Mortal Fear

  Her explanation for these seemingly contradictory lifestyles is that she has a sister who is confined to a wheelchair for life by spinal injuries received in a traffic accident. Eleanor feels her sacred duty is to take care of this sister as her parents would have, were they still alive. I cannot fault her reasoning.

  All that said, let me confess the obvious: Eleanor Rigby is my online lover. My digital squeeze. What do I know about her other than what I’ve already revealed? She is thirty years old. She has never had plastic surgery. She describes her face not as plain but as “real”—more Audrey Hepburn than Michelle Pfeiffer, but not as ethereal as Audrey. She has a wit like a razor and she is uniquely gifted at describing sex in words.

  She is also generous. Eleanor knows that two-way conversations are fine for foreplay but that typing requires the use of at least one hand. Thus, when she is getting me off, she is quite willing to type endless lines of charged erotica until the moment that I signal her with a relieved and heartfelt banality such as: Wow.

  I return the favor in a different way.

  Eleanor does not usually stimulate herself while online. She prefers that I compose lengthy e-mail messages that she can print out and peruse free from any constraints on time or dexterity. I’m sure the proximity of her disabled sister has something to do with this. This is also why Eleanor is registered to EROS on a blind-draft account. She apparently reads many of my printed messages while locked in the bath.

  Tonight I query her the moment I log on. Eleanor frequently lurks in silence, eavesdropping on the conversations of others (searching for material for her novels, she tells me) and so is often present when I send out my usual query. I type:HARPER> Father MacKenzie calling.

  Eleanor is the only EROS client with whom I use my real name. There is a delay of thirty seconds or so, then: ELEANOR RIGBY> Hello, Harper dear. What are you in the mood for?

  HARPER> I need to talk to you.

  ELEANOR RIGBY> Talk as in _talk_?

  (The symbol stands for “grin.” The lines preceding and following a word indicate emphasis, in place of italics.)

  HARPER> Yes, just talk. Meet me in Room 64.

  ELEANOR RIGBY> Hmm. I guess the little woman talked you into it this week, eh?

  Yes, like a corporeal mistress, Eleanor knows my marital situation. Some of it, anyway. With a twinge of guilt I mouse into the private room designated Room 64 and type:HARPER> No present erection, thank you.

  ELEANOR RIGBY> Too bad. Should I sharpen up my pencil?

  HARPER> No. This is serious.

  ELEANOR RIGBY> How ominous. Is this a Dear John letter?

  HARPER> No.

  ELEANOR RIGBY> Well, then?

  HARPER> You must keep what I am about to tell you absolutely between us.

  ELEANOR RIGBY> My lips are sealed. And if you make a horrid male pun I shall disconnect.

  HARPER> You’re in danger, Eleanor.

  She doesn’t respond for several beats.

  ELEANOR RIGBY> What kind of danger?

  HARPER> Physical danger. There’s been

  I am typing, but suddenly nothing is going through to Eleanor. I stare at the screen in puzzlement until this message appears in large block letters:SHAME ON YOU, SNITCH

  My puzzlement turns to fury. This message can only be from Miles, and its sudden insertion into my private chat with Eleanor tells me something that makes my blood boil. Miles has the ability to read my private communications whenever he pleases. I blink as further characters appear.

  SORRY TO INTRUDE

  BUT WE CAN’T HAVE YOU

  SCARING THE PAYING CUSTOMERS

  LOOSE CANNON AND ALL THAT

  PLEASE FIND SOME OTHER WAY TO GET

  ELEANOR

  OFF THE NET

  IF YOU MUST

  CIAO

  The next words that appear are:ELEANOR RIGBY> What just happened?

  She must not have seen Miles’s message. I type:HARPER> A glitch in my modem.

  What now? Do I ignore Miles? Go ahead and warn Eleanor and a few others? My anger says yes. But what will be the result? A network-wide panic, probably. Eleanor and I are very close, but she has a writer’s imagination and love of drama. Could she really keep secret the possibility that there is a murderer stalking the female clients of EROS?

  ELEANOR RIGBY> You said I was in danger. Physical danger. What were you talking about?

  HARPER> You misunderstood. That was the start of a fantasy file I wrote for you this morning. It was sort of a Mata Hari thing, spies and sex, with you in the lead role.

  ELEANOR RIGBY> Well if that’s the case, send it through!

  HARPER> My modem’s on the blink. Pretty embarrassing for the sysop, isn’t it? I’ll have it fixed by tomorrow. I’ll put the file through then. Sorry to interrupt you for nothing.

  ELEANOR RIGBY> Wait, Harper. I hate to confess this, but knowing you don’t need me right now makes me need you. Could you possibly conjure up some stimulating prose for a lonely 30-year-old spinster with an itch?

  HARPER> You mean real-time?

  ELEANOR RIGBY> Yes.

  HARPER> Unusual for you. How stimulating?

  ELEANOR RIGBY> My sister is at a film with her one friend. I have the house all to my selfish self. Please make it hot enough for an online conclusion; i.e. once we get to the good stuff, please don’t stop until I signal with a shriek of ecstasy.

  I pause, trying to rein in my thoughts. I honestly don’t feel like this tonight. Especially after Drewe and I had our actual-reality interlude in the Explorer. But Eleanor has done me this favor many nights.

  HARPER> Romantic or dangerous?

  ELEANOR RIGBY> Romantic _and_ dangerous.

  HARPER> All right. We are finally meeting face to face. Seeing each other for the first time.

  ELEANOR RIGBY> Where?

  HARPER> The Peabody Hotel. Memphis, Tennessee. We’re in the lobby, a huge open room with a bar and a grand piano and ducks and tons of atmosphere.

  ELEANOR RIGBY> _Ducks_?

  HARPER> Symbol of the hotel. Trust me.

  ELEANOR RIGBY> Oh, I do.

  HARPER> I’m not as handsome as you have imagined me, but you aren’t disappointed. I have a certain power over you that you didn’t expect. You want to please me, and this makes you a little angry. You understand?

  ELEANOR RIGBY> Perfectly. What do you think of me?

  HARPER> Mercy fuck.

  ELEANOR RIGBY> Harper!

  HARPER> Sorry. ;) You’re more beautiful than I imagined. Your body-double’s body was a given, but your symmetry still surprises me. Petite, and your face more feminine than I could envision.

  ELEANOR RIGBY> Feminine how?

  HARPER> The blend of curve and angle. Softs and hards. Cheek and jaw. Defined brows, nebulous eyes. Dusk is falling on the Memphis streets, over the river. Yellow lamps come up inside and light you like a painter’s hand.

  ELEANOR RIGBY> What am I wearing?

  HARPER> White linen. Appropriate for a deflowering.

  ELEANOR RIGBY> You give me far too much credit.

  HARPER> I intend to boldly go where no man has gone before.

  ELEANOR RIGBY> Dare I ask?

  HARPER> No.

  ELEANOR RIGBY> Yummy.

  HARPER> I see shadows of your nipples through the linen. They look more brown than pink.

  ELEANOR RIGBY> How do you like my breasts?

  HARPER> Champagne-glass size, exquisitely shaped.

  ELEANOR RIGBY> What do we talk about?

  HARPER> Inanities.

  ELEANOR RIGBY> How long do we talk?

  HARPER> Not very. We’ve said all we have to say on EROS, haven’t we?

  ELEANOR RIGBY> Do we diddle under the table? Victorian teasing?

  HARPER> No. I sign the suite number on the bill and lead you by the hand across the high-ceilinged lobby to the bank of elevators. In the elevator we kiss for the first time.

  ELEANOR RIGBY> A long kiss?

  HARPER> When the door
opens, we’re still kissing. An older couple is staring at us like we are crazy.

  ELEANOR RIGBY> I’m already wet.

  HARPER> Not yet.

  ELEANOR RIGBY> I’m speaking in the present tense, dear. Off-line.

  HARPER> Fine, but we’re not going to rush. When the stupid credit card key finally works, I pull you inside the room but do not turn on the light.

  ELEANOR RIGBY> We haven’t been in the suite until now?

  HARPER> No. Before you can say anything, I close the door and slip past you in the darkness, pulling my shoes off as I walk. You call out to me, but I don’t answer. I hear you bang your foot into a chair. You curse. We’re going to play a game, I say. What kind of game? you ask.

  I stop typing for a few moments, letting the images flow freely in my head.

  HARPER> A hunting game, I reply. I’m going to hunt you in the dark suite. And the first rule is: we can’t talk to each other. Even when I find you, we cannot speak. And there’s another catch. I should have mentioned it earlier, but . . . well . . . there’s another person in the room.

  What? you ask nervously. Who?

  Don’t be frightened. He—or she—is standing silently—or sitting—somewhere in the room, but only watching. How, you ask? Simple. He’s wearing a night-vision headset I brought to the hotel during the afternoon. You giggle nervously, but I’m not joking. This person can see us right now and will watch us when I finally find you.

  You don’t believe me? Let down the top of your dress.

  A few seconds later, a whispered voice from across the room says, Beautiful.

  I can almost feel your heart stutter from the shock. Stay calm, I say reassuringly. This person is merely an observer.

  All right, you stammer, far from your normally confident self. But who is it? you wonder. Who _is_ it?

  Maybe it’s your sister, I say.

  You bastard, you hiss.

  Maybe it’s a bellboy I paid a hundred bucks to come upstairs and watch a beautiful woman having sex. Do you want to go on? I ask.

  Yes, you say softly.

  Even if you are seen?

  I can do anything in the dark, you say. Even if the whole city is watching.

  And so we begin the hunt. How do you feel now?

  ELEANOR RIGBY> >toi bbusy otype
  HARPER> Please do your best to evade me, I tell you. But you should know that I’ll be getting a bit of direction from our guest. He/she will whisper “warmer” or “colder” every so often. You do not answer.

  And so I begin the hunt.

  The first thing I hear is silence. Blood beating in my ears. The suite is large. I move deeper into the bedroom to give you room to move. Then I wait motionless for two minutes. I sense you becoming more tense with each passing second. You cannot hear me. Very softly I remove my clothes. I feel the air along my body, especially on the places usually covered. I go down on all fours, allowing my body to cover more floor space, increasing my odds of touching you if you try to slip past me. I move slowly at first.

  Colder, whispers our guest.

  I change direction. Where _are_ you? I ask in a singsong voice.

  Warmer, says our guest.

  Instinct tells me my back is a few feet from the far corner of the room. You are not behind me. Slowly and soundlessly I work my way across the carpet, pausing occasionally to listen and to try to feel any movement of air against my skin.

  Nothing.

  There’s not much floor space left to cover. Could you have climbed onto one of the beds? No. I’d have heard you.

  Wait. A rustle of cloth ahead of me. A few feet away.

  Is she naked? I ask.

  No reply.

  I freeze. There is water running in the bathroom, the sound like a distant cataract in the silence. I rise and move quickly toward the sound—too quickly—and bash my head against the door frame. I’m in the bathroom now, but you aren’t. Steam coats my face and body like jungle humidity. When I reach to shut off the tap, I scald my hand. Yet even as I curse, I realize I smell you. In the blackness. The female smell. Strongly enough that I suspect you have left this as a calling card.

  This is not turning out the way I’d planned.

  As I move out of the bathroom, something swishes past me in the dark. Strangely, it seemed larger than me. Then I hear the bathroom door close. I try the handle but it’s locked. Are you really inside? Or is this a diversion?

  Where is she? I ask the darkness.

  No answer.

  Warmer or colder? I ask.

  Nothing.

  Then, through the bathroom door, I hear new sounds. A woman, softly moaning. A man rhythmically groaning. First I think you are teasing me. Confused, I feel my way to the wall and break a rule. Switch on the light.

  My assistant is gone.

  The noises are louder. It sounds as though you are using my draftee in the bathroom and have locked me out. This isn’t what I had in mind at all, but you sound like you’re having the time of your life. I ask what you are doing but he answers insolently, She can’t talk with her mouth full. Suddenly I am angry. I kick the door twice near the knob and it splinters open, flooding the bathroom with light. At first glance I feel relief, seeing that you still have your linen dress on. But a millisecond later the positions register: you’re sitting on the edge of the tub and you have your hand around him and are working diligently (though your eyes are locked on mine) and he seems very close to release. It’s the least I could do for him, you say, but what you’re really saying is that you have no intention of letting me manipulate you with some kinky game like this, and I’m standing there with a stupid look on my face while you finish him and he groans and you look into my eyes with barefaced defiance while he squirts copiously and again and you run your hands under the bath tap while he slips out the door of the room but not before he gives me a look like, You must be an idiot to share this lady with _anybody_. And then you lift the linen dress over your head and say, Take me to the bed, please.

  So I do. This is finally lovemaking, as you are.

  ELEANOR RIGBY> :) Shriek of ecstasy. I’m done. I know that was quick, but I was reading some pretty steamy threads before you queried. At least your fingers won’t be too sore.

  HARPER> I was just getting to the good part. The part I’ve really fantasized about.

  ELEANOR RIGBY> Sorry. You shouldn’t have let me near that insolent voyeur/bellboy/stranger. He was huge in my hand, by the way. I don’t like that in intercourse, FYI, but since I was merely servicing him manually, I liked that my hand wouldn’t nearly go all the way around the thickest part of him.

  HARPER> You’re embellishing my scenario.

  ELEANOR RIGBY> Certainly, dear. Don’t feel threatened. He was huge, but dumb as a door-post—as well as being hard as one.

  HARPER> Feeling better, I take it?

  ELEANOR RIGBY> Lovely. Although I consider that subject sacred, to be honest.

  HARPER> What?

  ELEANOR RIGBY> Our first f2f meeting. I would never want a third person present for that.

  HARPER> Sorry if I tainted your fantasy. I should have realized.

  ELEANOR RIGBY> No, it’s fine. But you are my secret friend, Harper. That is sacred to me. You have no idea.

  HARPER> I do have an idea, Eleanor. You know that.

  ELEANOR> Well, don’t be a stranger. It was too long between rendezvous this time. Meet me tomorrow.

  HARPER> We’ll talk soon. And alone this time.

  ELEANOR> I like that better. Bye.

  HARPER> Bye.

  I thrust my chair away from the keyboard and focus on the sculpture of my father’s coat. Why would I thrust someone between myself and Eleanor like that? I suddenly want to warn her again, but I know Miles is looking over my virtual shoulder.

  And then I realize something very disturbing.

  The bellboy in the bathroom was Miles.

  What the hell is going on in my brain? And how long has that son of a bitch been spying on my e-mail? E
verything’s under control, I hear myself saying to Bob Anderson.

  Who do I think I’m kidding?

  I’ve been lying in bed less than five minutes when it hits me: Miles has made a far more serious mistake than reading my e-mail. And I’ve got to tell him about it. It’s an hour later in New York, but I don’t really give a damn. He’s usually awake all night anyway, monitoring Level Three.

  After four rings, he answers “Turner” in a voice that makes it clear he does not like being bothered by mere human beings.

  “How long have you been spying on my e-mail, shit-head?”

  I hear a soft laugh. “Don’t worry. I hardly ever look. But since you started talking to the FBI, I figured you might be getting antsy about warning some of your online friends. Which you definitely do not need to do. They’re in no danger.”

  “We’ll skip that argument for now. I want to know how you’ve been reading my mail. I’ve never been able to access yours.”

  Another laugh. “But you tried, right? There are a couple of system privileges you don’t have, Harper. One is called super-postmaster. It’s like the postmaster privilege, but it gives you access to sysop mail as well. Even Jan’s mail.”

  “What if Strobekker got the victims’ real names by hacking into a sysop account? Into super-postmaster?”

  Miles hesitates. “I don’t think that’s possible. But I’m still assessing the system. It would have taken only one deep penetration to get the master client list, and it could have happened months ago. That makes forensic analysis of the disks very difficult.”