Howard Smead

"Some are tempted to think of life in cyberspace as insignificant,
as escape or meaningless diversion."
— Sherry Turkle

Everything that happens in society happens on the
      Internet too.”
— Phil Agre

Prologue

Late one afternoon in early spring two visitors stood atop a gray limestone tower gazing across the sloped shoulders of South Mountain in Western Maryland. "This is the original Washington's Monument," the man was telling the young boy at his side. "It was built in a single day right here on the crest of the mountain way back in 1827."
     “One day,” the boy said, trying out the bold idea.
     Tousling the boy's hair, the man checked the stretch of Appalachian Trail running through the trees below to make sure they were still alone. Satisfied the unstaffed park was indeed empty, he grabbed the boy under the arms and hoisted him onto the ledge of the 100-foot monument. "Don't worry, I have your belt."
     The boy was wary at first. Once on the ledge, he steadied himself and marveled at the broad valley before him.
     "It fell apart over the years but some boys not so much older than yourself who worked for an organization called the CCC re-built it during the Great Depression. They submitted to proper adult counseling."
     The boy looked down at the rockslide scattered like marbles at the base of the monument. He thought: I wouldn't mind building things like this. No adults, just a bunch of us guys.
     "Call me Daddy-Whit now, like I said."
     "Can we go exploring down there?”
     “Say it.”
     “There's lots of neat places to check out. Maybe there's even a cave under the rocks?"
     The man didn’t acknowledge the question.
     “Let me give you a lesson from life. During the French and Indian War, a British general named Edward Braddock passed this way with an army of British regulars and colonials, and eight Indian guides to fight the French and Iroquois. He ended up getting himself and hundreds of his men killed. You know why?”
     The boy leaned forward and dropped a dab of spit down toward the rocks. He was sick of Daddy-Whit’s lessons.
     “Because he refused to heed the advice of his aide-de-camp George Washington. That’s what happens when you don’t listen to those who know more than you.”
     The boy spotted some Canadian Geese winging by overhead. They were so close he could practically reach out and grab them. Their shadows cast hexes on the hillside.
     Flapping his arms, he imagined soaring away with them. He closed his eyes and flew out over the valley. “I’m flying,” he cried.
     “Why won’t you do me this one favor?” Daddy-Whit said. “What’s my name?”
     Feeling weightless, the boy stretched his arms so wide his fingers tingled. “Fly away.” It echoed across the valley.
     “I’ll teach you to fly away, you little shit.”
     The boy looked back. The sunlight glinted off Daddy Whit’s bald head. His face was edgy with shadow. “Daddy-Whit,” the boy said to him. He tried to make it sound normal, like he called him that all the time. But it sounded more like a taunt. The boy broke into laughter.
     So did Daddy-Whit. “Time to go exploring,” he said. “Come on down now before you fall.”
     “Exploring! For real?”
     “Of course, for real.”
     Moments later, descending the dark stone steps through the monument’s dank interior, Daddy-Whit started whistling a sprightly version of Jimmy Crack Corn. The tune snaked between his teeth in a hiss, rising and falling with each breath. He was already thinking of Black City.

1.

This is Black City
a PKill Mud

You are standing on the corner of 9th and E streets. The buildings around you are of Indian red brick alternating with concrete and Florida glass. Dim yellow light glowers behind pulled shades. A few windows hold air conditioners. The ground floor architecture is art deco. The shops are small and varied. The hum of their neon signs is the only sound competing with the gritty tap of your shoes on the sidewalk as you enter the city alone and unprotected.

The streets are empty except for blowing newspaper. No people are in sight. Several blocks away a bottle smashes and someone shouts in fear ...

No guests.
No help files.
No safe rooms.
6 ticks to logout. (You can run, you can hide, but you can't quit.)
You are on your own.
You have been warned.

Quixote enters Black City.
Down 9th street the shadows move and someone appears. It is a man. He raises a hand in greeting, waves. He lowers his hand, freezes for a moment, arms suspended at his sides. Then he begins to walk toward Quixote. He draws near.
The man says, "Hello, Quixote. My name is Sedar."
Quixote says, “Don’t shoot, Sedar. Mr. Arbogast is expecting me.”
Sedar bows.
Quixote walks down 9th Street.
Quixote enters !Finger.

Present are:
Nickcharles
Mr. Arbogast
Quixote

Quixote says,  “Hello, Nicki.”
Nickcharles says, “Evening , sir. What can I get you?”
Quixote says, “Where’s Mr. Arbogast?”
Mr. Arbogast comes out of the back room. Mr. Arbogast smiles at Quixote.
Quixote sits beside Mr. Arbogast at the bar.
Quixote says, “I need a favor.”
Mr. Arbogast, “And what would that be?”
Quixote says, “My ward has met with an unfortunate accident.”
Mr. Arbogast shakes his head in amazement.
Quixote says, “Can you help me?”
Mr. Arbogast says, “Of course I can help you. The question is will I help you?”
Quixote says, “Will you help me?”
Mr. Arbogast says, “Am I going to read about this in the newspaper?”
Quixote says, “That’s my problem.”
Mr. Arbogast says, “Ah, but I don’t intend to let your problems become mine.”
Quixote says, “Will you do business with me?”

Cybercat enters Black City.

Nickcharles whispers to Mr. Arbogast, “Boss, Cybercat, just showed up. He’s on his way here.”
Mr. Arbogast whispers, “Is he armed?”
Nickcharles whispers, “To the teeth.”
Mr. Arbogast whispers, “He would be.”
Mr. Arbogast says to Quixote, “You’re in luck my hot-tempered friend, “Some one is on his way here right now. Go into the back room and watch through the curtain. If you like this kid’s spunk, I can probably have you a GIF in a few days.”
Quixote says, “Why can’t I sit here?”
Mr. Arbogast says, “That’s not how I do business. Go there or leave Black City forever.”
Quixote goes into the back room.

Cybercat enters !Finger.

Present are:
Nickcharles
Cybercat
Mr. Arbogast

Cybercat pulls his Bullpup Combat Shotgun.
Mr. Arbogast says, “Cybercat rules.”
Cybercat says, “Except here.”
Mr. Arbogast says, “You killed off everybody we put in your way.”
Cybercat says, “gg.”
Mr. Arbogast says, “I’m sure it was.”
Cybercat says, “Maybe I should kill you, too.”
Mr. Arbogast says, “Maybe you should.”
Cybercat shoots Mr. Arbogast.
Mr. Arbogast laughs.
Cybercat shoots Mr. Arbogast in the head.
Mr. Arbogast laughs again.
Cybercat says, “How come you can’t die?”
Mr. Arbogast says, “I own Black City.”
Cybercat says, “You’re the man.”
Mr. Arbogast says, “That I am.”
Cybercat says, “Do you own Zed, too?”
Mr. Arbogast says, “In a manner of speaking.”
Mr. Arbogast says, “How’d you’d like to come work for me?”
Cybercat says,  “Doin’ what?”
Mr. Arbogast says, “I need a right hand man.”
Cybercat says, “What about Sedar?”
Mr. Arbogast says, “Sedar’s a bot. You interested?”
Cybercat says, “I might be.”
Mr. Arbogast says, “I’ll need to know how to get in touch with you in real life.”

2.

They’d been having an okay time. Well, sorta okay. Hanging out with his sister wasn’t the coolest thing he could think of. Not as much fun as wasting people in Black City. “Look, there’s that funny-looking guy again,” Michael said as he handed Lindsay an ice cream cone. “That’s the third time I’ve seen him.”
     “It doesn’t matter, Michael. It’s eight o’clock. We have to go home now.”
     "You've got ice cream on your nose, sloppy." He wiped the ice cream away and handed her a fresh napkin. “Chrissie won’t care if we’re a few minutes late.” He sneaked a glance over his shoulder. The boy was still watching. Their eyes met. The boy veered off and headed outside. “She’s too strict anyhow.”
     “She is not, Michael. She worries about us. Besides, we’re late.”
     Once they were on the sidewalk outside the mall, he pointed to the display window three stores down. “At least let's check out the pet store. I bet they have Dalmatians. Come on, I’ll say it’s my fault. We’re not that late.”
     “You can if you want to. I’m leaving.”
     “Give you a dollar.”
     “It’s Chrissie’s money.”
     “Go ahead then. I’ll catch up … and watch out for cars.”
     Michael headed down to the pet store. Sure enough, the window was full of helpless little spotted puppies, all fawn-eyed and squiggly. "Hey, Lindsay, lookie here."
     She didn't answer, and when he turned to look he didn’t see her. He moved to the curb, straining for a glimpse of her crossing the parking lot. Arriving cars blocked his line of sight. Rising to his tiptoes, he scanned the lot, no Lindsay. All he'd wanted was a quick detour to look in one window.
     He jumped onto a bench. "Lindsay, come look at the Dalmatians.”
     Just then a mini van pulled out of a parking space halfway across the lot. There she was, her mouth still smeared with ice cream. She'd gotten far in those few moments and she was walking with that boy who’d followed them in the mall. Creepy looking, too. Blond hair straight up at his forehead, short and mashed down every place else. He was dressed in camo — a miniature soldier, sleeveless, with pouch pockets low on his thighs and ragged-out Nike high tops. The dark circles under his eyes reminded Michael of a raccoon. Except this raccoon had dead eyes.
     Michael ran over to them.
     “Hi,” the boy said. He came up to Michael's ear, had pale, dirty-looking skin. Probably came from further down University Boulevard towards the college, near where all the Hispanics and immigrants lived.
     “Hi,” Michael said back. Stuffing her used napkins into his pocket, he took his sister's hand and began walking away.
     "Excuse me," the boy said. "Could I talk to you for a second?" He moved in front of them. "My name is Ed." He held out his hand. It was small and the fingernails were bitten down. "What's your name?"
     Michael didn’t say anything.
     “He’s Michael. I’m Lindsay,” his sister piped up.
     He nudged her to be quiet. Now he was the one who wanted to get going. There was something about this guy he didn’t like.
     “You live around here, right?”
     “So?” Michael put his hand on Lindsay’s shoulder and guided her away.
     "Wait! We're lost. Can you help us?"
     "Are you with your parents?"
     As if on cue, a big blue Pontiac pulled up. Michael glanced inside at the floor shift and tach on the column. It reminded him of a picture he had of his mother sitting in a car back before he was born.
     The driver smiled at him. He was heavyset, in khaki-colored work clothes and Orioles sunglasses.
     "This is Michael," Ed said to the driver, adding with uncertainty, "His sister’s with him … I told him we were lost and asked for directions."
     He looked at the man, who thought for a moment before motioning with his head. Ed opened the door and jumped in. "Come on." He slid over to make room for them. “Show us the way.”
     Lindsay got in.
     "Hey." Michael grabbed for her. As he reached out, the driver took off his sunglasses and said, "We're really lost, son. We need directions to get home."
     He seemed genuine.
     Lindsay was already in the car beside Ed. "Come on, Michael, get in," Ed said. Reluctantly, Michael sat in sidesaddle. "I think we'd better walk over to our house." Chrissie was going to kill him. She was always warning him about this sort of stuff.
     The car started moving. Michael tried to jump out. The car stopped. "If you're worried, son, go ahead and walk and we'll follow you. We sure don't want to get you in dutch with your folks."
     "It's not our folks, " Lindsay said. "It's Chrissie. She's our sister."
     "We surely don't want to make your sister angry. Do we, Ed?"
     "Nope." There was something grim about Ed’s voice. He crawled over the seat into the back, making room for Michael beside his sister.
     “Will your sister give us directions?” the man asked.
     "All right." Michael swung his legs around and closed the door. "Go up to the Midvale Road exit and turn left on University."
     The car moved up to the intersection.
     "When the light changes go left and then right on that street up there — Valley View Avenue. That's our street. We live three blocks down."
     They followed the line of cars through the light and went left on University. The man peered over the steering wheel as though searching for the street through a dense fog.
     "That's it right there," Michael cried. "Turn here."
     The car crept past Valley View.
     "Hey, you were supposed to turn there."
     "I'm sorry, I didn't see it in time. Can we take the next one instead?"
     "You can go right and come back up almost to our house. It's simple."
     As he spoke, he felt Ed's hand reach past his shoulder and place something over his face. He couldn't tell — an old T-shirt, a dust rag maybe. It had something wet on it that smelled like the Varsol stuff Chrissie used to clean with. Its swirly fingers grasped his temples, pushed straight up his nose. He brought his hand up to knock it away. Lindsay was talking to him. Her voice was far away and sad. Another set of hands came up around him — dark unfriendly hands. The hands of night he always feared might snake out from beneath his bed. Now they had him in their clutches.

3.

Not until the moment Gail slipped in the front door carrying a six-pack, did Christine realize how starved she was for a visit from anyone who didn't specialize in shouted commentary over the backs of cereal boxes. No one over thirteen had been in the house since Gail came to Lindsay’s birthday party. And here it was May already.
     Gail gave her shy smile and pushed her granny glasses up.
     They hugged. "I missed you," Christine said. "Feels like it's been forever.”
     “Where are Michael and Lindsay?"
     "I let them go to the mall."
     "Alone? Oooh, lightening up in your old age."
     "Well, Michael promised to stay with Lindsay. I couldn't really say no."
      Christine put on a Midnight Oil CD for old time’s sake and they sat down at the kitchen table, where she’d put out tortilla chips and salsa in her mother’s serving bowls. “It's about time I lighten up on them little. Ever since Mom died, I’ve been scared to let them out of my sight.” She took a drink of beer, looked at the bottle. “God, I can’t remember the last time I had a beer. All I buy is milk, Pepsi and orange juice. I'll be feeling it after one.” Christine and Gail were born within a few days of each other. They’d been friends since elementary school. “So, how do you like your new job?”
     “The hours are long, but retail isn’t so bad. You should come over now that I’m settled in.”
     “I keep meaning to. But I’m so tired when I get home from work and feed these two, all I feel like doing is vegging out in front of the TV."
     “All the more reason why we should do something special for our birthday. After all, we're going to be twenty-five.”
      “I can't believe we're that old already.”
     “My sister’s letting us use her condo in Ocean City as a birthday present,” Gail said slyly. “You, me, and Michael and Lindsay.”
     “You’re kidding.”
     “She said she'd even baby-sit Michael and Lindsay if we wanted to go alone. She'd probably even stay over here, too. I think she'd do anything to get away from her husband. You should let her. You need a break.”
     It would be nice, Christine thought. The past four years haven't left much time for fun. But … “No, they’d love it. It wouldn't be fair not to take them."
     “I told my sister you’d probably feel too guilty to leave them for a whole weekend.”
     Christine hopped up merrily and pulled two more beers from the refrigerator. “They’ll be so excited they’ll be freaking out all over the place. Come on, let's drink too much."
      And they did. The salsa disappeared. They ordered a  pizza and it was ten of eight before Christine realized that cloying sense of guilt she'd been pushing away had nothing to do with maybe going to the ocean without Michael and Lindsay. She checked her watch. It was past time for them to be home. Jumping to her feet, she called upstairs, hoping they'd somehow slipped in and gone upstairs for some strange reason.
     When they didn't answer, she hurried up the steps.
     She opened the window in Michael's bedroom and leaned out. Although the clear spring evening was showing hints of night, plenty of light remained for her to see that they weren't playing down at the end of the street.
     Gail joined her in the bedroom and its disarray of clothes, school books, and things she always thought of as boy's stuff: filthy sneakers, sweat socks, comics, bubble gum, and balls of all varieties. Boys were always throwing things. At some point Michael had tossed his sweatshirt over his computer. He probably thought it looked cool and left it there on display. "I'll bet they're on their way home now," she offered.
     "They were supposed to be back no later than quarter of eight."
     "It's only a little before eight. Maybe they're still there?"
     "They shouldn't be walking the streets at this hour. It's almost dark."
     "They'll call. Come on, Chrissie, let's go finish our beer."
     They returned to the kitchen. The pizza box lay open and empty. "I forgot to save them a slice.” Christine scolded herself. Sitting down at the table, she took an emphatic swig of beer. “No.” She put down the bottle and picked up her keys. “This is wrong. They shouldn't be out at this hour. I'm gonna go look for them.”
     No use arguing with her. Christine could be hard-headed when it came to Michael and Lindsay. Gail stuffed the pizza box and the empties into the trash bag and put it on the back porch.
     Christine wrote a note, just in case. "YOU'RE LATE." Softening the next line: "Went to look for you at the mall. It's eight. Be back soon. Door is open. STAY HERE. Luv u, Chrissie."
     She taped the note to the front door low enough for Lindsay to see if she came home alone. The two women got into Christine's car and pulled out of the driveway.
     The parking lot at Wheaton Plaza Mall was so packed she had difficulty finding a place to park. "Michael usually goes down to the food court to play the video games. You wait here. I'm sure they're down there, and I'm just being silly ..." She didn't finish. They'd probably lost track of the time. If they weren't eating, she'd find them wandering the stores. She hurried across the parking lot and into the mall.
     A few boys about Michael's age and a couple of fat, pimply older guys were fondling the colorful game boxes at Software, Etc. Michael wasn't among them.
     They weren't at the French Fry Palace or Pizza Hut in the food court either. She didn't recognize any of the kids. It was pushing eight thirty. All their friends would be home by now.
     Feeling panic for the first time, she scrambled up the escalator and made for the exit. Outside she checked the pet shop, getting ready to close. She returned to her Sentra where Gail was waiting. "No luck, huh?”
     "I'm going to try back home. Would you mind walking through the mall? I already checked the food court."
     "Maybe they're at my store."
     Christine took off for home, running the light at University and Midvale. It was definitely getting dark.
     The note was still on the door and their little house looked bleak and empty. She'd forgotten to leave any lights on. She turned on every light on the first floor and ran down to the dead end through the patch of woods to the athletic field of Albert Einstein Senior High. "Michael," she called. "Lindsay!"
     Her voice echoed across the playing field, across the red composite track and onto the football field and bleachers. She called again. Turning around she stumbled into a boy who had come up behind her.     "Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't see you." Christine bent down to see who it was. "Have you seen Michael and Lindsay Bailey? You do live around here, don't you?”
     "Yes, ma'am. Up on Hillside. I’ve seen you before. You’re their sister.”
     "Have you seen them?"
     "I saw Michael on the way home from school today. I didn't talk to him. He's older than me. We don't play together."
     "You shouldn't be out this late," Christine said over her shoulder as she hurried away. She drove back to the mall and found Gail waiting on the sidewalk. Gail shrugged. Maybe Christine had been right to worry.
     "Let's ride over to Circuit City. Maybe they're watching television and lost track of time.” Momentarily made hopeful by the thought of her siblings standing wide-eyed before a TV screen as big as they were, she drove to the annex buildings, one of which resembled a large red electric plug, Circuit City. Hollywooding the stop sign by Woodward & Lothrop, she pulled up at the entrance and ran inside, leaving her door hanging open.
     They weren't there. Frightened now, Christine decided to drive once around the outside of mall. Maybe they'd gotten lost somehow. Cutting through the parking garage, she sped around the back past the dumpsters and loading docks and maintenance crew closing up for the night. The men looked mystified when she asked them about Michael and Lindsay. Why would two kids want to come back here?
     Around past the department store anchoring the far end of the mall, up toward Giant Supermarket without sign of them. She left the parking lot, careering through the side streets until she'd completed the neighborhood loop. She turned back into the mall when flashing lights brought her to a squealing stop.
 

4.

Christine leaned out into the intense white of a police cruiser's high beams and spotlight. She opened the door to get out. "Thank God.”
     A voice rasped through the loudspeaker atop the cruiser, "Remain seated in your vehicle and place both hands on the steering wheel."
     “Officer, this is an emergency.”
     The cop repeated his warning.
     “You’d better do what he says,” Gail warned.
     “We need his help.” Christine got out anyway.
     The officer sprung out with his weapon drawn and crouched behind his door. He flicked his finger at her to get down. “What?” Christine didn’t understand. The cop flicked his finger again. “This is an emergency. We need your help!”
     The cop repeated his hand signal, this time waving his pistol for emphasis.
     "You jerk,” she said and got back inside.
     There were two cops, it turned out. Both with aggressively shaved heads beneath their service caps.
     One approached and perched at the corner of her window. His name was McDonald. She tried to focus on his face. He seemed decent, not much older than her. He peered down onto her, shining his flashlight into her eyes. The second officer stationed himself off the other side playing his flashlight between them.
     "Officer, I'm looking for my sister and brother. They didn't come home when they were supposed to and we're looking for them."
     "Your driver's license and vehicle registration." The officer’s voice was so neutral it was surly.
     "I left the house in a hurry. I didn't bring my wallet with me."
     Gail rummaged through the glove compartment and handed out the crimped and torn registration.
 The officer took the card, evincing exasperation at its condition. "How much have you had to drink?"
     “Are you listening? You can see from the registration I live near here. I have a sister and brother; they're eleven and thirteen years old. I'm raising them; our parents are dead. They didn't come home tonight from the mall. Gail and I have been looking for them. We ran through the mall like crazy. I guess I was driving that way. I'm worried something’s happened to them."
     "We clocked you exceeding fifty. You were also driving your vehicle through the parking lot in a reckless manner.”
     "What about my sister and brother?"
     "Step out of the car.” McDonald put his hand on the heel of his holstered weapon. Christine complied. In the full glare of the headlights, the cop peered into her eyes and repeated his question. "How many drinks have you had?"
     “OK, guys,” Christine said. “You may think you've got a drunk driver here. But let me tell you something. My brother and sister are missing. If you want to play Dirty Harry do it someplace else.”
      He led her to the front of her car. "I want you to say the alphabet."
     Christine saw she’d hurt her chances for quick assistance. She switched her tone. She was near tears anyway. "Officer,  please call 911 for me. I’m begging you. Give me a ticket if you have to, but please do this first."
     McDonald seemed to strain forward almost as though to peer inside her mind. Had she gotten through to him? Like a stray shaft of light through a thick forest canopy? How many times had he seen this ploy, she wondered? Probably made him even more determined to write a citation. She hoped he didn’t mistake the fear she knew he could see in her eyes for concern about the DUI she was about to get. She didn’t flinch away, chew her gums or avert her gaze. No, she looked at him straight on with unwavering directness.
     The cop glanced at his partner for reassurance. With his protruding lips and cap pulled down close to his black-framed nerd glasses, he looked like a four-eyed frog. The Frog was noncomittal. “Okay. Get back in the car. Your friend will have to drive you home. We’ll follow. But I’m warning you….”
     They stayed right on her bumper. Under the circumstances she was glad for the escort. Once inside she and Gail did a quick check of the house and began calling neighbors. The cops radioed in a report and were told to wait for detectives to arrive. Christine telephoned people she barely knew well enough to wave to, calling every place they might have gone or been taken. Gail contacted security at Wheaton Plaza Mall, which conducted a search and turned up nothing.
     Christine put down the phone after a fruitless call to a family she didn’t even know as two plain-clothed detectives walked in. The first was a white man with a moussed crew cut and shoulders so broad they forced his jacket wide. A black woman followed, wearing glasses that were out of style when Christine was Michael's age. A front tooth peeked across her lower lip.
     Hoff crossed the room to Christine. "I'm Detective Hoff. This is my partner Detective Monday Miles. We've been assigned to your missing person report."
     He lifted a photo from the array on the side table. "These are your younger brother and sister?"
     She nodded.
     "I take it both are under fourteen years of age?"
     "Michael turns fourteen next month. Lindsay just turned twelve."
     Emotion passed across the detective's face. He returned the photo to the table. "Okay, we want to be straight with you. We have a strict protocol for investigating missing children under fourteen. We need to begin immediately. The sooner we get organized, the better. There's a good chance they're still around here somewhere. That's why we need to get as complete a picture as quick as we can.”
     "Then you think they're just out playing somewhere?"
     “Is that what you think?”
     Christine shook her head. “They would have come home by now.”
     “There's information I need to get from you. Both of you.”
     “What information?" Christine closed eyes for a moment. The air in the front room of the small house had gotten close. “Why won’t you just start looking for them? I tried to tell Dirty Harry here and his friend him back at Wheaton Plaza," pointing a finger. "But all he did was give me a ticket."
     Hoff shot a glance at McDonald. McDonald shifted his weight. "She was DUI — speeding, reckless driving."
     "Plus, she ran a stop sign," the Frog added.
     "And you wrote her up anyway?" Hoff shook his head with exasperation. “We still need to go over some things,” he said to Christine. “Enough time has been wasted as it is."
     "That's easy for you to say —"
     "Miss Bailey, you need to quiet down." Hoff paused to allow her the chance to agree. Christine crossed her arms.
     He asked her to describe Michael and Lindsay's disappearance, which she did, what little she knew of it. She also told him about Gail and her sitting in the kitchen eating pizza and, yes,  drinking a few beers. But she hadn't intended to go out. Wasn't that how you were supposed to drink?
     The detective held up a hand. “Let's not worry about that right now. Has either Michael or Lindsay ever been missing before?”
     "Do you mean have they ever run away?"
     "Have they?"
     "No. They're good kids."
     "Do either of them suffer from mental illness or do they have emotional problems?"
     "They're good kids — normal, good kids."
     “There the best kids I’ve ever been around,” Gail said. “You should see my nephews.”
     "Has either child ever been the subject of a child abuse report?"
     "You think I abused my sister and brother? You think I have any idea where they are now? You’re worse that those two."
     “Are they inclined to play practical jokes?"
     "Not at all," Christine replied. "I told you they're good kids."
     "What about the neighbors?"
     "They've been looking for them for the past hour."
     The other detective spoke. Although she talked to Hoff, she kept her eyes on Christine. "I'll check the house. The uniforms will begin a door-to-door."
     Christine said, "Lindsay has a small gold engraved ring on her right hand. Michael wasn't wearing any jewelry or wrist wraps like he usually does."
     "Why wasn't he wearing them?"
     "I don't know. He just took them off and left them sitting on his computer. I think he forgot. He does that sometimes." She broke off. "He’s on his computer all the time. Maybe they were bothering him when he was typing."
     "I need to know what school they went to and the names of every friend they might be staying with. Places where they spent the night, hung out, things like that. Were their grades good?"
     "Lindsay's were. She's an A student. Michael makes C's, like his friends. All the time he spends at his desk, you'd think his grades would be better."
     "What does he do at his desk instead of his homework?"
     “He’s on his computer.” Christine paused to listen to the woman detective walking through her bedroom.
     Hoff walked her through her family's history. Her father's disappearance shortly after Lindsay's birth. Their mother's death in an auto accident four years ago. "You don't think it's our father? That he could have come back and grab them after all these years? He wouldn't even know what they looked like."
     "Statistically, that's the highest probability for a kidnapping. But it also gives us the greatest probability of retrieving the child ... or children. But this case doesn't sound like abduction by a family member. You should know that ninety-nine percent of all missing children are runaways. That's the angle we'll be working from. Only one percent turns out to be actual kidnappings. Keep your fingers crossed."
     "Keep my fingers crossed that Michael and Lindsay ran away? That's ridiculous. I won't do it."
      The police officer looked down at his notes, and back up again — dead at her. "Did they run away?"
     Christine's mouth dropped open. Before she could protest, he added, "You haven't been having discipline problems with them? Spanked them or scolded them with excessive harshness? Grounded them for whatever reason, kept them from school functions?"
     "I've never touched them. I would never do such a thing. That's outrageous."
     "Did you ever argue with Michael, especially recently?"
     "He's no angel, but we never really argue. We get along pretty well compared to what I've heard about other families in the neighborhood.
     “Michael knows what the situation is," Gail broke in.
     Hoff said to her, "Miss, I want you to shut up now. You'll have the chance to talk in a little bit."
     “Well, somebody has to look out for Chrissie. You and your thugs sure aren’t.”
     Hoff grew visibly angry. Christine went on, nervously. "Michael knows he has to help out. He doesn't really want to. I mean, after all, he's a preadolescent boy. Most of the time he does what I ask him to. It's been tough on him not having a father or a mother. Both of them are developing convenient hearing, just like I did when I was their age. But they know we won't be able to stay together and not get split up by the social service people if they don't act responsibly. We don't have any grandparents, or aunts and uncles who could help us out. They know they can't afford to be like other children. It's not fair to them, but that's the way it is. They never make trouble for me. They hardly ever fight. They're good kids."
     She thought about telling him about Lindsay trying to teach Michael how to make his bed. How neither of them could get it right. Or how when Lindsay helped with the dishes she always dropped a plate or two. Corel Ware was not cheap.
     "Our problem here is that there's two. From what you've told me, I could make a possible case for Michael running away. What can you tell me about his sister that might help?"
     "Lindsay would never do a thing like run away. She's a total angel. In many ways she's more mature than Michael. She would never run away. I'm sure of it. And neither would Michael."
     "But the fact is, Christine — Okay to call you Christine? — nonfamily abductions aren't very     common. There aren't but maybe three, four hundred outright kidnappings a year by nonfamily members. Statistically, that's not a whole lot for a country of 260 million people. Not that it makes it any easier on you, or on those other families. Nothing's routine about this for you. I understand that. The problem is we see this in Homicide all the time. Almost all turn out to be runaways." If he meant this to reassure her, he'd made a mistake.
     "Homicide! Why homicide?"
      "Ah ... we just happen to be on hand when the call got referred to missing persons. Normally we wait twelve maybe twenty-four hours once a missing person report is filed. Then detectives are sent out. When the missing persons are under eighteen, we wait twelve hours max. But if they're fourteen and under, as in the case of Michael and Lindsay, we don't wait at all. And so, we got assigned. Don't jump to conclusions. For safety's sake, because of their age,” his tone now reassuring, "our procedure is to treat this as a straight kidnapping. On the other hand, look, it's only, what, midnight? They may turn up in the next five minutes. Kids are kids, and they can be irresponsible as all get out. Mine sure are. But you have to keep in mind that a mall is a prime place to snatch a child. That's why we want to act on the side of caution."
     Hoff recorded Christine's whereabouts for the past week; he did the same for Gail, place of employment, people she'd recently come into contact with, held conversations with. He returned to the events of the day, re-hashing every detail. For the moment he appeared to believe her claim the kids were not into drugs or connected to a gang. And that they never spoke about suicide or had a history of depression. Even with her arrest for DUI, he could plainly see that she was more responsible than many biological parents with whom he'd dealt.
     "The best advice I can give you for now is to let us do our job."
      "Isn't there anything I can do?"
     "Get in touch with the National Center for Missing and Abused Children. They're down in Arlington. They have tons of understanding people who can offer you advice. If you can think of anything that Michael and Lindsay might have done on a whim, or anything you've forgotten, let me know and I'll check it out right away. Don't worry, we still have plenty of time. Try to stay calm. I'll check back soon."
     "Where are you going?"
     "Nowhere right now. I need to get a wider search of the neighborhood started. Later, I'll be checking into the office. Take care of some paperwork. Routine procedure."
     "Can't you do it from here?"
     The detective shook his head.
     "It's in case you're a suspect," Gail commented.
     "You're not a suspect, Christine. Neither of you are."
     "But you're treating her like one." Gail looked about ready to cry. Christine got up and took Gail by the arm. "These people are such bastards, Chrissie."
     Outside, the neighborhood was abuzz with activity. A TV news truck pulled up. Print reporters were already interviewing neighbors on the front lawns of their homes. The penetrating searchlight from a helicopter swooping in overhead reduced everything to two dimensions. People were caught up in the swirl of the moment, organizing themselves into search parties, setting off into the night with flashlights, their pet dogs and a few walk-talkies. If intense activity was all it took, Lindsay and Michael Bailey wouldn’t be in harm's way for long.

5.

The bumpy ride roused Michael from his slumber, if that’s what it could be called. He was vaguely aware of his sister’s head on him and the car rising and falling over hilly roads. His head felt funny and there was a metallic, snot-like taste in the back of his throat. What happened? He might have said it out loud. He wasn’t sure. He struggled to sit up. Sure enough, they were in a car. That car that Ed and that man had forced them into. Forced! How could I be so stupid? Chrissie is never going to forgive me for this. Michael thought. He tried to touch Lindsay’s hair. His hand was dead weight on his lap.
     He made himself sit up a little. They had to get out of this car. He looked over at the driver. It was the man. He was looking at him. “Well, Cybercat, back from the dead, I see.” He laughed. Or Michael wanted to believe it was a laugh. The man said something … “and don’t slop it around. I’m still driving. Unless you want to wind up in a ditch.”
     Michael was sure he heard that much before that white cloth descended over his face again and he went under wondering how he knew to call him Cybercat.

     The next day with her head fuzzy from no sleep and her stomach tossing with anxiety, Christine had to face her employer, one Alphonse Green. She pulled herself off the sofa where’d she’d been sitting, glued to the TV and with the phone in her lap and all-news radio up loud enough to hear outside, and berated herself upstairs into a shower and fresh clothes. She was the office manager at Green Tele-Services, a partitioned storefront office a short distance from her house in the maze of shop- and restaurant-lined side streets near Wheaton Plaza Mall. The place was sandwiched between Barbarian Books, which specialized in fantasy and science fiction, and the Washington Music Center, which specialized in rock 'n' roll fantasies. It was just this side of a McJob. It had been a McJob when she’d started, but the hours favored Michael and Lindsay, so she'd stayed with it. She could have called in, but her boss was a good man and deserved better than that.
     Mr. Green, a portly black man in his late forties, had heard about Michael and Lindsay on the news. The moment she walked in, he greeted her in a way that struck her as discouragingly ambivalent. He thrust his body forward as though to intercept her while leaning away as though fearing violence. Did he really think she’d go off on him — or head straight to her desk and start working as though nothing was wrong? “I lost my boy to drugs,” he said with great sympathy. “You never get over these things.”
     "I moved my family out of the city as soon as I could. I thought we would be safe out here. We didn't have much trouble from our, you know, white neighbors. But I never thought I would lose my boy to some fifteen-year-old punk back in SouthEast." He looked away as if hiding his eyes from the vision of his son supine on the pavement in a wet halo. "The same neighborhood I grew up in. Same damn street! You never get over the loss.”
     “Michael and Lindsay are not lost!” Christine shifted self-consciously and pretended to scan the rows of busy telephone solicitors. The sudden flare up shook her. She didn’t want Mr. Green to see it. She glanced helplessly around the room. How plain brown and uncomfortable it was. Funny, she’d never really acknowledged the awkward array of rickety partitions, the dirt vapors at the vents and lighting fixtures on the low paneled ceiling, and especially the lint that covered the industrial carpeting like part of the weave. Just then the place felt foreign to her, like a surreal auto parts store in a Fellini movie.
    "Mr. Green, I can't work with this going on. I have to find … I need to search for them. They have to be somewhere and I can't do anything else until I get them back. I ... I ... don't know what else to do. I have to find them."
     “Maybe we'd better go to my office.” Mr. Green made an inclusive gesture. When her anxiety kept her rooted, he took her elbow to guide her in and perhaps bring her to the point. Or perhaps to protect her. Her co-workers may have been too busy cold-calling to do more than offer a sympathetic nod — he monitored their work relentlessly — but that wouldn’t keep them from eavesdropping. Not that Christine especially cared. The whole damned country had started eavesdropping on her life.
     She knew she looked beaten and distraught and it embarrassed her. She had worked for him for over four years now, and she knew that he appreciated her hard work. He’d promoted her ahead of employees who’d been here much longer. Even so he had never let down his guard, never really said a friendly word to her or any of the others. She could tell that he wanted to deal with this as quickly as he could and get back out on the floor.
     He closed the office door behind them, something he did only for the most serious meetings. "This is a terrible thing, Christine. I appreciate your situation and I feel for your ... for you. I know how you must feel. But I don't know if there is anything I can do for you — you know how hard-pressed we are to meet these deadlines. Much more disruption because of this and we will be in trouble."
    "Disruption. But I haven't caused any trouble. I just came by to —"
    He cut her off.
     “No, it's not you. The police were here waiting for me when I opened this morning.”
     "The police!"
     "Asking me all about you. Then they met with several of the girls who’ve know you the longest. They must have spent two hours here and set us back four. We can't stand much of that. You know how tight things are."
     "What did they ask you? What could they want with you, or with anyone here?”
     "Just general information about you," he shrugged. "Personal things. Boy friends. Drinking; drugs. What you do after work, who you hang with. If you have a bad temper or have ever been violent."
     Christine's eyes widened with apprehension.
    "Now, now, it was just routine. They have to ask those kind of things. You should have heard the things they asked me about my boy. And they kept coming back like I knew more than I was telling them. They were polite and sympathetic towards you … humm … You know, Christine. I suppose it would be better for you to take, you know, a couple of days off until this is cleared up. Go ahead, search for the kids. I'm sure they took off somewhere and you'll find them soon. You can take leave without pay today and we'll start your vacation tomorrow."
     "Thank you, Mr. Green.” She put a hand on his arm. “This is so understanding of you.”
    He patted her hand. "Christine, you're the best worker I have. I've always been able to rely on you, and we'll just have to get along while you locate your family. I'll have Susan take over for you and Jenny can move in and take up the slack.”
    Something in the way he’d said “your family” got to her. She started sniffling. Mr. Green circled her with his huge arm and drew her against him. He was surprisingly warm and comforting. In the cruel, hard-edged panic that dominated the hours since the disappearance, this was the first, the only warm feeling she had found. As cold and businesslike as he was, just then Mr. Green was her closest friend.
Christine shook her head. "This will all be over in a day or two. It has to be…" She struggled to contain herself but she couldn’t. She started sobbing. Quickly lost it completely. It was the first time she’d let herself cry. Her head bobbed against Mr. Green’s beefy shoulder. She just couldn’t help it.
    “It’s okay, honey,” Mr. Green said, emotion palpable in his own voice. “I know how you feel. You just go ahead and cry.”
    God, it felt so good to finally let go. All those emotions had been bottled up like volatile gases for almost twenty-four hours. They had to escape sooner or later. She’d repair the damage with her co-workers later, after this was all over. But it didn’t last long. Her sobs were interrupted by a commotion at the front door. A TV crew was already inside with its camera aimed like an accusatory weapon straight at them. Beside it, as though feeding an ammo belt, a reporter grasped the mike and looping cable as the procession crossed the floor toward them. "I think you'd better go."
     Christine had seen the news reports. She recognized the skepticism in the reporters’ voices as they strained to give her the benefit of the doubt. She nodded her thanks to Mr. Green. He’d been more generous with her than he’d wanted — or that she expected. She tried to signal that to him, but fell short in the sudden burst of activity. She headed for the door, ducking past the camera crew, which spun around in pursuit. Mr. Green followed, urging his workers to remain at their stations and attend to their call lists.
     The woman with the mike had not expected to encounter Christine. She asked in a near shout, "Have you been fired from your job?" After the frauds of the past, they were covering all bases.
     "No," Mr. Green responded, holding up his hands to ward them off. The camera swung to him. "She’s taking some time until her situation is straightened out." When he stopped the camera swung back to Christine.
     The reporter shouted, “Christine, do you have any idea where her brother and sister are?”
     With the news crew in pursuit, Christine bowed her head and hurried to her car, her pocketbook clasped to her side.

6.

Prying eyes forced them from the kitchen into the living room. Christine and the detectives had just sat down to re-examine yet again the family's activities up to the time Michael and Lindsay disappeared when a clattering outside betrayed a TV news team attempting to film them through the window. The cameraman was standing on her garbage can. Hoff had a uniform chase him away.
     After the initial stories, news reports began speculating that she somehow knew more than she let on. Once the media discovered her DUI citation, they dropped the word kidnapping in favor of disappearance. Lingering memories of a South Carolina mother's murder of her two children made reporters feral in their inquiries. Police explanations that the DUI charges were unrelated to the missing children sounded lame.
     Worse, she stopped talking to reporters. At first she'd welcomed their bristling microphones and lachrymose questions. They'd been sympathetic and gentle. But after they found out about the ticket, their attitude shifted to skepticism. Hoping to trap her in a contradiction, they started badgering, as though they were desperate to prove her a selfish woman bent on the liberating destruction of her siblings. And she was powerless to stop them,
     Christine's only possible counter to their insinuations was to continue working with the police. They wanted to know everything Michael and Lindsay might have done to attract attention to themselves. Anything and everything, no matter how obscure.
     "He likes sports the most, I guess. That and his computer. He's always out with his friends playing sports over at Einstein. Could someone have met him there?"
     "Did he go there alone?"
     "He never did anything outside the house alone, he was always in big groups. Most of the time they were chaperoned."
     "He couldn't have snuck off somewhere and met people? Or Lindsay?"
     "It wouldn’t be like them. They sometimes go to the mall but always in a group or with an adult, and even then they have to be home before dark. Then Michael goes up to his room and gets on his computer. It's his secret passion. Lindsay rarely goes out after supper unless it’s to spend the night at a girlfriend's. I've given you the ones she goes to. There are only three. Most of the time, Michael is in his room and Lindsay is watching TV. This is all my fault."
     "What do you mean secret passion? You didn't mention that before."
     "His computer. He hides it from the other boys. He says they would call him a nerd or something if they knew he was into computers. And I did mention it before."
     "He likes computers that much?"
     "He spent hours on it. I thought it was good for him. He was so eager to learn. I figured it was part of his education ... until all the violence started in the schools. And all these stories about pornography online."
     I made Michael get off America Online. I took the CD from him and threw it in the trash. I called them up and canceled our account and the person I talked to told me exactly how to erase the files from his computer. It was the only time Michael and I ever had a fight. But that was almost a year ago. I told him he could get it back when he turned sixteen. And he couldn’t go on the Web until then. I didn't know what else to do. I didn't want to limit his education but I didn't want him exposed to all that pornography and foul language and people harassing kids, things like that."
     "He had contact with people online?"
     "I don't think so after that. But I'm not sure. That's why I wanted you to know. I tried to limit what he did online after that story, and I don't think he’s ever talked to anyone after AOL. He just plays games. He misses America Online. I know that for sure. He really misses it."
     "How do you know he wasn't on it anyway?"
     "Because I stopped getting the bill each month."
     "Is there any chance he met someone through the computer and went to see him? The person could have sent him the money. It happens, you know?"
     Christine shook her head emphatically. "We talked about that when he was on AOL. He laughed when I brought it up. Besides, that wouldn't explain Lindsay, would it? Believe me she would never go for something like that in a million years — not that I'm saying Michael ever would."
     "Just to be on the safe side, we'll check your phone records just to make sure there were no suspicious long distance phones calls."
     Later on, a heavyset officer from the Maryland State Police's new computer crime unit showed up to look at Michael’s computer. Christine led him upstairs and pulled the chair back for him to sit down. With his girth hanging over the sides, the obese officer made Michael's desk chair look like it was made for a midget. His gut put him an arm's length from the keyboard.
     He went through the files in the main directory, displayed a few. "Are you familiar with the things he has on here?" he asked Christine.
     "We get on together sometimes, but it's basically his."
     "Did you know he had a modem?"
     Christine told him she did. "He was online all the time. I'd pick up the phone by accident and there'd be all these scratchy noises, and he'd get angry because it would cut him off."
     The computer cop flashed a smile that displayed two rows of tiny teeth. "That noise was binary data transfer. It doesn't mean anything in itself. Of course, your brother could have been downloading software.”
     The computer cop inserted a disk and ran a program designed to sniff out e-mail, even deleted e-mail that hadn't been overwritten — and got nothing. Just to make sure, he ran it again, with the same results. "It's safe to say he didn't do e-mail. He doesn't have e-mail software, no Eudora, no browser, nothing. And without access to an ISP where he could use PINE or ELM or even MAIL, he couldn't have sent any. He didn't save any. I am completely sure about that."
     She didn't know any of those names whizzing by her. "No e-mails at all?"
     "This software I brought shows every active and erased file in the boy's system, including these floppies. If he has done e-mail, he would have had to re-format his entire hard drive. And judging from the mess he's made of his root directory he didn't have the knowledge it would take to back everything up and then re-build his system. No, you can safely eliminate e-mail."
     "Are you sure?"
     The fat cop sighed and rolled back to the keyboard. One by one he rechecked Michael's diskettes, switching back to the hard drive from time to time. He used the modem once or twice but got off quickly each time.
     "Then you don't think this could have anything to do with their disappearance?" She stared at the back of his meaty head, waiting for an answer. He rattled away. Either he hadn't heard her or didn't deem her question important enough to answer.
     "I was also looking for some indication that the boy was involved in illegal activities like stolen software or pornography," he said finally. "You know how kids are, downloading everything in sight. That doesn't seem to be the case here. The setup is clumsy, but he doesn't have any illegal software on his system. He hasn't downloaded all that much, actually."
     "Does that mean there isn't any way he could have been in contact with someone online or can't you tell?"
     "There's no software here for Prodigy or AOL. There’s no Web access. He's got an old shareware version of ProCom Plus, but the only number in the dialing directory is for a free DC area game board. It doesn't have a chat room. Basically, all he can do is download games."
      "He has a lot of them ….”
     "Not really. My own kid has tons more.”
     “I made him stop playing some of them when I saw how violent they were."
     The cop was getting impatient. “Look, the bottom line is he didn't have an Internet connection. They cost money and unless he has some independent source of income, you would know about it. I'd bet he doesn't even have a paper route, does he?"
     She shook her head.
     "Yeah, anymore, adults are doing them. He's too young to work elsewhere, am I right?"
     "How much does it cost for an Internet connection?"
     "They average twenty bucks in the DC area for your basic shell account.” The fat officer switched out of Windows and copied the root directory onto a spare floppy he'd brought along. "There's nothing here." He pocketed the floppy as if to settle the matter.
     "But they wouldn't have gone off with a complete stranger."
     He tried to show sympathy. It was obvious to Christine his mind as already elsewhere. After he was gone she went back upstairs and changed into her sweats. She lay back on the pillow and closed her eyes in hope the confusion and fear would go away. Her mind was racing. She was positive that smug cop was wrong.
     The phone rang. It was Gail. "I'm getting ready to leave work. I thought I'd drop over. I’ve been trying to call all day, but either you don’t answer or the line’s been busy."
     "Reporters keep calling. Not tonight. I'm exhausted and I'm going to bed. A camera crew even ambushed me today when I went to see Mr. Green. He told me go and get my situation straightened out.” She gave a half-hearted laugh. “He was really understanding, but what a terrible way to put it — get my situation straightened out. That hurt. The police even went there asking nosey questions. And some TV reporter followed me to my car acting like I had something to hide.”
     "I can't wait until those detectives try to question me again," Gail said.
     "They questioned you? When was this?"
     "They said it was just procedure. They didn't act suspicious of you or anything. I mean, not that suspicious.”
     “Those jerks.”
      “Careful, Chrissie. It was bad enough me practically crying in front of them like a baby. But don’t you think you’ve got enough problems with the police already without letting your temper get the best of you?
     “But that computer cop didn't believe a word I said."
     “Well, there are some suspicious circumstances.”

7.

At first the water stains looking like old brown cobwebs spreading from the corners of the ceiling reminded Michael of giant bats. He imagined them descending and smothering him right where he lay. Now they looked more like skeleton hands intent upon wringing his neck. He didn't want to have his neck wrung or be smothered; he wanted to go home. He promised himself that from now on he would watch out for Lindsay no matter what. And that meant never going off by himself when he didn't get his own way.
     The bed he lay on was flush against the wall. More water stains laced the dingy wallpaper beside him. He shifted in the bed. The cranky springs groaned beneath a mattress thinner than the air mattress he slept on out in the back yard. The metal piping of the head and footboards sagged like the ceiling. Everything was sagging, as if the stale air made things collapse. He turned onto his side and looked at his sister beside him. She was lying on her back, stock still, as Michael had been.
     "Are you awake?" he whispered.
     Just then shouting erupted in the hall; footfalls on the steps. The doorknob turned and the door opened.

Mon 1 May 1999   09:32:53      alt/binaries/pictures/erotica     Thread 1 of  666 Lines 18                       re: pornography filter                         No responses

Dear parents and guardians of a.b.p.e. readers:

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 Minutes later the following appeared across hundreds of Usenet newsgroups.

Tues 2 May 1999   08:47:26      alt/binaries/pictures/erotica    Thread 1 of  696 Lines 23                        re: Kool binaries                               No responses

LAUREL TAKES BOLD ACTION TO BREAK THE PRICE BARRIER!!!

We all know how costly it is to access all those delicious porno sites on the Web. And, for you old timers, how time-consuming it is to download binaries, especially while you're sitting there all aroused ready to go. First you have to download the files, then you have to paste them together. Then you have to de-code them. Then and only then can you throw them up on your viewer. But what if the file transfer is incomplete, or the files get jumbled, or the de-coding doesn't work? Or more likely and most frustrating of all, your viewer won't read the files?

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           Moments later half a continent away, a man named Roger Hovermale sat before his monitor reading the cyber ad. A quick check showed both of Laurel Development's ads had spammed thousands of Usenet newsgroups and was being PointCast as well. A smile of an idea spread across his face. They wanted business? He'd give them business. He turned to the young boy standing obediently at his side. "Here we go. A new home for Black City. These people have attracted attention to themselves by spamming their ads all over so we'll just let them do a little business for us. They're sure to attract some potential customers." He reached out and ran his knuckles across the smooth skin of the boy's cheek.
     He exited the newsgroup and pinged laurel.com.
     laurel.com is alive, came the response.
     He telnetted to Laurel without luck. No access was offered, and he knew better than to sit there trying to guess passwords.
    He tried ftp laurel.com. No luck. then, ftp ftp.laurel.com.
     Welcome to Laurel Development.      Before doing anything, ftp README.DOC.
     The man typed ls -al and got a rather short list of files and directories.

-rw-r—r—   1 root   archive  2928   May  1     1999      README d—x—x—x    2 root   other    1024   Mar  3     1995      bin drwx———    2 crypto users    24     Aug  14    12:27     crypt dr-xr-xr-x 2 root   other    1024   Jun  12    12:12:58  dist d—x—x—x    2 root   other    1024   Mar  3     1995      etc d-wx-wx-wx 2 root   other    24     Jun  12    12:57     incoming drwxrwxrwx 2 root   other    1024   Aug  14    12:34     pub drwxr-xr-x 4 root   wheel    512    Apr  30    13:58     systems d—x—x—x    5 root   wheel    512    Apr  29    15:06     private

    Checking his history every so often to make sure he didn't repeat himself, he tried every file and every directory until he had worked his way several levels into Laurel's anonymous ftp directories. Eventually he found an obscure public subdirectory that gave him read, write and execute permissions, allowing him into the system, and he was able to set up his own directory. "Sloppy, sloppy, sloppy," he tisked as he began transferring files to it. Most notably, a tiny password sniffer called, "Zed.exe." Illegal programs like this were all over the nets. He downloaded off a phantom website and renamed it after his favorite bot.
     Still at his side, the boy waited for Black City to appear.

8.

Springtime made Jon Leese optimistic. The bright skies over campus usually renewed his hope. The sly burst of warm weather had him jumping around the classroom like the obsessed man he was, enticing debate from his students with the little anecdotes he'd picked up along the way, letting his enthusiasm rub off.
     But not this spring.
     This spring Jon Leese got fired. And it was all he could do to haul himself out of his chairman's office and down to meet his class. Well, not fired exactly. He just wasn't being rehired.
     "You’re a brave and principled man," his chairman had explained. "But this thing is beyond my control. It got out of hand and under the circumstances the dean felt your contract shouldn’t be renewed.”
     Leese had listened silently. He was beaten, and there was little he could do. The administration had decided to monitor and filter all campus listserv discussions to protect the rights of women and minorities against harassment and abuse. Leese led the faculty protest against it. The controversy had been enormous. The protest led to demonstrations and a short sit-in in the Chancellor’s office.
     “It’s not your teaching, “ his chairman offered. “You're the only adjunct faculty member in the history of the university ever to receive the President's Excellence in Teaching Award. And you've won it twice."
     “Three times.”
      His chairman spread his hands helplessly. "You're a model of what we stand for."
     Leese didn’t have tenure. No professor under forty-five did. Or ever would. Without tenure, he was a contract employee lacking even modest protection. He was screwed.
     “This is a conservative school. All ACC schools are,” the chairman told him — things he already knew. “The chancellor answers to the president. The president answers to the Board of Regents. They have to answer to the legislature in Annapolis, and it’s dominated by the Eastern Shore. Which is stodgy to say the least.”
     “That’s one way of putting it.”
     “They think we're all a bunch of — how did Pat Buchanan put it? — sandal-wearing, bongo-playing hippies. I can’t tell you how sorry I am to see you go.” The chairman spread his hands again, this time in sympathy. Leese pushed his chair back so hard as he stood to leave it banged against the corner table.
     At a break in his seminar, a new student slipped into a vacant seat along the hollow rectangle of tables. Leese didn't recognize her. She was not a member of the class and didn't seem to know anyone. She had an odd mixture of sadness and anxious determination about her.
     Her shoulder length blond hair was carefully combed, not simply pulled back and forgotten. Her style of dress wasn't the usual sloppy-whatever style students had been embracing in unending variations since the 60's. In those days, it had been straight long hair, accentuated in the 70's by blue jeans, adding a cool T-shirt in the 80's. And in the 90's a baseball hat. Leese found himself wishing she’d been sitting there all semester long.
     Leese pegged her for a returning student, probably scoping out his class for the fall. He also had her pegged for a real beauty with her slim, All-ACC features and bright periwinkle eyes. Too bad there would be no next semester.
     At the end of class, the mystery student lingered outside class. She waited until he was alone before approaching.
     "Dr. Leese," she began tensely, looking around as though expecting eavesdroppers. "I was wondering if I could talk to you for a minute. I’m not in your class.”
     “I know.”
     “I had you once, though, four years ago, for a little while. I had to drop out halfway through the semester.
     "Actually, you do look familiar. I hope I didn't drive you away." Leese smiled at her. He found himself hoping for some sort of encouraging response. Well, no wonder.
     "You were kind of strict. You yelled a lot when we didn’t do the reading.”
     Leese didn’t deny it. It was a sore spot with him. That and his temper.
     She ran a hand through her hair. “Could we please go somewhere more private?"
     Leese led her back into the classroom and pulled a chair for her. "Would you like me to write a letter to help get you back into school? I'd be happy to write one for you."
     "My sister and brother have been kidnapped," she blurted.
      Leese looked at her again. He’d heard lots of stories since he'd started teaching. But this copped the prize.
      "From Wheaton Plaza."
     Then it came to him. "You're Christine Bailey! They were your brother and sister. I read about it in the newspaper and it's on television every night. Even on Entertainment Tonight." He was surprised he hadn't recognized her right away. The father had run away leaving the mother to raise three children on her own. The mother died and the eldest daughter had become surrogate parent to the younger ones. They had no living relatives. She'd quit college and gone to work. Then the kids disappeared.
     "I should have introduced myself."
     "I should have recognized you." He wondered what in the world she was doing here. Maybe nothing more than hiding from reporters and their oily innuendoes.
     She picked up on a conversation already running in her mind. "If you don't solve these cases within the first week or so, they're usually never solved. But no one saw them. No one knows anything.”
     "What do the police tell you?"
     "I'm not sure they believe me."
     Leese let the last remark hang. He knew what the undercurrents were. No reason why the police wouldn't doubt her too. Something is bound to turn up, he wanted to reassure her — although he knew otherwise. He remembered the case of the Lyons sisters, who'd disappeared from the same shopping center in the 70's, before it became an enclosed mall. Nothing was ever heard from them again. Their father was a popular local DJ, who coped by continuing to go on the air every day. The outpouring of support had been moving. Unfortunately, times had changed since then. The public was restless and scornful. Christine Bailey had become a suspect.
     “Look it’s been only two days. Maybe you should let them do their job.”
     “Three days.” Christine let her eyes lock angrily on him. “I haven’t heard shit from them since the computer cop left two days ago. I can’t just sit here. I have to do what I can myself.”
      "There really wasn't a ransom note?"
     "Money? It couldn’t be about money. I can barely keep it together with the three of us. The police ruled that out right away."
     Leese was inclined to agree.
     "And I didn't have anything to do with their kidnapping! I would never do such a thing. I can't help what happened other places with other people. I just want Michael and Lindsay back."
      "Excuse me a second." He ran to the bathroom and grabbed some towels from the dispenser. "Here," he said, putting a thick brown stack of institutional towels in front of her. "If you want I could run up and ask the secretaries for some kleenex?"
     “Those reporters keep asking me if I’ve ever heard of Susan Smith. You know, she killed her kids? Or some guy named Stuart, who killed his pregnant wife. They think I’m a copy cat, like all those high school boys with their guns.” She said this as though accusing Leese of harboring similar thoughts. She shoved the neat stack away. “I don't want your sympathy. I’m not going to cry, either. I’ve cried enough. I want you to help me. Michael and Lindsay are still alive. I know they are."
     “You  want me to help you?”
     "Don't look at me like that. I'm not a goddamn criminal. You know about computers. And I'm not crazy either."
     Leese grabbed for his reality handles. That had really come from left field. "I didn't say you were."
     "I want you to help me."
     "Help you do what?" he managed to say. "What could I possibly have to offer."
     "In class you told us how computer networks can be used to get personal information about people. I think someone contacted Michael through his computer. It’s the only thing that makes sense to me. But the police officer only searched Michael's computer for evidence that he was downloading stolen software and things like that. Michael was online all the time. I kept Michael off the Web after all the violence started in the schools, but he did dial into these game bulletin boards. The officer said he doubted that mattered because we didn't belong to America Online or have a connection to the Internet. He searched through his files and didn't find anything. Only I'm not sure he knew what he was doing."
     "Christine, I'm afraid I'm not following you."
     She went on as though she hadn't heard. "I called the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children and they put the information about Michael and Lindsay on their missing children database. They also put it out over the Internet. I sent them pictures and gave them all the information they asked for. They do this for missing children all over the country. The police detectives didn't take me seriously."
     She went into her pocketbook and produced the Time Magazine Cyberporn issue, held it up before him as though it made her case for her.
     "I wouldn't pay any attention to that. The story’s bogus. Two professors down at Vanderbilt eviscerated —" Leese broke off. “Sorry.”
     "No, I mean there's all kinds of crime on the Internet.”
     "Look, Christine, there probably isn't a connection. People use computers all day long without getting into trouble or doing evil things. If there's fifty million users out there, you're looking at over ninety-nine point nine percent legitimate usage."
     "How many does that leave?"
     Leese realized she was desperate. He wasn't about to mislead her. “Not that much.”
     Christine jumped up abruptly. The conversation had come to an end. "I thought you would help me."
     "I wouldn't do you any good. It wouldn't be fair to you. And I don't want to give you false hopes. It's best to let the police handle this."
     “But they’re treating me like a suspect.”

9.

Late that night after checking his email, Leese logged off and went to bed. Straight away the day caught up with him and he fell asleep drooling on the book he'd been trying to finish.
     Christine Bailey had moved him with her story. And those poor kids — Christ, what a tragedy. It seemed like each passing day made the world less safe for its children. The closer we grew as a nation, the less we got along. All the venom of the Cold War was rattling around within our borders like so many pinballs. But there was nothing he could do about Michael and Lindsay Bailey.
     He awoke cursing. The Wall Between was a touching memoir of the early years of the civil rights struggle and didn't deserve such cavalier treatment.
     The pounding of the telephone saved the thirty year old pages from even more of his disrespect.
     "Dr. Leese?"
     "Yes?"
     "Were you asleep?"
     "No ... I was just thinking about something."
     "It's Christine Bailey."
     "Yes." Leese closed his eyes and tried to sort through the hope languishing at the other end of the line.
     "I'm sorry, Christine, I'm afraid there's nothing I can do for you. You need to find an expert ...     Hello?" Leese rasped into the stony silence. "Hello?"
     After a lengthy pause during which he could hear her stressed breathing, he said, "What time is it?"
     "It's eleven thirty."
     Leese looked at the clock above his head to confirm it. "I don't think it would serve any purpose. Like I told you."
     "That's okay."
     "No, it's not okay. It's reality. I don't want to mislead you. It wouldn't be right."
     "I'm sorry I bothered you."
     "Besides, I have to start —" She hung up. "— looking for a job."
     God, am I glad she didn't hear me say that. Job? In academia? These days? You might just as well stop kidding yourself and help her. After all, her insurmountable odds are better than yours.
     The phone rang again. "Alright, alright, what do you want me to do exactly?"
     She explained to him.
     "Okay, if that's what you want. I can also search around the nets to see if  I can locate any information that might be useful to you. But you shouldn't get your hopes up. The police probably told you more than I could ever find out."
     Leese dropped the phone onto its cradle. Tired and deeply troubled, he doused the light.
     The phone rang again.
     "You didn't say when you were coming over," Christine said.
     "Tomorrow, I suppose, after class."
     "I need one more tiny favor."
     "Well, why not?" Leese laughed. "What's one more tiny favor?"
     "I want you to come over right now. I live near Wheaton Plaza Mall. Off  University. It's easy to find. Where do you live? It wouldn't take long to get here."
     "Now? I don't know. It's pretty late. Maybe we better wait until tomorrow. I'm tired. I need to do that with a clear head. I had a rough day today."
     "So did Michael and Lindsay."
     "Tomorrow'd be much better."
     "I'll come for you."
     "Better wait."
     "It can't wait."
     "Tomorrow afternoon right after class. I promise."
     "You said in the morning."
     "Come on, Christine —"
     "Just forget it. I wouldn't want to bother you, since you're a big time professor and so busy and everything with your manuscript or whatever you used to bore us with in class all the time. Goodbye."
     "That was four years ago," he protested.
     But she slammed the phone down.

10.

Buried within Laurel Development's system, Black City came alive.

This is Black City
a PKill Mud

You are standing on the corner of 9th and E streets. The buildings around you are of Indian red brick alternating with concrete and Florida glass. Dim yellow light glowers behind pulled shades. A few windows hold air conditioners. The ground floor architecture is art deco. The shops are small and varied. The hum of their neon signs is the only sound competing with the gritty tap of your shoes on the sidewalk as you enter the city alone and unprotected.

The streets are empty except for blowing newspaper. No people are in sight. Several blocks away a bottle smashes and someone shouts in fear ...
No guests.
No help files.
No safe rooms.
6 ticks to logout. (You can run, you can hide, but you can't quit.)
You are on your own.
You have been warned.

Johnson enters Black City.
Down 9th street the shadows move and someone appears. It is a man. He raises a hand in greeting, waves. He lowers his hand, freezes for a moment, arms suspended at his sides. Then he begins to walk toward Johnson. He draws near.
The man says, "Hello, Johnson. My name is Sedar."
Johnson looks at Sedar.
He goes six feet even, swarthy, deep set black eyes, his hair jet black and spikie slick. He wears a military fatigue jacket with the sleeves cut off at the shoulders. His arms are muscular. Beneath the jacket the washboard ripples of his stomach shine with sweat. His pants are olive drab, army issue. The patch pockets bulge. A survival knife is strapped to one leg just above the top of the black jump boot.
Sedar says, "Welcome to Black City."
Sedar sneers.
Johnson says, "Thank you."
Sedar laughs.
Sedar pulls a TEC-9.
Johnson pulls a .45.
Sedar shoots Johnson five times in the chest.
R.I.P. Johnson.
Johnson disappears from Black City forever.
Sedar picks up Johnson's .45.

 ***

Remington enters Black City.

Down 9th street the shadows move and someone appears. It is a man. He raises a hand in greeting, waves. He lowers his hand, freezes for a moment, arms suspended at his sides. Then he begins to walk toward Remington. He draws near.

The man says, "Hello, Remington. My name is Sedar."

Remington looks at Sedar.

He goes six feet even, swarthy, deep set black eyes, his hair jet black and spikie slick. He wears a military fatigue jacket with the sleeves cut off at the shoulders. His arms are muscular. Beneath the jacket the washboard ripples of his stomach shine with sweat. His pants are olive drab. Army issue. The patch pockets bulge. A survival knife is strapped to one leg just above the top of the black jump boot.

Sedar says, "Welcome to Black City."

Sedar sneers.

Remington flees down 9th street, goes east on E street.

Sedar follows.

Remington looks at E street.

Tall buildings line the street on both sides. They are dark. A few lights illuminate rooms scattered like stars across a man-made firmament. The end of the street is cloaked in shadows.

Remington walks down E Street.

Sedar appears on the sidewalk in front if him.

Remington pulls his AK-47 and fires at Sedar. The shots miss.

Sedar laughs.

Sedar says, "You are arrogant."

Sedar shows Remington his .45.

Sedar says, "And now you must die."

Sedar kills Remington.

R.I.P. Remington.

Remington disappears from Black City forever.

Sedar picks up Remington's AK-47.

 ***

Revenge enters Black City.

Revenge is wearing an expensive running suit. Seahawk colors. His jacket is unzipped to his sternum. When he moves his upper body, the handle of his short sword is visible beside the EFF logo on his T-shirt.

Down 9th street the shadows move and someone appears. It is a man. He raises a hand in greeting, waves. He lowers his hand, freezes for a moment, arms suspended at his sides. Then he begins to walk toward Revenge. He draws near.

The man says, "Hello, Revenge. My name is Sedar."

Revenge looks at Sedar.

He goes six feet even, swarthy, deep set black eyes, his hair jet black and spikie slick. He wears a military fatigue jacket with the sleeves cut off at the shoulders. His arms are muscular. Beneath the jacket the washboard ripples of his stomach shine with sweat. His pants are olive drab, army issue. The patch pockets bulge. A survival knife is strapped to one leg just above the black jump boot.

Sedar says, "Welcome to Black City."

Sedar sneers.

Revenge flees.

Sedar shouts, "You are a coward."

Sedar follows.

Revenge runs down 9th, goes west on F St.

Revenge stops at the Cosmopolitan Insurance building. A sign over the door says Here's to Your Health. He tries the door. It is open. He enters the building, looking for health. He is standing at the end of a dark hall. A lone light comes on at the end of the hall, twenty-five feet away. Shadowed in the light is Sedar.

Revenge tries to throw up a force shield.

Two women round the corner and appear on F street. One, a brunette, is named Raven. The other, with coal black hair, is named Jet. They are arm in arm, chatting amiably between themselves. They enter the Cosmopolitan Insurance Building and approach Revenge.

Raven and Jet say, "Excuse us, Revenge, but you can't do that."

Revenge looks at Raven and Jet.

They are naked except for tiny thongs, dark high heels and matching chokers. They are not quite identical, but both are equally voluptuous despite their slender bodies. They walk with slinky hips, bearing the model's addled pout and the street urchin's gamine eyes.

Revenge tries to construct a force shield.

Raven and Jet say, "We are sorry, Revenge, but you can't do this in Black City. This MUD is not based on The Wheel of Time. There are no elves, dwarfs, magic or spells. This is a player kill MUD.

Revenge tries to teleport.

Raven and Jet say, "Gee, Revenge, you really don't get it, do you, baby? Maybe you should try a social mud like LambdaMoo or a mud like Age of Legends. Or read a Robert Jordan novel.

Revenge says, "Get what?"

Sedar says, "Life's a bitch. Black City's a killer."

Revenge rests.

Sedar laughs.

Raven says, "Revenge, honey, you can't rest."

Jet says, "You can't sleep either, Revenge, sweetie. You must fight or die."

Sedar approaches Revenge.

Revenge pulls his short sword.

Too late. Sedar produces his AK-47 and fires. The circular, red EFF logo on Revenge's chest expands into an aggressive amoeba.

Revenge is history. R.I.P Revenge.

Revenge disappears from Black City forever.

Sedar picks up Revenge's short sword.

Sedar sneers.

Sedar discards the short sword on Revenge's dead body.

Raven and Jet stand over Revenge's corpse.

Raven and Jet say, "What a shame. He was such a cute guy."

Raven and Jet walk down F Street arm in arm shaking their heads.

11.

“Why am I doing this?” Leese rubbed his eyes in despair. I should be worrying about a job. About my own future. Not this exercise in futility. Whatever the reason, remorse for the kids, curiosity about this grisly version of an Internet Treasure Hunt, his attraction to Christine Bailey, or just plain insomnia, he’d been at it ever since she woke him up.
     Yahoo had pointed him to the website for the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children. He clicked through to it. He also opened a telnet window to Maxwell Laboratory's Missing Children Data Base — as a cross reference. NCMEC's rainbow colored website also had new links to the Justice Information Center and the Office of Juvenile Justice and Delinquency Prevention.
     He searched by state and clicked on Maryland. The list was long: most of them parental abductions. Each citation offered gifs of the missing kids accompanied by a gif of the offending parent. The files containing information about Michael Lee Bailey and Lindsay Evans Bailey were near the top of the alphabetical list.
     He clicked on Lindsay's file. Beneath the name was the blue highlight see all principles of this crime, which provided a link to her brother. The grainy school-girl color photo rolled open on the screen, accompanied by data from her missing person report.

Date Missing: May 6, 1999             Race:  white Date of Birth: March 15, 1988         Hair:  Sandy blond Sex: female                           Eyes:  Blue Height: 4'- 6"                        WEIGHT:60 MISSING FROM: Wheaton, Maryland. Case: Non-Family Abduction L.E.A.: Montgomery County Police

DETAILS OF DISAPPEARANCE: Child was last seen eating pizza and arguing, possibly over money, with her brother Michael Lee Bailey (abducted at the same time) at the Food Court on the lower level of Wheaton Plaza Mall at about 7:00 PM on the date of the abduction. She was wearing a pink sweatshirt with the words Tickle me, Elmo embroidered on the front in baby blue. Turquoise jeans and white sneakers. Subject and her brother were possibly abducted from the parking lot of the shopping center at about 8:00 PM EDT. Any person having any information regarding the disappearance of Lindsay Evans Bailey (or Michael Lee Bailey), or knowledge of her possible whereabouts is asked to PLEASE contact the Montgomery County Police, Wheaton Substation, or the Missing Children ... HELP Center.

     The files for Michael contained similar information. His photo was grainy like his sister's. The essentials were the same. Their pictures and the accompanying information were floating around in the fluid world of infospace much as the children themselves had come adrift from their home. Reducing them to data might help bring about their rescue, but it made their separation all the harsher. He entered the URL as a bookmark so he could return quickly.
     He next clicked on NCMEC's list of related organizations. No links there, only phone numbers to such places as Child Find, Child Search, National Missing Children Center, Children of the Night, Find the Children, the Lost Child Network and dozens of others. Leese hadn't realized how extensive the network of child rescue organizations had become: a stark indication of the size of the problem.
     Using Veronica to locate gopher sites on crime, he found one offering fourteen pages of crime statistics, none of which mentioned kidnapping. He also came up with a site in Kansas offering files on the Lindbergh baby and other famous kidnappings.
     He thought of trying several online communities that charged a fee. Surely someone on the WELL or ECHO or MINDVOX would be knowledgable about abductions. There were also the freenets, Cleveland's Freenet and DC's Capaccess. But the best place would be Usenet where everything was openly and discussed shamelessly.
     Sure enough. The Bailey kids had their own newsgroup. Leese went there to sample the opinions. It was discouraging. The posters must have come straight from alt.true-crime.columbine because alt.conspiracy.bailey-kids was nastier than the supermarket tabs. Opinion was running heavily against Christine. A few police officers and a handful of attorneys had posted claims that the facts supported a copycat crime. Others disagreed, but were less inclined to believe Christine's story. Plenty of people were sympathetic. But the discussion always came back to her citation for drunken driving. People in Germany, Australia, and Hong Kong had enough interest in her case to make informed comments.
      Most agreed that the Bailey kids' days were numbered if they were still alive. The chances of finding them were slim — unless a family member was involved in the abduction.
     The attitudes left a sour taste in his mouth. Christine Bailey was getting raked over the coals. Leese posted a defense of her.
      On Usenet the rough and tumble of the old command line Internet had not quite given way to the civilizing Iron Horse of the World Wide Web. Leese’s few bland remarks supporting Christine's integrity had generated considerable comment.

Danm@hotmail.com:  It's clear from her hiding from the cameras she's guilty as sin. You're sticking up for her just because she's a babe.

Carlahall@intrepid.net: That's sexist. Women can be multiple murderers just like men.

Howdee@usd.gl.edu: Now you feminazis are defending the right of women to be mass murderers.

Prunesuck@frog.net: What were her reasons doing the crime? Did anyone check out her insurance policies? The bitch is probably getting rich off this.

BillP@marrs.com: It's not for money. It's freedom she wanted. Just like Susan Smith.

 Leese found this infuriating.

Jonboy@wam.umd.edu: Did you ever stop to think she's telling the truth? There is absolutely no evidence she did anything wrong. Even the cops said she was having a few beers at home with her friend and hadn't expected to be driving. That strikes me as highly responsible.

 Fifteen minutes later someone responded to that.

Bonnie@clark.com: How responsible is it to let two kids go to a large suburban shopping mall unchaperoned? At the very least she was *hoping* something might happen to them to relieve her burden.

Jonboy@wam.umd.edu: I think we shouldn't be so quick to assume guilt on her part.

 Leese posted this and continued his search of NCMEC and other websites, checking back to the newsgroup every so often. Later on, someone hit him with:

Mercury@freedom.org: It's just like you liberals to defend the Bailey Bitch. Just because she's a woman you think she's *oppressed* and should be let off because men are such bastards.

Rutt@pass.thru.net: At least liberals try to ferret out root causes rather than punishing the few unlucky enough to get caught. Which is a better use of taxpayer money?

     Leese read these, noted the posters and waited for something of merit. Eventually a poster claiming to be a retired cop provided some useful information.

Robocop@toad.net:  Juvenile abductions are the toughest to crack. They're also the most violent and destructive to the victims. The cops have no choice but to go along with Christine Bailey's story unless and until they have compelling information otherwise. The fact that they haven't informed her that she's a suspect — and don't be fooled, she is a suspect (Family members always are, just look at the JonBenet Ramsey case, or even OJ) — tells me they (1)either suspect her but don't have jack shit in the way of culpatory evidence. Or (2) they don't suspect her. Believe me, if they have anything on her at all, they'd haul her in and give her the old one, two. If and when we see the cops escorting her into the station or her showing up with her attorney in tow, *then* we can start being suspicious. Dicks are dicks and these dicks are no different from any others. The sooner they solve the case, the better they look, the more it   helps their careers. If you ask me, the kids are long gone, probably dead.

Bonnie@clark.com: Which tells me, she set them loose in the shopping center to *get* them out of her life. She abandoned them.

     An hour later another person added:

Peter23@sunrise.com: I think you're all full of shit. The kids ran away. I watched the Prime Time segment about them and let me tell you their lives were no bed of roses. I'd run away too. They probably peddling they own asses in the East Village by now.

Howdee@usd.gl.edu: You degenerate faggot. That's what you'd do with 'they asses'.

Raul14@prodigous.com: You don't know what degenerate is, smart guy.

Mercury@freedom.org: I say kill 'em all and let God sort it out. The phony <jonboy> who's defending the Bailey bitch is probably covering up for something himself. Maybe we ought to find out more about him.

     The topic was turning into yet another Usenet spench pit. Leese persisted, just in case. He posted a question to the retired cop.

Jonboy@wam.umd.edu: <robocop> Let's say for the sake of argument the kids were kidnapped. Who would do it, how and why?

Peter23@sunrise.com: The kids ran away in your dreams. I'm no faggot. You stupid honky cracker dipshit motherfucker. You cornpone-ass white folks are the ones doing all the index crimes.

Howdee@usd.gl.edu: Whites don't do the crimes. It's you fucking ghetto niggers that don't know how to act. Ain't no white shooters in the ghetto.

Peter23@sunrise.com: Check the statistics, cheese dick. That is if you can read.

     The retired cop returned to respond to Leese.

Robocop@toad.net: Actually, whites commit roughly eighty percent of  all index crimes and virtually all of what are called white collar crimes. OTOH, blacks *do* commit violent crime disproportionately. Which accounts for the reason why crime has a black face in this country. In real numbers, the face of violent crime is as white as Ivory Snow.

As for the who, what, how and why of kidnapping. Most kidnappings are done by a parent. Usually they're involved in a custody dispute. Damn few abductions are actual snatchings by a stranger. But if it did happen to the B-kids, their kidnapper is probably a white male working alone. He's probably in his mid-thirties to maybe 50. But he could be younger. We should hope he is young. The younger the kidnapper the less likely he is to kill them, or seriously harm them. Although he will probably molest one or both. He probably has a van or a vehicle that made it easy to grab the kids, like a pre-70's car. Like serial killers, they once used VW bugs. But the FBI says they've switched. As to the why — well, sad to say if it isn't money it's probably pedophilia. From the looks of it, Christine Bailey is just barely middle class, financially speaking. This wasn't for money, although money could be involved in the sale of the kids. It was either revenge (unlikely) or sex (likely).

     The cop was followed by a member of NAMBLA.

Freeman@peter.piper.org: How do you know the kids didn't choose to go with an adult for counseling and training?

Howdee23@usd.gl.edu: Go back top alt.sex.intergen, you fucking queer.

Freeman@peter.piper.org: We at NAMBLA consider this a civil rights issue.

Lhoffman@peach.st.au: What's Nambla?

Freeman@peter.piper.org: North American Man-Boy Love Association.

Howdee@usd.gl.edu: They're a bunch of weirdo creeps if you ask me.

Gaybruce@phipps.pd.net: You're just prejudiced against the gay, lesbian, bisexual, transsexual and transgendered individuals.

Howdee@use.gl.edu: Yeah, that may be true, I may be prejudiced. But tomorrow morning when I wake up I won't be a FUCKING FAGGOT!

Freeman@peter.piper.org: NAMBLA members are *not* homosexuals. Man- boy love involves consenting individuals.

Howdee@usd.gl.edu: All net.queers must die.

Sally2@aol.com: Hi, everybody, this is my very first post to UseNet! I'm a criminology major and my professor says that blacks commit most of the homicides.

     The postings were coming so fast the Newsgroup began to resemble realtime IRC chat. A few minutes later a response from the ex-cop appeared.

Robocop@toad.net: Correct. Most street crimes (called index crimes by someone posting above) are committed by whites.Murder is the one big exception. Blacks commit 51% of all known homicides. Which says a lot considering they're only 13.4% of the total pop.

Howdee@usd.gl.edu: Told you.
   Leese posted his thanks to the retired cop, asked him another question.

Jonboy@wam.umd.edu: Do you think they were stalked or do you think it was done at random?

     Someone broke in.

Fecalboy@mit.das.de: <jonboy> you just get your first computer, ya?

     By midnight he'd gotten scant information. In between posts to alt.conspiracy.bailey-kids, he read alt.sex.intergen, which disgusted him. With his feet propped on a box of old research notes, he slouched lower and lower in his chair as the hours passed until he was practically supine staring at the screen.
     Another poster claiming to be a cop pointed out that no witnesses had stepped forward. No discarded articles of clothing, a watch broken during a struggle, no blood stains, or hair had been found. Nothing in the dumpsters around the mall; no bodies in the woods near the neighborhood.
     The police confirmed that the “Bailey Twins,” as one news broadcast called them, spent a few hours cruising the mall. Investigators determined the order in which they progressed from store to store, what they'd eaten, and where they discarded their napkins. Then they vanished, as though they had stepped into an another dimension.

12.

Guilder enters Black City.
Down 9th street the shadows move and someone appears. It is a man. He raises a hand in greeting, waves. He lowers his hand, freezes for a moment, arms suspended at his sides. Then he begins to walk toward Guilder. He draws near.
The man says, "Hello, Guilder. My name is Sedar."
Guilder produces a MAC-10 machine pistol. Guilder empties the magazine into Sedar.
Sedar goes down.
Guilder says "Catch you later, Sedar."
The Mysterian enters Black City.
Down 9th street the shadows move and someone appears. It is a man. He raises a hand in greeting, waves. He lowers his hand, freezes for a moment, arms suspended at his sides. Then he begins to walk toward the Mysterian. He draws near.
The man says, "Hello, the Mysterian. My name is Sedar."
The Mysterian whispers to Sedar, "I'm friends with Mr. Arbogast."
Sedar disappears down 9th street.
The Mysterian says "Catch you later, Sedar."
The Mysterian and Guilder are standing alone.
Guilder looks at the Mysterian.
The Mysterian is wearing a dark great coat with the collar turned up by his ears. The lowered brim of his black fedora meets the collar. Only his dark eyes are visible. His hands are in his pockets.
Guilder raises his weapon.
The Mysterian removes a hand and raises a finger to discourage him.
The Mysterian says, "You are new in Black City. Take my advice. Follow 9th to G and play it as it lays."
Guilder says, "Who are you and why should I believe you?"
The Mysterian says, "You can challenge me if it pleases you. But you'll loose and your avatar will be invalid in Black City forever."
Guilder says, "I may be new but I'm not stupid. Thanks for the advice."
The Mysterian says, "Be careful. Maybe we'll meet again."
Guilder goes down 9th street and goes west on G.
Halfway down G Street Guilder stops.
Down the street the shadows move and a small form appears. It is a young boy. He freezes for a moment, bows his head timidly. Then he begins to walk toward Guilder.
Guilder looks at the boy.
The boy is wiry, aged 14. His hair is sandy blond. His denim jacket is worn in, as are his black and white Nikes. He wears a silver hoop from his right ear. The boy says, "Excuse me, could I talk to you for a second?"
Guilder says, "Sure kid."
The boy says, "Can you help me? I'm lost."
Guilder says, "What's your name?"
The boy  says, "My name is Zed."
At that moment a car careens around the corner toward them. It is a dark metallic green 1948 Hudson Hornet. The car screeches to a halt in front of the boy.
A man gets out and straightens his jacket. He is slightly over weight, well dressed in a blue serge suit, black tie on a mustard french cafe shirt. The knot is four-in-hand. His brown captoes are hand made from a single piece of leather. The soles are delicate and unblemished. The heels slim. He carries a pocket square of grey patterned with red flour-de-lis. He holds one hand in the pocket of his suit coat, JFK style. He approaches the boy. In one motion he grabs the boy by the arm, sweeps him into the car, slides in beside him.
The boys shouts, "Help me! Please help me!"
The man clamps his hand over the boy's mouth.
Guilder reaches for his weapon. He finds himself unable to speak or move.
The man smiles at him.
The man says. "Hello, Guilder. My name is Mr. Arbogast. Your goal is to GET ZED."
He drives away. At the corner of 9th and F, the Hornet brushes the curb and knocks off a hubcap. The car disappears. As it fades away the only sound you hear is the hubcap wobbling across 9th before finally flopping onto its side and settling.

 ***

Tasty enters Black City.

Tasty is wearing a brown fedora with a black band. He has on a shin length dark leather coat over bloused nomex paratroop pants and Doc Martens.

Down 9th street the shadows move and someone appears. It is a man. He raises a hand in greeting, waves. He lowers his hand, freezes for a moment, arms suspended at his sides. Then he begins to walk toward Tasty. He draws near.

The man says, "Hello, Tasty. My name is Sedar."

Sedar says, "Welcome to Black City."

Sedar sneers.

Tasty produces a Bullpup Combat Shotgun, raises it to his hip and puts three slugs into Sedar.

Sedar goes down.

Tasty begins whistling an old Norma Tenega tune. He sings the words, "Walking my dog named cat."  As he walks away he resumes whistling. His idle whistling echoes along the dingy walls of Black City.

Down the street the shadows move and a small form appears. It is a young boy. He freezes for a moment, bows his head timidly. Then he begins to walk toward Tasty.

The boy says, "Excuse me, could I talk to you for a second?"

Tasty says, "What do you want?"

The boy says, "Can you help me? I'm lost."

Tasty says, "What's your name?"

The boys says, "My name is Zed."

 ***

Blood Ax enters Black City.

When Sedar appears Blood Ax pulls a saber from a scabbard slung across his back and in one continuous move severs Sedar's throat all the way to the spinal column. Massive quantities of blood spurt from the shuddering wound. Sedar goes down, a TEC-9 lying in his twitching fingers.

Blood Ax picks up the TEC-9 and the .45. He leaves the AK.

Blood Ax says, "Did you think you were gonna get lucky twice?"

Blood Ax walks down 9th street, crosses F and continues toward G street.

Sedar stands up.

Head lolling like an attachable lid, gouting claret, Sedar follows Blood Ax.

A young boy appears and walks toward Blood Ax.

The boy says, "Excuse me, can I talk to you for a second?"

Blood Ax says, "Up yours, Zed, little twerp."

Blood Ax pulls his TEC-9 and kills Zed.

13.

Michael would watch Lindsay sleep during the early morning hours. It reassured him she was holding herself together and gave him hope that somehow he’d find a way to break out of this crazy place. They were prisoners but only sort of . Yet he had no idea were they were, or how to get away — or where to run once they did.
     "I have to go to the bathroom," she said in a clear voice.
     Michael was groggy and still kind of dry-mouthed from days of doing nothing. He sat up and looked across the small barren room at the window. Sometime not too long ago somebody had sprayed white paint over the glass. He could tell he wouldn't be able to raise it. He got up and tried anyway, maybe let some air in the stuffy room. The wooden floor creaked under him. The rusty sounds of the old boards made the house below sound hollow and unfurnished. He tried the window. It wouldn't budge. Flat head nails spaced several inches apart driven through the sash sealed it.
     Michael tried the door. It opened, just as it had every time he tried it. He parted it wide enough to look out. Stacks of old magazines and some newer boxes that he recognized as software containers rested on the steps as though the primary function of the staircase was a bookshelf.
     The man was sitting in an alcove reading a computer magazine. He smiled at Michael — started to speak, but Michael ducked back inside and closed the door. He returned to the bed and sat beside his sister. "That man's out there again.”
     A few minutes later the door opened and Ed walked in carrying a can of Juicy Juice and two paper cups. Michael glanced at the can and wanted to cry. Seeing something so familiar put a completely new twist to their mornings at home fighting at the breakfast table. "She has to go to the bathroom," he said to Ed.
     Ed handed him the juice and put the paper cups on the bed, "Okay," he said and signaled for Lindsay to follow him. "Come on."
     "I have to go too." Michael jumped off the bed still holding the can.
     "Okay," Ed said to him. "Just a sec."
     Lindsay left with Ed. Michael set the juice on the floor and followed them as far as the door. He listened to the fading footsteps and opened it again. The man was out there — looking straight at him.
     Michael closed the door, slowly this time, expecting the man to speak to him. He wondered if he should speak first. He opened the door again and glimpsed the man disappearing through another door at the opposite end of the hall.
     He slipped out and started down the steps. The hallway at the bottom led to several rooms, two of which were bedrooms. The shades in the two rooms were pulled down halfway just like Sis did. Cal Ripkin and Ken Griffey, Jr. posters hung side by side in one. Crumpled socks and a baseball glove lay on the floor by the unmade bed. The Darth Maul lamp on the night stand was on. Michael headed for the stairs just as a door opened and Lindsay came out of the bathroom.
     He grabbed her hand and started down. They met Ed on his way up. Michael turned to go back, but the man was standing behind them.
     Ed said warily, "I thought you had to go to the bathroom?"
     Michael looked around confused. "I don't have to anymore."
     "Go on, now," the man said to him, not at all angry. It was the first time he'd spoken since Wheaton Plaza.” I bet you really have to go. Wash your face, too. You have sleep in your eyes."
     "I wasn't sleeping.”
     "Why don't you wash up anyway? Then we've got one or two things to do before we eat breakfast." He checked his watch. "It's getting to be late in the day. For not sleeping you surely did stay quiet in your room for a long time."
     He patted Lindsay's head. "My name is Uncle Roger. Both of you are most welcome in our home." He slipped by them and continued down the steps.
     As soon as he was out of earshot, Ed said, "Wanna see my room?"
 

14.

Someone was knocking on the door.
     With frustration Leese logged off and jumped up to answer it. His place was pitch dark. Except for the lambent glow from his screen and the Tensor lamp beside it, he was buried in black. He'd been so caught up he hadn't noticed the time pass. He'd neglected to close the blinds or turn on the lights. Or to eat for that matter. Through the small diamond-shaped window in his door, he saw a head bobbing in the darkness. It was Christine.
     Elated, Leese yanked open the door. The two of them stood facing each other across the dim threshold. He flipped on the outside light. "Oh," he exclaimed, reflecting self-consciously on how glad he was to see her. All he had on were a pair of black running shorts and a faded green tee shirt.
     "I knocked at the apartment upstairs. They told me to come around back."
     "No ... uh, come on in. I didn't realize how late it was. Wait while I go dress. I've been sitting in there ever since I got home." Turning on a lamp, he pointed back toward the second bedroom he used as a study.
     He hurried into his bedroom and pulled a pair of jeans over his shorts, a shirt over his tee. He slipped barefoot into his loafers and rejoined Christine.
     She was cruising his bookshelves, like most people the first time they came to his place. His books offered the only items of interest in his otherwise drab basement apartment. Two thousand of them, examination copies sent by publishers eager for him to adopt them for class. (That would stop soon enough.) Dozens of science fiction paperbacks and Civil War novels; American history and biography; hardbacks, still pristine in their bright dust jackets; trade paperbacks, leafy with yellow Postit Notes indicating passages to which he wanted to return.
     "This is nice," she said.
     "It's cheap, and private. Most of the neighbors don't know I'm here. I've never been robbed. Burglars don't know about me either."
     He closed the blinds and flipped on the rest of the lights. "Can I get you something to drink? A coke maybe? Beer? I don't have any wine."
     "I've been trying to call you all night. Your line's been busy. I thought maybe your phone was broken or something."
     He led her to the sofa, took the easy chair across from her. Other than bookcases, his small living room afforded room enough for a coffee table, an end table by the sofa, and cinderblock shelves with his TV and CD player. Books were stacked on the floor along the walls where space didn't permit a bookcase, including in the kitchen. His apartment gave off the musty redolence of a used bookstore, not the oiled walnut refinement he'd once envisioned for himself.
     On bad days his home embarrassed him. On good days he could ignore it. "You sure you don't want anything? I'm sorry you had trouble getting through. I've been online ever since I got home."
     Leese went to the kitchen for a glass of water. His stomach was rumbling. He hadn't eaten since breakfast, and he was so tired he had a headache. Still, he felt oddly exhilarated. His attraction toward her was palpable. When he turned from the sink, she was right behind him searching his face from beneath two pale eyebrows. He couldn’t help but return the search. Maybe there was a twinkle in her eyes. Then again, maybe not.
     He took two beers from the refrigerator, poured one into a glass for her. She waited until he handed it to her before saying, "No thanks, I don't drink anymore."
     Leese paused and said, "Sorry." She set her glass on the counter. They returned to the living room.
     "I figured it would be easier to just come over and get you."
     Leese lowered his head and drank. He wanted to tell her about all the interesting things he'd come across, the discussions on Usenet, the sites he'd bookmarked. He took another long drink. The beer bounced around his empty stomach and made him dizzy.
     "This is about Michael's computer?” He polished off his beer, got up and plonked the empty bottle down on his bookcase.
     “I'll drive. I'll bring you back later."
     "Look, Christine, I've spent a lot of time exploring places I hoped might provide some help. The point is I found myself doing it because I got into it, I got hooked, not because I was coming up with anything. I got addicted to the hunt. Being online can do that to you. If you had asked me about baseball scores in the 1930's, I would have pounded just as much shit down that rat hole. What I'm trying to say is even though I spent time looking, it doesn't mean I'll ever come up with anything of use."
     Christine's annoyed expression made it clear she didn't care to listen.
     "Just a minute," he said.
     He hurried to his study to shut down his computer. To his surprise she followed him, her hands primly behind her back. "I liked your course. You were a good teacher."
     "Christine, I'm not the salvation you think I am. There's no way I could be."
     "Nobody said you were,” she said evenly. “But the police aren't telling me anything. I haven't even talked to them."

     The kitchen sink was full of dishes and three fat trash bags wallowed on the floor beside the refrigerator. Everything about the small house seemed to exude Christine's state of mind. Everything was in its place, but at the same time neglected, as though only dust moved through the rooms. All in contrast to the overly attentive way she'd been dressed when she showed up at Leese's class. Now it was cut-offs and a frayed Champion sweatshirt.
     She led him upstairs. Leese followed with his mouth a few greedy inches from the mound of brown Lo Mein they’d picked up on the way, shoveling it in. "I haven't been eating right," he explained.
     "Me neither."
     Michael's room was immaculate. Whatever half-hearted care the rest of the house suffered, his room was different. The sheets on the bed were fresh and turned down. Everything had been dusted, the small bookshelf, the nightstand and around the computer in the middle of his desk. Even under the bed and the floor of the closet had received Christine's attention. The same held true for Lindsay's room.
     None of the three bedrooms was much larger than a sewing room. There was barely room to move. The bed was close enough for Christine to sit on it and watch over Leese’s shoulder.
     Michael had a Compaq Presario Christine had purchased at Staples. “He wanted it so badly, and with the rebates it came to $700,” she explained. “I couldn’t say no. It even included a printer.” Great deal for the money: Pentium II, 64 megs of memory, 4 gig hard drive and a 56K modem. The 14” monitor was a bit quaint, Leese thought. A phone line ran under the bed like an extension cord out into the hall and into Christine's bedroom. Leese gobbled up the rest of his dinner while booting into Windows. He shelled out to the root directory and displayed it wide across the screen. Nothing subtle about this. Michael was obviously teaching himself. He'd created no subdirectories. Stuffed all his files into the root, labeling each new one c:\ shit, shit1, piss2; c:\ fuckoff, fuckoff1. Forty-seven files total. Many of them looking like stuff he'd downloaded — turning his c drive into a computerized version of his closet before his sister cleaned it. Among his files were a few executables.
     He had the games Leese expected. Flight Simulator with what looked like every flight scenario available. Duke Nuke 'em 3D and Quake II. Leese tapped the stack of diskettes sitting besides the mini tower. "Did the cops ask you about any of these?”
     She shook her head. "The officer didn't ask me much.”
     "Lots of disks. He must have been swapping files. With his friends, maybe?"
     "No, not his friends. He's sworn me to secrecy about his computer. He won't tell his friends. None of them use computers other than in school when they have to. Michael says all the boys he goes around with think only nerds use computers. They’re all jocks. So is Michael, except he likes computers. If any of his friends ever find out, he'll be really embarrassed. He keeps it a secret. It's something he does by himself. He's not going to be happy we're going through his things like this. He was shy about it."
     Leese returned to the root, his eyes scanning the list.  Nothing struck his eye. He checked the stack of floppies one at a time. Most held one or two files or were blank. "There's just nothing here. He was genuinely sorry. "I wish I could tell you differently."
     Remembering something, Christine got up and went down to the kitchen. She tore through a trash bag heedlessly leaving half its contents on the floor.
     "Here," she said, returning. "I found this one in Michael's closet when I was cleaning." She handed him an unlabeled 3.5 diskette. “I’d thrown it away.”
     He inserted it. The disk held an executable labeled Fame.exe.  He typed fame and pressed Enter. It was a bbs called Fame Network, unknown to Leese. He typed fame and got a dial tone. The modem dialed a POP number. Fame Net wasn't actually based locally. It meant only that it had contracted for a local number to attract members from the area. Not unusual. All the major boards had dozens of POPs. Some offered Internet access, most didn't.
     A few seconds later a graphical representation of a small village filled the screen. At one side a satellite dish began sending jagged beams across the rooftops up to a satellite link and down to an antenna in open country at the opposite side of the screen. Once the connection was established, the satellite dish and the village faded into a bucolic landscape.
     Fame Network had a graphical interface. No command line, just this multicolored countryside featuring a few buildings along an ambling country lane: a roadhouse, a general store, a meeting hall and a casino, all cartoonish and outsized. A billboard along the road meandering in from the bottom of the screen said:

  "Welcome to Chaparral County.   Adults only.   Newcomers should inquire at the general store."

Adults only. The words might as well have been bolded. He pointed the mouse to the general store, complete with wooden front porch and cracker barrel, and double clicked. The screen rolled over into a menu framed against shelves of dry goods and canned food.

 WELCOME TO CHAPARRAL COUNTY
 Guests welcome
 You must be eighteen or older

      Choose an activity from the main menu.
  1) The Chaparral Inn. A brief tutorial. Guests are encouraged to visit
     here first.
  2) The Coyote Lounge: Meet people. All members and guests can browse here.
  3) The Monte Casino: What's your game? Contests for prizes.
  4) Town Hall: Forums: Including the Beef Box and our very own Rush Room!!
  5) The Antler Bar: Meet your new friend in a private, unmoderated chat
     room.
  6) Snarly Darly's Flea Market: Software and hardware. Shareware Galore!!
  7) Making your own toon.
  8) Membership information.
  9) Member support and billing information.

 Enjoy

     "Did you know about this?" he asked Christine.
     She shook her head. "I just happened to see the diskette in the back of his closet. I figured he meant to throw it away."
     Leese registered anonymously, and as Guest31 began roaming Chaparral County, entering various places of interest simply by clicking on them — following, he wondered, in Michael's footsteps? Once he left the General Store, he went to Town Hall, where in various forums members held forth on anything from sexual harassment in the military, Horde Bands, the Columbine shooting, to Michael Jackson's sick baby. Just like a small scale version of Usenet, people were flaming each other without noticeable information exchange.
     Skipping Monte Casino, Leese visited the Coyote Lounge. It was a pickup bar. "I take it you didn't know about this either?"
     She shook her head. "Like I said, I found the disk when I was cleaning. Maybe he lost it?”
     "Maybe he was hiding it?"
     The screen became a checkerboard of rectangles, each containing the name of a person in the bar. By clicking on the name, they could see the toon, a user-created cartoon image, and find out the person's interests. Most of them were explicitly sexual. Duke had blond hair, moustache and a tank top over his brawny shoulders and was into group sex, chicks and bodybuilding. Janie23 liked men and women, movies and bowling alone.
     Leese clicked on Janie23 and when prompted typed, "Hi."
     Seconds later, Janie23 came back with "Hi, guest31. This your first time?"
     Leese wrote, "Yes."
     "Are you boy or girl?"    "Boy."
     Janie23 wrote, "Oh, I was hoping you were a girl. There's not enough of us around. Oh well, cruise around. It's great. You can't get into Antler Bar unless you're a full member, so don't ask. Otherwise, I might just invite you. ;-) Byeee.
     Leese wrote, "No, stay a minute. I've got so many questions."
     Janie23 wrote, "Sorry, I'm meeting two other people in the Antler for group sex. Just so I'll know you if you join, what's your name?"    "Sid."
     "Oooh, sounds vicious. ;-) Make your toon as soon as you join and come look me up. I'm here all the time. Later, Sid.”
     They returned to the lobby of the Coyote Lounge, and a menu for creating toons. When Leese clicked on it, he was locked out. Guests couldn't create toons.
     "Anyway," he said, "It looks like you get to draw yourself so that when people click on you like we did for Duke or Janie23, we get to see what you've constructed and what you're interested in."
      "Michael was exposed to group sex?"
     "Not at this level. He'd have to join. He probably didn't."
     "What if he did?"
     "I don't know. It's adults only. Let's check how you go about joining."
     They left the Coyote Lounge and clicked on membership information. Chaparral County required a name, address, daytime phone number, age, and credit card information. The membership instructions also made clear that all applicants would be contacted by telephone to confirm their age. The first month was free.
     Leese returned to the countryside.
     "Well, he could have applied. But unless he could pass for an adult, I don't see how he could have gotten an account. As long as he didn't have a credit card he couldn't have joined permanently."
     "What do they do in those private chat rooms?"
     "On an adult bulletin board, pretty much everything. Only the people in the private room can see what's being typed. They can keep other people out if they want."
     " How can they have sex??"
     "They write it," Leese said. "It's called cybersex. It's done in real time. You type a sexual move and the person you're talking to responds. Dick kisses Jane. Jane removes her blouse, and so on."
     Leese logged off. "There's no way to be sure your brother ever logged onto Chaparral County or visited the Coyote Lounge."
     "But if Michael joined for a month, then he would have had a toon and could have gone in there."
     "The police should probably call them and ask if Michael tried to join. Some bulletin boards keep their membership lists confidential. It might take a court order. I doubt Michael could have passed for an adult. Even supposing he could, would he have stolen your credit card number?"
     "Never. Besides, this would have shown up in the bill. That's how I know he isn't on AOL anymore."
     “Trouble is, there are ways around that.”