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any other search engine, you get nothing. No results.”
    I thought about that. “So it’s part of, what, the dark web?”
    The dark web was a secret part of the Internet accessible only via encrypted software.
    “Hold that thought too,” Sampson said, clicking on Reenactments. The screen jumped to a page of MPEG thumbnails.
    He clicked on one titled “Delilah Goes Down.” A picture of Delilah Franks, the Richmond bank teller, came up, a photo I’d seen on the web page dedicated to her disappearance.
    The image dissolved into a poorly lit, shakily shot video of a blonde being chased through the woods; it was taken from a camera mounted on her pursuer’s chest or head. You could hear footsteps that matched the jerking motion of the camera, which quickly got close enough to the woman to show the backof her filthy, tattered dress and reveal that she was barefoot and bleeding.
    She seemed to sense how close her pursuer was; she looked over her shoulder and screamed hysterically before jumping down the side of a steep embankment. She slipped, tumbled, and sprawled in the mud at the bottom.
    “Don’t,” she wept, pushing herself up on all fours in the muck, shaking her head back and forth. “Please, not that. Haven’t I been through enough?”
    The camera focused down on her, and a computer-altered voice said, “It’s never enough, Delilah. Once is never enough.”

CHAPTER
10
    A KNIFE BLADE appeared in the camera frame, obsidian black and curved tightly back toward an ornate knuckle guard and the fingers of the cameraman’s gloved right hand. The wicked-looking blade began a slow, sinewy dance in the air. The chest-mounted camera jiggled as it moved even closer to the shaking woman.
    The woman looked up, saw the knife, shrieked in terror, and tried to scramble away. The camera swung crazily after her and blurred the action for several moments.
    When it stilled, a gloved left hand had the hysterical woman by her blond hair, and the right hand held the knife so the curve of the blade’s cutting edge was poised just above the crown of her head.
    “Do blondes have more fun, Delilah?” the computer-altered voice said.
    Before she could respond, the screen froze on the image of the two hands, the knife, and the back of her blond head. Superimposed over the image, an icon of a lock appeared.
    “Dark web,” Sampson said. “Encrypted. Completely out of our league.”
    “Are all the videos like this?” I asked. “Blocked at the moment of crisis?”
    “Yup,” Sampson said.
    “Think he killed her?”
    “That’s the point. You’ve got someone with a high-def GoPro camera mounted on a chest harness, wearing gloves, and carrying that knife. He turns loose the screaming woman, chases her down, and takes her right to the point of complete terror before the screen locks. You’re left hanging, wanting to see the ending.”
    “And how do you do that?”
    “I don’t know. There’s no promo offer anywhere on the site that I can see, but Fox found references to the site and comments about it on an open bulletin board for hackers and coders. They’re extensive, and disturbing.”
    Sampson called up the hackers’ website, and it was quickly apparent there was a significant cheering section for Killingblondechicks4fun.
    I want in to that site,
read one comment from Lone Star Blondes Must Die.
I can contribute. Help. Break some skulls, even.
    Death to all blondes,
read a post by Brunette Lover.
Platinum damages the brain.
    Scalp every one of them bitches,
read another by 1889B1.
    There were, according to Sampson, more than two hundred posts on the hackers’ board in that vein from ninety unique posters, all callous, merciless, and hateful. Why? Because of a woman’s hair color? What the hell was that all about?
    I said, “Any idea who built it? Owns it?”
    “None,” Sampson said. “But don’t you know a cyberwizard at the FBI?”
    “I know a cyber
witch
at the FBI,” I said. “I can call her if you—”
    I