”
Harris slid the file aside. “And what about the current case? Any progress?”
“Nothing concrete,” Stevens said. “Our subject opened a new account on the Death Wish forum last week. Same Ashley Frey alias. We’ve been trying to attract her attention, but she’s been offline more than she’s been on. When she comes back, we’ll be ready.”
Harris thought it over. “How many of these forums do you think there could be?”
“Tons,” Windermere said. “The Death Wish site is the biggest, but there are others of comparable size. And smaller ones, too, more specialized. Newsgroups and the like.”
“But you’ve only traced this Frey person through the one big site,” Harris said. “You think there’s a chance he or she could be trolling the other sites, too?”
Stevens and Windermere looked at each other
.
“It’s a definite possibility, sir,” Windermere told Harris. “We only have a lock on the Death Wish account. No way to trace her to the other forums.”
“So she could be working her next victim as we speak,” Harris said. “On one of the other forums. And we might never know about it.”
“That’s correct, sir,” Windermere said.
“We need to change that,” Harris told them. He stood. “You closedyour big case. Did a fine job of it, too. Let’s focus our resources on this one right away. Get your subject’s attention back, and hurry.”
< 37 >
Gruber had logged on to The End to cultivate Dylan Price. More and more, it was DarlingMadison who commanded his real attention.
They’d spent a week together now. Madison still believed he was Brandon, some disenfranchised musician type from the Midwest. Gruber played up the Jim Morrison vibe, the aimless, nihilistic artist angle. Told Madison he just didn’t
care
enough to keep living, wanted to go out in a blaze of glory.
People act like they’re going to wake up one day and their lives will suddenly be awesome,
he’d written her.
It’s just a lie they tell themselves to get through the torture. Fact: Your teenage years are the best years of your life. It doesn’t get any better. So if it’s not awesome now, you’re pretty much fucked.
I never thought about it like that,
Madison replied.
But I guess it makes sense. I don’t want to be miserable for another sixty years.
Of course not,
Gruber wrote.
It’s always better to go out with a bang than fade away with a whimper, right? Why not be remembered for something?
So, what?
Madison wrote.
What are you going to be remembered for?
I just want to show them the truth,
Gruber told her.
I want to show them it’s better to get out of this life on your own terms. Free yourself from this unhappiness.
I see,
Madison wrote. And then she typed the sentence that proved she was
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