The Big Bad Wolf

IT SEEMED BOTH UNLIKELY and peculiar, but a respected assistant professor of English at Dartmouth was the subject of the FBI surveillance in New Hampshire. He had recently gone into a chat room called Taboo and bragged about an exclusive Web site where anything could be bought, if you had enough money. An agent at SIOC had downloaded the strange conversation with Mr. Potter... Boyfriend: Exactly how much is enough money to buy "anything"? Mr. Potter: More than you have, my friend. Anyway, there's an eye scan to keep out riffraff like yourself. The Package: We're honored that you're slumming with us tonight. Mr. Potter: The Wolf's Den is only open about two hours a week. None of you are invited, of course. It turned out that Mr. Potter was the moniker used by Dr. Homer Taylor. Guilty or not, Dr. Taylor was under a microscope right now. Twenty-four agents in two-person teams working eight-hour shifts were watching every step he took in Hanover. During the work week, he lived in a small Victorian house near the college and walked back and forth to classes. He was a thin, balding, proper-looking man who wore English-made suits with bright-colored bow ties and purposefully uncoordinated suspenders. He always looked very pleased with himself. We'd learned from college authorities that he was teaching Restoration and Elizabethan drama as well as a Shakespeare seminar that semester. His classes were extremely popular and so was he. Dr. Taylor had the reputation of being available to students, even ones who weren't actually taking his courses. He was also known for his quick wit and nasty sense of humor. He often played to standing room only, which he called "full houses," and frequently acted out scenes, both the male and female parts. It was assumed that he was gay, but no one was aware of any serious relationships the professor had. He owned a farm about fifty miles away in Webster, New Hampshire, where he spent most weekends. Occasionally, Taylor went to Boston or New York, and he'd spent several summers in Europe. There had never been an incident with a student, though some of the males called him Puck, a few to his face. The surveillance on Taylor was difficult, given the collegetown atmosphere. So far, it was believed that our agents hadn't been spotted. But we couldn't be certain of that. Taylor hadn't been seen doing much beyond teaching his classes and returning home. The second day in Hanover, I was in a surveillance car, a dark blue Crown Vic, along with an agent named Peggy Katz. Agent Katz had been raised in Lexington, Massachusetts. She was a very serious person whose main hobby seemed to be an avid interest in professional basketball. She could talk about the NBA or WNBA for hours, which she did during our surveillance time together. The other agents on with us that night were Roger Nielsen, Charles Powiesnik, and Michelle Bugliarello. Powiesnik was the special agent in charge. I wasn't really sure where I fit in, but they all knew I'd been sent by Washington, and by Ron Burns himself. "The good Dr. Taylor is going out. Could be interesting," Katz and I heard over our two-way late that night. We couldn't actually see his house from where we were parked. "He's coming your way. You pick him up first," said Special Agent in Charge Powiesnik. Katz turned on the headlights, and we pulled up to a corner. Then we waited for Taylor to pass. His Toyota 4Runner appeared a moment later. "He's going out toward I-89," she reported in. "Proceeding at about forty-five, keeping within the speed limit, which makes him suspicious in my book. Maybe headed to his farm in Webster. Kind of late for picking tomatoes, though." "We'll have Nielsen precede him on I-89. You stay behind. Michelle and I will be right with you," said Powiesnik. That sounded familiar to me, and apparently to Agent Katz, since she muttered, "Right," as soon as she signed off. Once he exited 89, Taylor made turns on a couple of narrow side roads. He was doing close to sixty. "Seems to be in a little more of a hurry now," Peggy said. Then Taylor's Toyota veered off onto a drive that appeared to be dirt. We had to stay back or be spotted. Fog lay low over the farmlands, and we proceeded slowly until we could safely park on the side of the road. The other FBI cars hadn't arrived yet; at least, we didn't see any of them. We got out of our sedan and headed back into the woods. Then we could see Taylor's Toyota parked in front of a shadowy farmhouse. A light eventually blinked on inside the house, then another. Agent Katz was quiet, and I wondered if she'd been involved in anything quite as heavy as this before. I didn't think that she had. "We can see Taylor's Toyota at the house," she reported to Powiesnik. Then she turned to me. "So now what?" she asked in a whisper. "It's not up to us," I said. "If it was?" "I'd move in closer on foot. I want to see if that missing kid from Holy Cross is in there. We don't know how much danger he's in." Powiesnik contacted us again. "We're going to take a look. You and Agent Cross stay where you are. Watch our backs." Agent Katz turned to me and sniffed out a laugh. "Powiesnik means watch our dust, doesn't he?" "Or eat our dust," I said. "Or suck hind tit," grumped Katz. Maybe she hadn't seen any action before, but she apparently wanted some now. And I had a feeling Agent Katz might get her wish.