“Sure. So you’ve got some loser who has no buddies or their buddies are mean, whatever, I dunno, and they find this online thing called the Blue Whale Challenge. They get set challenges, like waking up early, watching a horror movie, then the challenges get more, like, hard-core, and ’cause they’re super tired and all depressed, their thinking goes nutzoid and so they go along with it.”

“What kind of thing would the harder challenges be?”

“Self-harming, that kinda shit.”

“OK and then?”

“Well, then they get told to kill themselves. And they do ’cause they’ve been, like, conditioned. So the last thing they do is post a picture of a blue whale and then sayonara dude.”

Johnny Boy was nodding. “And it’s as simple as that.”

Batiste dialed Captain Schaeffer’s number while he drove. As the ringtone sounded and just as he came out of a sharp curve, Batiste saw a motorcycle lying on its side in the middle of his lane. Its rider, unconscious or dead, lay sprawled beside it. Batiste had to react fast to avoid driving right over them. He slammed on his brakes and veered off the road into a dirt turnout, stopping in a cloud of dust.

Batiste looked over at the bike wreck, muttering to himself about how people needed to take greater care. A loud bleep filled the car. He’d forgotten about his call. Seemed like the captain’s voice mail had kicked in anyway. Batiste cut the line. He decided to check on the rider before calling out an ambulance. If the guy was dead, he’d tell them not to rush.

He glanced over again at where the bike lay and was surprised to see its rider was now missing. Suddenly his passenger door opened. A bulky figure wearing a motorcycle helmet got in beside him. He had a colder-than-ice stare and a gun pointing right at Batiste’s guts.

“You move, you sleep.”

As Batiste tried to make sense of the situation, he heard a voice in his ear.

“How’s it going, Evan?”

Batiste spun around in his seat. Inches away was the face of a man he’d only dreamed about meeting in person—to read him his Miranda.

“You don’t seem so happy to see me,” said McGrath. “Now that don’t make a whole lotta sense, ’cause I know you been following me, following folks who work for me. Why, frankly, some might say you been goddamn obsessing about me.”

Batiste tried to think quickly. He couldn’t get far past his stupidity, his arrogance, at failing to even consider the possibility that his quarry might double back on the trail.

Another face appeared at his open passenger door. Buzz cut, slightly overtight shirt. McGrath’s accountant. Seemed like the gang was all here except for the lawyer.

Batiste felt McGrath’s hand slip inside his jacket.

“Where is it?” asked McGrath.