Page 45 of Holmes, Margaret and Poe

But the future? That could be altered.

Hadto be altered, as far as he was concerned.

The boy’s life depends on it, Padraig. Get to fishing now. Not much time left.

He turned his attention to the sign-in box in the middle of a blank screen. He used an alias and an unhackable password that a computer nut in Galway had devised for him in return for certain favors.

After a moment, the screen blinked and showed what looked like whole galaxies of stars rushing at him. The experience thrilled him as much as it had the first time he’d gone down this rabbit hole.

God, he loved the dark web, with all its secret nooks and crannies. It was a whole universe unto itself. Here you could get a proper clean gun — pistol, rifle, or shotgun — and bullets matched for accuracy. And garrotes and poisons. All the tools of the trade.

Except one tool, a magical skill that made Filson special in his line of work. No one else on the dark web provided his unique service. He knew. He’d checked.

So today, as he had almost every day since his diagnosis, Filson was going fishing in the deep, stinking pools and rivers of the dark web. He was angling for one of the scum creatures who loved to swim in those places, reveled in them, felt compelled to dive into them no matter how much they tried to repress their inner longings and addictions.

At another time, in another place, and for different reasons, Filson might have trolled for victims on the illegal drug sites that had sprung up in the aftermath of the Silk Road’s collapse. But he was focused elsewhere, on the foulest pools and rivers, the ones where the true monsters of society lurked and fed.

Filson typed in more commands, then used another alias and another password to access one of the rankest rivers of themall, one that held some of the most disgusting fish he’d ever encountered. Glancing again at that picture of the young boy on the wall, he felt his anger and purpose grow. “You won’t have to deal with these kinds in your life, boyo,” he whispered and then returned to his fishing.

Back in rural Ireland, Filson’s father had been an avid salmon angler who’d taught his son everything he knew about bringing up big fish from the depths. These fishing techniques worked in the virtual world as well as the real one, Filson knew.

Once Filson was on the site, he accessed an encrypted forum, ignored the new filth posted on its general page, and went to a substring titled Actively Seeking: Mid-Atlantic.

As his father had taught him, he paused to scan the pool he was about to cast into, looking for signs of fish feeding. He read a few of the posts, understood the rude flavor of them, and saw in his mind just the kind of fly that would raise one of these beasts to the surface.

Filson typed, tying his fly with suggestion, innuendo, and lurid description. He finished it with a picture, an image he’d copied from the regular internet, added contact information through an encrypted Tor messaging system, then posted the lure on the dark web forum.

Now all he had to do was be patient.

It was the only way to be when you were trying to outsmart a bottom-feeder.

CHAPTER 43

FILSON STARTED TO LAUGH,but that turned into a hacking cough with phlegm that he spat into a mason jar he kept on the table. Feeling a familiar heartburn building, he left the laptop, went to the refrigerator, and poured himself a glass of milk.

From a cabinet, he got out a bottle of Jameson whiskey and added three fingers of it to the milk. This was the only concoction that eased the burning in his throat and gut.

Ding!

A strike?he thought.Already?

Sipping his drink, Filson hustled back to the laptop and saw that, indeed, someone was nosing about his fly. He opened the message, read it, and smiled. He typed an enticing reply.

Several more messages passed back and forth. Filson took screenshots of them all and signed off, feeling like the fly had been taken and the hook was set.

His next fish was firmly on the line.

He quickly signed into another Tor site, pasted the screen-shots into a message, and sent the message to an anonymous address he’d memorized.

As usual, Filson did not have to wait long for the reply:Good criteria. Take him. Same terms. Proofs as well.

After seeing that, Filson signed out of the dark web and closed his laptop.

He and the fish had agreed to meet at three a.m., the dark hour when predators felt comfortable enough to come up into the shallows and hunt.

I am a fisher of men, that’s all there is to it,he thought as he left the table and went to the bathroom. He picked up the electric trimmer he’d bought earlier in the day and cut his full beard down to a neat goatee. Then he cut his shaggy silver hair by a good five inches.

Satisfied, he opened a box of henna hair dye, also purchased earlier in the day. He put on disposable gloves and generously coated his hair and goatee with the dye.

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