Dear Maggie

“You’ve got mail,” her computer cheerily informed her.

Maggie clicked on her mailbox to find a message from her mother in Iowa, a joke from Aunt Rita, who lived with her mother, spam from travel agencies and credit card companies and a whole bunch of junk mail forwarded to her by Darla. At the very bottom she found a message from someone called Mntnbiker.

Who was that? she wondered, but before the message appeared on her screen, she remembered. Oh, yeah, the guy from the chat.

Zachman,

You seemed a little shy the other night, so I thought I’d drop you a line to see if you might be interested in getting to know me via e-mail. I don’t usually join chats and think it’s pretty hard to decide what people are really like in that forum. Those rooms can get crowded and noisy, and the subjects people talk about can be either boring or a little over the top. Anyway, if you’re already involved with someone or you’re not interested, no problem. Just thought I’d make contact.

Friends?

John

“Well what do you know,” she murmured. “Mntnbiker’s name is John.” She hit the reply button but before she could type anything, an instant message popped up from Darla.

Catlover: What are you doing tonight, Mags?

Maggie thought about telling Darla she was planning to scour the country for articles of murders like Sarah Ritter’s, then decided against it. Darla didn’t have the stomach for the gritty details involved with following the cop beat, and Maggie was probably wasting her time, anyway.

Zachman: Just messing around on the net.

Catlover: Anything fun?

Zachman: No.

Catlover: Nick Sorenson talk to you last night?

Zachman: He wasn’t in the office.

Catlover: Oh, so you know he was out. You keeping tabs on him now?

Maggie didn’t want to admit it, but glancing down the hall toward Nick’s desk was becoming a habit.

Zachman: Of course not.

Catlover: I can’t believe you don’t think he’s a babe.

Maggie didn’t have to think he was a babe. She knew he was.

Zachman: I just don’t want him to get too close. He makes me uncomfortable.

Catlover: You need to loosen up, have some fun.

Zachman: What makes you think I’d have fun with him?

Catlover: Are you kidding? Is there any question?

Maggie chuckled.

Zachman: He’s too hard-bitten for fun. He’s focused, driven.

Catlover: Yeah, and just imagine what it would feel like to have all that raw masculinity turned on you.

Zachman: For what? One night? What good would that do me?

Catlover: Forever the realist, aren’t you? Okay, forget Nick. You going to do the dating service?

Zachman: No, I’m going to save up for an air conditioner.

Maggie stretched, feeling the effects of working all week without getting enough sleep.

Zachman: I’d better go. That murder’s kept me pumped full of adrenaline since it happened. I’m just now starting to come down.

Catlover: Gee, how do you get all the good stories?

Maggie returned the sarcasm.

Zachman: By leaving all the award-winning baton twirlers to you.

Catlover: Very funny.

Zachman: Sorry.

Catlover: Get some sleep. Zach wakes up awfully early in the morning.

“No kidding,” Maggie muttered to herself. She signed off the instant message with a friendly goodbye, then stared at the blank screen addressed to Mntnbiker. Now what? Should she really answer him?

Why not? Anonymity was empowering. If he wrote back and turned out to be a fruitcake, she wouldn’t answer him again. If he bothered her, she’d change her e-mail address. It wasn’t as if he knew where she lived. After two years in Sacramento without any romantic interludes, she was ready to expand her horizons, and e-mail seemed the perfect forum.

Dear Mntnbiker:

I’d be happy to get to know you, although I’m not sure I’m ready for anything more than friendship.

Big lie there, but she definitely didn’t want to sound desperate.

Tell me a little about yourself, who you are, where you live, what you do.

You might remember that I’m a single mom. I have one little boy who’s three and a half. I’m 5’5”, 115 lbs, have red hair, freckles and green eyes. And if that doesn’t scare you off, maybe this will: I work nights as a cop reporter and am currently following a murder. At any given point, my life is filled with the details of abuse, rape and other forms of violence. But in the meantime I try to be an average “girl.” I’m a bit of a health nut, but when I’m splurging, I like to eat coffee ice cream and chocolate-covered strawberries (not necessarily together <G>). I also like lying on a warm beach and reading romance novels, probably because what I deal with at work is so harrowing. I like happily-ever-afters. I hate to wait for anything and can’t cook a can of soup or sew on a button, but I can change my own oil and mow my own yard.

Now that you probably know more about me than you ever wanted to, it’s your turn:)

She signed it simply Maggie, hit the Send button, and went onto the Internet, where she quickly forgot about Mntnbiker as she scanned the major newspapers throughout the country, beginning with the New York Times. Some of the crime stories were horrible enough to curl her toes, particularly those that involved child molestation or abuse, and it wasn’t long before she decided to give up. The violence was making her heartsick, and without the coroner’s report, she knew so little about the condition of Sarah Ritter’s body that it was difficult to draw any connection between her murder and any others. She was wasting her time, just as she’d thought.

Yawning, she decided to get up early and head to Lowell Atkinson’s house with a big bag of donuts and several freshly roasted coffees. A horse came more willingly to a handful of sugar, right? The same might hold true for Lowell.

She climbed into bed but couldn’t get to sleep. The murders she’d read about had her spooked. The shadow of the trees outside fell across her carpet, their knotty, intertwining branches sometimes taking on the shape of a man, and she wondered if someone could remove her air conditioner and crawl through the hole it left behind. Then again, they wouldn’t even have to go to that much trouble. Because of the heat, there were several windows open in other parts of the house, even a few of the ones without bars, just so she could get a breeze going through.

For a few moments, Maggie held her breath, thinking she heard something rustling, the creak of a footfall in the living room….