Page 74 of Mastermind

The ringing tone from my computer jars my nerves, and I almost jump out of my seat.

I have an incoming call from [email protected] . . . a URL that has a masked owner and an IP address that employs untraceable proxies.

I have to answer.

I touch my trackpad and reluctantly accept the call. “This is Agent Blackwood,” I say into my microphone.

“No video?” says a familiar voice. “That’s okay. I understand.”

The screen blinks, and I’m looking at the face of Michael Heywood. His camera is tilted up, and I can see ceiling lights and a bookshelf in the background. He appears to be in an office.

His face is exactly as I remember: slightly older now, a little grayer, but the same midwestern, not unattractive but not overly handsome face that could belong to your insurance salesman, your child’s school principal, your doctor. Heywood doesn’t have the piercing stare of Ted Bundy or the murderous facial expressions you see in serial killer mug shots. He looks normal. In a courtroom, he could be the prosecutor, the judge, the bailiff, or maybe a witness, but “suspect” isn’t something you’d ever think.

Heywood has never admitted guilt. He’s protested his innocence to me whenever confronted in person. We arrested the wrong man, he has insisted, while subtly hinting that we are playing a more complicated game.

“May I call you Jessica?” asks Heywood.

The FBI shrinks told me to build a bond with him. They want me to foster trust so that he sees us as strange allies in all this. They told me to be informal.

They can go screw themselves. “Call me Agent Blackwood,” I reply.

He nods. “Fair enough. I see that you’re taking your own advice. I respect that about you.”

“What’s your game, Heywood? What’s this all about?”

“I’m not sure if we’re on the same page about what ‘this’ is, but I can tell you that I’m working on something important. Soon everyone will know.” He says this casually, like he’s talking about an ad campaign for a breakfast cereal and not some potential biological weapon that could kill millions.

“Why don’t you turn yourself in and explain it to us?”

“If only it were that easy. The reason I’m not in custody right now is that I found prison wasn’t conducive to my life’s work.”

“Yeah, that’s the thing about prison. It tends to put a crimp in your style.”

“I’ve missed you,” says Heywood, like we’re old colleagues.

“The feeling is not mutual.”

“I know. I know. The only reason we’re even speaking is because you’re desperate to make sense of recent events. You’re hoping I slip up and reveal some kind of clue. Which would be unfortunate for everyone if I did.”

For a moment I wonder if I’m even talking to the right man. I’m getting none of the bravado I’m used to from him. In fact, this new version of the Warlock is downright congenial.

“So why are you talking to me?”

“Don’t you have a list of questions your superiors want you to ask me first?”

He knows how this game is played. The list is next to my computer. I didn’t even plan to bother with them, because he’s too smart.

“Will you answer them?” I ask.

“Let’s hear them.” He tilts his head like I’m interviewing him on a podcast.

“Fine. What do you want?”

“That’s easy. More time to finish what I’ve started,” he replies.

“Not a million dollars and a pardon?”

“The first would be immaterial to me. The second won’t happen in my lifetime.”