The Match (Wilde, #2)(37)

“We got lucky. Sort of.”

“Explain.”

“We were able to trace the ISP for DogLufegnev. Seems he runs an extensive bot farm, several of which trolled your cousin pretending to be different people. So not only did ‘Dog’ post toxic stuff about Peter Bennett, he then amplified the posts as though a lot of other people agreed.”

“Not uncommon,” Wilde said.

“But still awful. What’s wrong with people?”

“Did you get a name or address for DogLufegnev?”

“Sort of. Do you know how ISPs work?”

“Pretty much.”

“What I have is the billing address that uses that particular ISP. It could be anybody in the household.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“The ISP is billed to the home of Henry and Donna McAndrews, 972 Wake Robin Lane in Harwinton, Connecticut. It’s a two-hour drive from you.”

“I’m on my way.”

Wilde didn’t use a rental this time. He had a place where he could “borrow” a car with a license plate that couldn’t be matched or traced—the vehicular version of a burner phone. He figured that would be best. He also brought dark clothes, a mask, gloves, and an appropriate yet subtle disguise in case he felt it was needed. There was, Wilde had the self-awareness to realize, a fine line between caution and paranoia. Wilde may be flirting on the paranoia side of that line, but it seemed the more prudent way to behave.

He took Route 287 East and crossed what had once been the spot of the Tappan Zee Bridge, but that had been torn down and replaced with the newly minted “Governor Mario M. Cuomo Bridge,” and while Wilde had no problem with Mario Cuomo, he still wondered why they’d change such a perfect name—“Tappan” for the Native American tribe, “Zee” as the Dutch word for sea—to honor any politician.

The ride grew more and more rural with each passing mile. Litchfield County had plenty of stunning wooded areas. Five years ago, when Wilde needed to escape the Ramapo Mountains but wanted to stay on the East Coast, he’d lived in these woods for two months.

It was nightfall by the time Wilde reached Wake Robin Lane. The road was still, quiet. He slowed the car. Every house had several acres of land. House lights twinkled through the thick foliage.

But there were no lights on at 972 Wake Robin Lane.

Wilde again felt that primitive tingle, that survival instinct most of us have long since smothered or let decay as we “progressed” and moved into sturdy homes with locked doors backed by trusted authority figures. He kept driving until the end of the street and turned right on Laurel Road. He passed Wilson Pond, found a secluded spot by the Kalmia Sanctuary, which, according to the sign, had been created by a local Audubon Society. Wilde was already clad in black. He put on his gloves, a black baseball cap, and pocketed a lightweight black ski mask in case he needed it. It was pitch dark now, but that didn’t bother Wilde. He knew the skies and the stars well enough to hike the mile through wooded yards. He also carried a flashlight if need be—being a “survivalist” didn’t give you the ability to see in the dark—but the skies were clear enough tonight.

Fifteen minutes later, Wilde stood in the McAndrews’ backyard. Before heading out, he had looked up the house on Zillow. The McAndrews had bought it in January 2018 for $345,000. It was 2,600 square feet, three bedrooms, three baths, fairly new construction, and sat on two secluded acres.

As the old saw goes: It was quiet. Too quiet.

No lights on in the back.

Either the McAndrews family members were all in bed—it was only nine p.m.—or, more likely, no one was at home. Wilde felt his phone buzz. He had an AirPod in his left ear. He tapped it to answer. There was no need to say hello. Rola knew the drill.

“Henry McAndrews is sixty-one years old, his wife Donna is sixty,” Rola said. “They have three children, all boys, ages twenty-eight, twenty-six, and nineteen. I’m still digging.”

Rola hung up.

Wilde wasn’t sure what to make of that. If one were to profile based on age and gender, the sons were more likely to be DogLufegnev than their parents. The question was, Do any of the sons still live at home?

Wilde slipped on the mask. None of his skin was showing. Most homes today have some kind of security system or camera setup. Not all. But enough. He stepped closer to the house. If he were to be spotted by camera or eyes, they would see a man dressed head to toe in black. That was it, and that, Wilde knew, was nothing.

When he got closer to the house, he ducked down in the flower bedding and grabbed a few pebbles. Staying low, Wilde threw the pebbles against the back sliding glass door and waited.

Nothing.

He did the same with the upstairs windows, throwing more pebbles, this time with a little more velocity. This was old-school—a crude yet effective way to see if anyone was home. If the lights came on, he could simply take off. No one would be able to track him before he disappeared back into the wooded area.

Wilde threw some more pebbles, slightly bigger ones, several at one time. They made plenty of noise. He wanted that, of course.

No reaction. No screams. No shouts. No lights. No silhouettes looking out the window.

Conclusion: No one home.

This conclusion, of course, was not definite. Someone could be a heavy sleeper, but again Wilde was not particularly worried. He would now search for an unlocked door or window. If that didn’t work, he had the tools to break into any residence. Funny when he thought about it—he had been breaking into homes since he was too young to remember. In those days, of course, the little “boy from the woods” didn’t use tools. He just tried windows and doors and if none opened, he would move on to the next house. Once—he was probably four or five—when he was super hungry and couldn’t find an empty and unlocked house, he had thrown a rock through a basement window and crawled in that way. He flashed back to that, the hunger pains of that child, his fear and desperation winning out over caution. He’d cut his stomach on shards of glass when he crawled through that basement window. Up until right now, he’d forgotten that event completely. What had he done after he’d cut himself? Did that little boy have the wherewithal to locate a first aid kit in an upstairs bathroom? Did he just press his shirt against the wounds? Were the wounds deep or superficial?