by Greg Iles
“Your accent,” she says. “It reminds me of North Carolina. My people are from Philadelphia, but I attended Greensboro, an all-female institution. They used to bus in boys from Duke, though. The most charming boys.”
“That’s nice.”
“Oh, it was, ” she says in a lilting drawl about as authentic as Vivien Leigh’s Blanche DuBois. “They knew how to be gentlemen, those boys. But they also knew when to stop being gentlemen. You know what I mean? Mister Cole?”
My noncommittal “Mmmm” trails off into an averted gaze. Mrs. Lenz demands my attention by tinkling the ice in her glass and clucking her tongue.
“That’s something Arthur never learned,” she goes on. “He’s always such a gentleman. But the New England version can be so dull.”
“Dr. Lenz doesn’t seem like the dull type to me, ma’am.”
“Give him time, darling. He makes a terrific first impression. He’s blindingly analytical. But he’s also numbingly predictable.”
The uncomfortable silence grows more so as she moves closer and smiles with the yellow brilliance of a cheap diamond. I have the feeling she is circling me, like a scavenger.
“You’d think a man who knows Freud like the back of his hand would know his way around a bedroom, wouldn’t you?”
“Uh… I don’t think that’s any of my business.”
Still closer. “I must have gotten to know a hundred psychiatrists over the past twenty years,” she says. “The coldest bunch of jellyfish you ever shared pate with. Half of them impotent, the other half queer.”
Deliverance arrives at last in the form of Dr. Lenz, who bounds into the kitchen carrying a suit bag and a briefcase. He’s probably well aware of what I’ve been enduring down here. I nearly stumble over my shoes making my escape.
Janet Lenz trails us to the laundry room. As her husband opens the door, she says, “Go play your little mind games. We can’t let any of those wicked boys out there have any fun, can we?”
I turn back in time to see Lenz slam the door.
As the Mercedes swallows the driveway with a low-throated growl, Lenz says, “As you can see, we all have our problems. Did she make a nuisance of herself?”
“Not at all. Just idle chitchat.”
He makes a curious sound in his throat. “She didn’t bring up the relative sizes of Caucasian versus Negroid sex organs?”
“I don’t recall it coming up.”
“You’re lucky.”
“What’s her problem?”
“Depression. Alcohol. An emotionally distant husband who is frequently an asshole. Not necessarily in that order.”
“None of my business.”
“Sorry to put you through it, nonetheless.”
Lenz is driving well over the speed limit now, fast enough that I grip the seat between my thighs. “We’re only a short distance from the safe house,” he says. “Makes it easy for me to commute. You can see why I need to be close.”
I nod as if I agree, but if I were in his place I’d have chosen a safe house in Los Angeles.
The trip takes less than ten minutes including stops for traffic lights. The safe house is more modest than Lenz’s home but easily worth over a hundred thousand in the Mississippi market. God knows what it appraised at here. As the automatic garage door whirs down behind the Mercedes, I decide the FBI chose well. A woman who could afford the fees for EROS wouldn’t live in a house less expensive than this.
Inside, I am surprised again. I expected stern FBI agents pacing around drinking coffee, but all I find is pristine cream carpeting, functional furniture, and framed watercolors that look like they were bought from a hotel chain. The place feels like a model home in a tract development.
“Doctor Lenz?” calls a woman’s voice.
From a hallway that must lead to the first-floor bedrooms steps a woman in her late twenties. She has auburn hair a little coarser than Drewe’s, green eyes, fair skin, and a slim but athletic figure. All in all, she’s a slightly harder version of my wife. She takes three steps into the room before I notice the holster and pistol slung tight under her left arm.
“Sherry’s in the back,” she tells Lenz. “And the guy from Engineering Research is in the spare bedroom upstairs.” Her eyes move to me. “Who’s this?”
“Special Agent Margie Ressler, meet Harper Cole. He’s one of the sysops for EROS. He’s going to help me get started tonight. How’s trade so far?”
“All I’ve done so far is send out for pizza. I ordered enough for everybody.” Agent Ressler cannot conceal the excitement in her eyes. “I figured since you haven’t gone on-line yet, nobody could be surveiling the house, right?”
When Lenz merely sighs, she adds, “I got supremes. Told them to leave off the anchovies, just in case. You want me to nuke a few slices for you?”
“Not hungry,” Lenz says distractedly. “Cole?”
“I’ll take some.”
“Diet Coke okay?”
“Great.”
“Bring it upstairs,” Lenz instructs her.
At the bottom of the carpeted staircase, he stops and calls back over his shoulder, “I didn’t see a car in the garage!”
Margie Ressler hurries back into the living room. “They’re delivering it tonight. Should be here anytime. It’s an Acura Legend, ninety-two model confiscated in a drug raid. Is that okay?”
“Fine. Make sure Sherry shows you everything you need to know.”
“Yes, sir.”
At the top of the stairs Lenz steps into what must have been designed as a bedroom. Now it sports a wall-size computer cabinet, a Dell desktop PC, a Toshiba subnote-book computer with PCMCIA modem slotted in and connected, a bank of wire telephones, a fax machine, a cellular phone, and a Sony television. Near the bathroom stands a refrigerator-freezer with a microwave oven on top, and against the far wall a twin bed.
“Planning to stay awhile?” I ask as Lenz deposits his suit bag in a closet half filled with men’s clothing.
He turns to face me, his gaze eerily intense. “This is where I live until Hostage Rescue carries Mr. Strobekker out in chains.”
He stares at me until I break eye contact. “What do you want me to do?” I ask.
“Show me the highways and byways of EROS. I want you to establish my bona fides.” He motions to one of two swivel chairs. “You take the Toshiba.”
“Have you logged on yet?”
“I didn’t want to risk doing anything stupid.”
“Lurked any on other services?”
“Lurked?”
“Lurking is logging on but not interacting with anyone. Watching the conversations of other people.”
“No.”
“But you’ve installed the EROS software.”
“The kid in the spare bedroom did.”
“Okay, sit.”
Lenz obeys without demur, taking the chair before the Dell.
“Got EROS’s eight hundred number entered into both systems?”
“Ready to go.”
“Password chosen?”
“Done.”
“What is it?”
“You don’t need to know that.”
“Touchy. Okay, press ENTER and let the system make the connection. It’s all automatic, just like CompuServe or AOL.”
After checking the Toshiba for a keystroke-recording program (which would allow FBI technicians to replay everything I type on this computer)-and disabling the one I find-I log on and enter my password. “What does your status line say, Doctor?”
“Checking password… logging onto EROS at 14,400 bps. Welcome, Lilith.”
“Lilith? That’s your great alias?”
“Just wait. Where am I?”
“The main page.”
“Now it says ‘Downloading Image.’ That’s… the bust of Nefertiti. My God, the color and resolution are wonderful.”
“She’ll start spinning 3-D in a second. See? Okay, hit ENTER and she’ll go away. Look at the right side of the main page. See those little i
cons? That’s how you decide where you want to go. Into a live-chat area or forum, maybe the EROS library. You just move your mouse onto the icon you want and click.”
“I know how to use a mouse, Cole.”
“Congratulations. Look at the top line over the page. That’s your menu bar. See the choices? That’s where you decide what you want to do in those different locations-again, with your mouse. You can post messages to forums, compose and send e-mail, download files from the library, access the Internet, anything you want. You can even query the system to ask who’s in a given room at a given time. Of course, it will only give you their user names in answer.”
“You mean we can query the system to ask whether or not Strobekker is on-line?”
“Not exactly. First of all, you’re not supposed to know his legal name-if Strobekker is his name. Miles or I can search using the account name, but I can’t guarantee Strobekker wouldn’t see us looking for him. God only knows what kind of setup he has, wherever he is.”
“But I can search using his on-line aliases?”
“Yes.”
“Let’s query for Shiva and Kali right now.”
“You can only search for one alias at a time. The system will tell you whether the person using that name is on-line, but not where he or she is. Then you can send the person a message, but there’s no guarantee he’ll answer. The other way is to enter various chat rooms and ask ‘Who’s Here?’ ”
“Will the other people in the room see you ask that?”
“The minute you enter a room, they see your name pop up on a list in a little window on their screen.”
“How many rooms are there in the system?”
“Theoretically, an infinite number.”
Lenz groans. “I need Strobekker to find me as if by accident. How can we search an infinite number of rooms?”
“It’s not as bad as it sounds. The number of active rooms fluctuates anywhere from a couple of dozen on a Monday morning to eight or nine hundred on a Friday night. That includes so-called private rooms that hold only two people at a given time.”
“Nine hundred? You said you or Turner could do a search by the account name. Can you do that from here?”
“Yes, but I’m sure Miles would already have told the FBI agents at EROS if the Strobekker account was active.”
Lenz gives me a look that makes plain how little faith he has in Miles’s motives.
From the Toshiba I log in as SYSOP TWO, give my password, and run an account search for STROBEKKER, DAVID M.
“Not among those present,” I say, and push the chair away from the Toshiba. “Look, I really need to call my wife. It won’t take more than a couple of minutes.”
“Well, get me started at something,” Lenz says.
I wave him out of his chair and mouse him into a lobby room with about ten people in it. “Just read what comes up on your screen. Get a feel for the conversational style. If somebody asks you anything, ignore them. I’ll be back in no time.”
“Use my cellular,” he advises. “It’s secure. Punch seven-seven-seven-six before you dial your home number. And don’t put a one in front of the area code. And don’t take too long. I want you right here when I get a nibble.”
A nibble. I almost laugh as I step into the hall with the cellular. The guy thinks he’s fishing. And maybe he is. I punch in the FBI code, then the familiar six-zero-one that encompasses all of Mississippi. Drewe answers after two rings.
“Harper?”
“Yes.”
“Thank God.”
“Are you okay?”
“I was worried. Are you calling from a plane?”
“No. I’m still in Washington. Virginia, really.”
“You sound like you’re in a plane.”
“It’s too complicated to explain. But I should be home before morning. Any more police harassment?”
“No. Whatever you’re doing, it’s working. I did get one call, though. From that New Orleans detective.”
“Mayeux?”
“Yes. He’s worried about you. He said he didn’t know where you were, but he had a feeling you were with the FBI. He told me to warn you not to trust them, Harper. He said the FBI will use you while they need you, then throw you to the dogs.”
I hear a muffled “Cole?” from inside Lenz’s room. “I’ve got to go, Drewe. Tell your dad everything’s under control. I know he’s worried about all this.”
“Not right now he’s not. All he can think about right now is Erin.”
My heart stutters. “Erin? Why’s that?”
“She and Patrick are having problems again. When I got home tonight she was sitting on our steps with Holly. She drove over from Jackson because she didn’t want to be there when Patrick got home. We drank coffee and played with Holly for hours. Then she went to Mom and Dad’s to spend the night.”
Jesus. “Did she tell you what was wrong?”
“She wouldn’t be specific, but it’s serious. Patrick called four times, and he sounded angrier every time.”
“Is Holly okay?”
“She senses the tension, but I think Erin and Patrick know enough not to fight in front of her.”
I wonder. The likely source of Patrick’s “tension” could turn any man violent.
“Don’t worry about that stuff,” Drewe says buoyantly. “Just take care of the police problem and get back here. I love you, you know.”
“I love you too.” A brief silence. “Bye.”
“Bye.”
I shut off Lenz’s cell phone and lean against the wall, my right cheek flush against the cool sheetrock. She was sitting on the porch steps with Holly … wouldn’t be specific … he sounded angrier every time-
“Mr. Cole? You okay?”
Special Agent Margie Ressler is standing before me with a tray piled with sliced pizza, paper towels, a glass of ice, and a Diet Coke. She looks like a waitress in a college town, where restaurants are blessed with a pool of potential employees overqualified in every department.
“You look like you’re in a daze,” she says.
“I’m fine.”
“When was the last time you ate?”
“It’s been awhile.”
“Here.” She holds a slice of pizza within biting distance. Something about Agent Ressler encourages informality, so I lean forward and take a bite. The spicy cheese is a moist explosion in my mouth.
“Mmmm. Better than crawfish etouffee.”
She grimaces. “I’d think anything was better than that.”
“Ever had it?”
“No.”
“Then you don’t know what you’re slandering.”
She laughs lightly. “You don’t look like most computer jocks I know.”
“That’s because I’m not one. I’ve got a knack for applications, but that’s it. I guess it’s sort of like driving a car. I’m a good driver, but I couldn’t rebuild an engine if my life depended on it.”
“I’ll bet you can change the oil, though.”
“Are we flirting, Agent Ressler?”
She grins. “I guess we are. Call me Margie. I think I’m flirting because I know I might be trapped here for a long time.”
“It seems like dangerous duty.”
“Decoy work?”
“Yes. I guess you’ve done it a lot, though.”
“No. This is my first time. I’ve only been out of the academy a couple of years.”
“Cole,” Lenz calls, his voice like a hand on my sleeve. “Are you out there?”
Margie laughs. “He sounds mad.” She drops her voice. “I wouldn’t want that bird mad at me. He’s a strange one.”
“He grows on you.” I smile and slip the cell phone into my pants pocket. “I’ll take the tray, Margie. You be careful.”
“No sweat,” she says with a toss of her hair. Then she turns and trots back down the stairs.
At the bedroom door I pause. I’d intended to make one other call while out here. Eleanor Rigby. Miles interrupted my first att
empt to warn her off EROS, and I haven’t managed to do it since. The hard bulge of the cell phone in my pocket offers a chance, but instinct tells me that any number I call on the “secure” FBI phone could later be identified and traced to a name. I’ll have to find another way.
“This is fascinating,” Lenz says as I enter the room. “These conversations are a free-for-all.”
“You mean threads,” I correct him, setting down the tray.
“Threads?”
“That’s the on-line term for conversation, on EROS anyway. On other services ‘chat’ is the correct term, but on EROS ‘thread’ covers pretty much any conversation. In special interest forums, a ‘thread’ is where a few people get on one subject and everyone puts in their two cents’ worth. Like ‘Coping with AIDS’ in the gay forum. Any time of day or night, clients can read what’s already been said and post a reply if they want.”
I sit down in the swivel chair and begin munching on the pizza. “Let’s scan the forum headings, just to give you an idea of what’s out there.”
I click the mouse on GENERAL INTEREST FORUMS, and the thread headings appear in a column window:
ABORTION RIGHTS UPDATE
ACTS OF LOVE [GRAPHIC FILE(UNDER CONSTRUCTION) DECODING SOFTWARE REQUIRED]
ACTORS’ STUDIO
ANALISM
BREAST CANCER, NOT THE END OF YOUR SEX LIFE
BREAST REDUCTION/ENLARGEMENT, IS IT SAFE?
BRIEF ENCOUNTERS
CAMILLE [PAGLIA]
CINEMA VERITE
COPING WITH AIDS
“Paglia?” says Lenz. “Camille Paglia is on EROS?”
“I can’t tell you that. But clicking on that heading will lead you to a discussion of her works. There are over a hundred headings, but you get the idea.”
I’m reaching for my mouse when Lenz stops my hand and says, “I’d like to see them all.”
I can almost see his eyes focus on the more provocative selections. My eyes gravitate to those I know as the more popular or strange.
COPROPHILIA
De SADE RECONSIDERED
DOMINANT FEMALE
EROTIC FINE ARTS[GRAPHIC FILE(UNDER CONSTRUCTION) DECODING SOFTWARE REQUIRED]
EROTIC LITERATURE SALON
EUROTRASH BIN
FEMINISM 101
