by Lisa Gardner
“Maybe.”
“You never asked your parents?”
“Don’t know where they are to ask the question,” I said stiffly.
That seemed to draw him up short. He nodded again, but continued to study me. We were dancing. Around and around. Except I couldn’t figure out: Were we partners on a dance floor, or opponents in a boxing ring?
“Tried Googling you,” he said now.
“What’d you find?”
“There are a lot of Charlene Grants in the world.”
“Maybe that’s why I have two middle names. To distinguish.”
“You don’t have two middle names.”
“Yes I do.”
“Not according to your birth certificate.”
“You looked up my birth certificate?”
“Well, when Googling doesn’t work, what else is a guy gonna do?”
I didn’t know what to say anymore. I blinked at him. Tulip whined softly, sitting between us.
“What do you want?” I asked now. The backs of my legs were still pressed against the desk. Abruptly, that bothered me. I forced myself to take a step forward. Stop retreating. Own the room. Seize control of the situation.
“E-mail addy,” Officer Mackereth said.
“Don’t have one.”
“Facebook page? Twitter account? MySpace?”
“Don’t own a computer.”
“Smartphone?”
“Don’t own a computer, a smartphone, an iPad, an iPod, an e-reader, or even a DVD player.”
“Off the grid,” Officer Mackereth observed.
“Frugal. If I want to go online, I visit the library. I can always check out a good book while I’m there.”
“What are you doing on the twenty-first?” he asked abruptly.
“What?”
“The twenty-first, Saturday morning. What are you doing?”
“Why?” My voice came out too high-pitched. At my sides, my hands were clenched. I don’t know if he noticed, but Tulip slunk over to me, pressing against my legs.
“You refused coffee. Turned down dinner. That leaves brunch.”
“Brunch?”
“Saturday, the twenty-first. One P.M. Café Fleuri at the Langham Hotel. All you can eat chocolate buffet. Best offer I got. What do you say?”
I…I didn’t know what to say. Then I didn’t have to. Because next to me, the monitor lit up, my headset started to chime, and I was literally saved by the bell.
I grabbed my headset, turned toward the ANI ALI screen.
“Can’t run from me forever,” Tom murmured behind me.
I whipped around abruptly, but he was already gone, flipping off the light switch and returning me to the gloom.
Chapter 16
FIVE THIRTY A.M. Jesse snuck out of bed. He used his best quiet feet, padding down the heavily shadowed hallway toward the kitchen table. The door to his mother’s bedroom was still closed. He paused, just in case, listening intently. No sounds from the other side. His mother slept. Good.
Jesse continued on to his target: the ancient laptop. It beckoned from the kitchen table. Battered case folded shut and topped by a waiting Home Run/Zombie Bear.
Jesse’s mother liked rules. One of them was no TV or computer time on school mornings. Monday through Friday they both got up at 6:30 A.M. They ate breakfast together, then Jesse’s mom packed his lunch while he got dressed, brushed his teeth, and combed his hair. By 7:20, he was thundering down the apartment stairs to the curb below, where he caught the 7:30 bus.
That was the drill. Jesse went to school, his mom went to work.
Monday through Friday, Jesse followed the schedule, played by the rules. It made his mom happy, and Jesse liked it when his mom was happy. She smiled more, ruffled his hair, bought him treats she didn’t really approve of, such as Twinkies. It was just the two of them, Jenny and Jesse against the world, she would tell him. They would snuggle together on the sofa each night, where she would read him Goosebumps novels and he would rest his head against her chest like he was still a little kid and it was all right, because it was just the two of them, Jesse and Jennifer against the world.
Jesse loved his mother.
Jesse couldn’t sleep last night. He couldn’t stop thinking about Helmet Hippo and their afternoon together on AthleteAnimalz.com. Jesse had always enjoyed the website. It was something to do. But yesterday … Yesterday had been way cool. He’d not only had something fun to do, he’d had someone fun to do it with. A real friend who believed in Jesse, thought Jesse could do anything. An older kid who liked him.
Jesse wanted to go back online.
Even though it was a school morning.
He had a plan. First up, he’d set his watch alarm for one hour before his mother woke up. Sun wasn’t even up yet, so his room had been cold and dark as he’d crawled quietly out of bed. He’d paused long enough for his fleecy bathrobe. Then, the soft glow of the hallway night-light had beckoned him out of his dark room, into the apartment, where he followed its glow toward the family room. The sound of his footsteps were dampened by his footy PJs until at last, he arrived, on a school morning, in front of the computer. He chewed his lower lip. Eyed Zombie/Home Run Bear.
Gave in to the impulse.
Quickly, he shoved aside Zombie Bear, popped open the top, hit the power button, and heard the computer whine wearily to life.
The old computer took a while to load. So, while it woke up, Jesse moved on to the next phase of his plan. He was going to feed himself breakfast. Then, he was going to fix his own lunch. Then, he was going to pack his own backpack.
That way, when his mother got up, and inevitably discovered him on the computer, she couldn’t get too mad. He’d eaten breakfast, right? He was all ready for school, right? He’d even helped her by fixing his own lunch, right?
Sometimes, rules could be bent a little. It was just a matter of proper mom management.
Jesse tiptoed into the tiny kitchenette. He cracked open the refrigerator, using its glow to guide him as he carefully climbed onto the kitchen counter, eased down a bowl, found the Cheerios, poured the milk. Breakfast took about five minutes. He resisted the urge to check on the computer, as the kitchen table was next to his mother’s bedroom and activity in there was more likely to wake her. Better to stay tucked away in the kitchen, getting through morning chores.
Next up, lunch. He was a bologna man. Liked it with a little mayo and one slice of Kraft American cheese. He preferred white bread, but his mother only bought wheat. White is like eating a piece of sugar, she told him, which only made him like white bread more.
Jesse got out two pieces of wheat bread. Struggled with the squeeze bottle of mayonnaise. He had to use two hands. First nothing came out, then half the bottle exploded out in a giant white blob. He did his best to smooth it with a knife, but when he finally added the cheese and bologna and put the two slices together, mayo oozed everywhere.
A wet, messy sandwich. The price to be paid for morning AthleteAnimalz. Jesse felt philosophical as he stuffed the gooey mess into a sandwich Baggie and plopped it into his lunch box. He added an apple and a snack-sized bag of pretzels. School would provide a carton of milk.
He zippered up his Transformers lunch box, loaded it into his backpack, and rocked back on his heels, feeling pretty good. He’d done it. Breakfast and lunch, all by 6 A.M. Not that hard, either.
Except then he glanced at his hands, still covered in greasy mayo. And the kitchen counter, which was dotted with even more mayo, pieces of cereal, and bits of bread. Better clean up or his mother would freak.
Back on the counter. Running the water thinly, doing the best he could with the sponge, smearing around the mayo, chasing the bread crumbs. Another quick rinse, and he hopped down, careful to land on soft feet before taking a deep breath, closing up the refrigerator, and finally creeping out of the tiny kitchen. His hands were maybe a little greasy. But not too bad, he thought. Close enough.
Laptop. Open. No longer wheezing. Waiting for
him.
Jesse sidled up to it. He could already feel his heart race with anticipation. One last second, straining his ears for any sound from his mother’s room.…Silence.
Jesse typed in www.AthleteAnimalz.com and hit return.
* * *
HE HAD MAIL. And not from Helmet Hippo, which surprised him. He was still figuring out the rules for mailing another player. From what he could tell, “talking” to another animal during a game was subject to a lot of restrictions; each animal could only pick from the Go Team Go list of expressions to appear in the conversation bubble over its head. But e-mailing…that seemed to be fair game. Helmet Hippo could write anything, a real letter to Jesse. And Jesse could write a real letter back, which he thought was pretty cool. Like a big kid talking to a big kid. This latest e-mail, however, wasn’t from Helmet Hippo. This morning someone else had found him: Pink Poodle.
Curious, Jesse opened the letter:
Nice playing! You’re getting really good, especially at baseball. That’s my favorite game. Is it your favorite, too?
I play every day. I use the computers in the Boston Public Library after school. I see you are a Red Sox fan. Does that mean you live in Boston, too?
You should come some time. We can play together. I’ll show you some tricks for hitting the curveball. No big.
If you feel like hanging out, come to the library. I’m easy to find: look for the Pink Poodle. Whatever.
C U on-line.
Pinky Poo
Jesse frowned. He read the letter again, then again. Some words he struggled with, but he thought he got it. Pink Poodle liked him. Pink Poodle lived in Boston. Pink Poodle could show him some tips if he came to the Boston Public Library.
Jesse sat down in front of the computer. His heart was beating hard again, though he wasn’t sure why. He rubbed his palms unconsciously on the worn legs of his pajamas. He studied the bright, cheerful e-mail again.
Stranger danger. His mother talked about that. Both in real life and on computers. If someone sent him an instant message, he was never to reply, but fetch his mother immediately. If someone sent him an attached file, he was never to open it. It might have a virus, which would destroy their already sickly computer. Worse, it might be something bad, not suitable for kids.
Scary? he’d asked his mom, because while he’d never admit this to his fellow second graders, Jesse didn’t like scary movies. They gave him nightmares.
Something like that, his mother had said.
So he wasn’t to “talk” to strangers online, or open attached files. But Helmet Hippo and Pink Poodle weren’t strangers. They were other kids on AthleteAnimalz. And they weren’t sending him scary videos. They were teaching him skills so he could win more points.
Jesse liked winning points. He could use more skills.
And he was allowed to go to the Boston Public Library, he reminded himself. He and his mother went often, a couple times a month. Libraries were good. His mother approved of them. If he asked to go after school, she’d let him. You were never to get into a stranger’s car, or follow a stranger into his house. That he understood. But meeting another kid at the public library…that didn’t sound so bad.
Jesse read the note again.
Pinky Poo. A girl. But a girl who was really good at baseball. Best hitter Jesse had seen. Even better than Helmet Hippo. And wouldn’t Helmet Hippo like that, when Jesse logged on later and could rack up even more points for his team.…
Jesse made up his mind. Using his index finger, he began to laboriously type out his response, using Pink Poodle’s letter to help him with spelling.
Baseball is my favorite game, too. I will come. After school. No big, he added, because he liked the way it sounded. Older, confident. Like maybe a sixth grader.
He sat back. Reviewed his reply one last time.
Public place, he assured himself. The library.
Besides, stranger danger applied to creepy men. Pink Poodle was a girl. Jesse wasn’t afraid of a girl.
Jesse nodded to himself. He touched his carefully crafted e-mail on the computer screen. Admired his own typing, proper use of punctuation. Just like a sixth grader, he decided.
Jesse hit send.
While on the other side of the thin apartment wall, his mother’s morning alarm chimed to life.
Chapter 17
HELLO. My name is Abigail.
Have we met yet?
Don’t worry. We will.
Hello. My name is Abigail.
Chapter 18
D.D. WENT TO THE DARK SIDE. And fell in love all over again.
Coffee. Hot. Rich. Black. She cradled her cup tenderly, feeling the warmth spread from the beverage to the palm of her hands to the pulse points at her wrists. That first slow inhale. Savoring. Taking her time. Welcoming a long lost friend.
“Oh for fuck’s sake, just drink it!” Phil ordered from across the conference table.
She eyed him mildly. Detective O sat next to him, Neil on the other side. This morning, O was wearing a formfitting deep red sweater, which made her appear less city detective and more Victoria’s Secret model. Neil, on the other hand, looked like he’d spent the night in the morgue, as a corpse.
“You almost never swear,” D.D. said to Phil, still clutching her mug, feeling the aromatic steam waft across her senses.
“You almost never look like a Folgers commercial. O and I have been here all night. Neil’s been here half the night. We want to debrief, then get some rest.”
That made her feel bad. D.D. eyed her exhausted case team, their over-fluoresced faces, deeply bruised eyes. She didn’t look any better than they did, having pulled an all-nighter herself. Only her taskmaster was smaller and more persistent.
“All right,” she agreed with Phil. “Let’s get this party started. You go first.”
At which point, she took the first sip. Immediately, her heart quickened. She both tasted and heard the caffeine hit her bloodstream, a powerful jolt that made her want to sigh and inhale and start the whole process all over again. So she did.
“For the love of God!” Phil exclaimed.
“Want a cup?”
“Yes!”
Phil stormed out of the room in search of fresh java. O shook her head. Neil folded both arms on the table and collapsed his head into them.
Just another day in paradise, D.D. thought, and sipped her wonderful, lovely, how-had-she-ever-lived-without-it cup of joe.
Phil returned with his own cup, and the party finally got started.
“We found a chat room,” O announced.
“We found a transcript of a chat room,” Phil interjected, eyeing his computer partner. “As for the chat room itself, it’s probably encrypted or encoded eight ways to Sunday.”
“Have to be invited to join,” O added.
“Worldwide membership from what we can tell—makes it very difficult to trace the servers involved,” Phil said.
“But it’s definitely a training site,” O emphasized.
“Training for what?” D.D. asked with a frown, cradling her coffee more defensively now. Geek in stereo was no easier to follow than geek in mono.
“For pedophiles,” O clarified. “You know, a place to hang out, compare notes, and feel accepted for your perversions.”
D.D. set down her coffee. “What?”
“We’ve been noticing this trend for the past few years,” O announced dismissively, her findings obviously old news to her, if not to them. “More and more crimes against children are being committed by younger and younger perpetrators. We figured it had something to do with the use of chat rooms within the sex offender community and this transcript proves it.”
Neil raised his head from his arms. He stared at the dark-haired sex crimes detective. “Start over,” he said. “Speak slowly.”
O rolled her eyes, but complied. “Okay. Society has norms. Those norms include not regarding children as sex objects. Of course, a pedophile views children in exactly that manner—a deviant sexual
fantasy. Generally speaking, a child molester will spend at least a few years fighting that fantasy. Recognizing it as inappropriate and trying to resist the urge. Maybe some do, but obviously others don’t, eventually acting out on that impulse and beginning a life of crime.
“Given this cycle, most sex predators are mid-twenties to mid-thirties when they offend. As criminals go, that’s a relatively mature perpetrator pool. There are some exceptions—teenage babysitters targeting their young charges, but that’s more an example of impulse meeting opportunity. The attacks are rarely planned or sophisticated in nature. So again, the ‘classic’ profile of a pedophile is an older male. Except lately, we’re seeing a spike in crimes that are nearly children against children—relatively young pedophiles engaging in the kind of sophisticated targeting and grooming behavior that until now, we’ve always associated with older predators.”
“Good God,” Neil groaned. D.D. seconded that vote.
“Our best guess,” O continued, “validated by this transcript, is that these teenagers aren’t fighting their deviant sexual fantasies. Instead, they’re logging on to the Internet, where they’re finding validation for their impulses and even tips for how to engage in these inappropriate acts. Basically, hard-core pedophiles are using Internet chat rooms to train the next generation of child molesters, which is accelerating the predator cycle.”
“I’m never using my computer again,” D.D. said.
“Please,” Phil said tiredly. “We spent all night reading the logs from these kinds of chat rooms. Now I have to go home and bleach my eyeballs.”
“You keep saying transcripts,” D.D. said. “What does that mean?”
“Victim number two,” Phil supplied, “Stephen Laurent, downloaded some of the chat room logs onto his hard drive. Including one that details how to use a puppy to approach young children. A second chat describes how to create a following on various kids’ websites in order to attract potential victims. It’s very detailed, including tips for how to determine which ‘e-victims’ live in close enough geographic proximity to become ‘physical victims.’”