Mortal Fear

“Are you there?” barks a voice in my ear.

“I’m here,” I murmur, watching Mayeux motion for a patrolwoman to keep the crowd back. “I’m watching the guy right now.”

“What guy?”

“Your guy. Mayeux. They’re showing him live on CNN. Right this second.”

“Christ, he gets all the face time.”

“Listen,” I say, deciding I like Mayeux’s looks better than Mozingo’s voice. “Does Detective Mayeux have voice mail?”

The detective covers the phone with his palm and then shouts something. “I’ll transfer you.”

A digital female voice tells me I can leave a message as long as ten minutes.

“My name is Harper Cole,” I say slowly. “I’m calling from Mississippi.” Then I stop. I can’t just leave my name and number. With a murder like this one on his hands, Mayeux might not get around to calling me for days. I say my phone number twice, then pause and gather my thoughts.

“I’m calling because I think this murder—the Karin Wheat murder—may be connected to some other … not murders, but … possible murders, I guess. I work as a system operator for an online computer service—a national service—called EROS. Over the past few months I’ve noticed that some women have left the network abruptly for unexplained reasons. They could have simply terminated service, but I don’t think they did. The company wouldn’t want me to call you like this, but I felt I had to. It’s too complicated to explain to a machine, but I’m afraid something may have happened to those other women as well. Something like what happened to Karin Wheat. I think maybe the same person could be involved. You see, Karin Wheat was a client of EROS. That’s confidential information, by the way. You won’t understand until you talk to me. I’d appreciate a call as soon as possible. I’m always home. I work from here, and I stay up pretty late. Thanks.”

On TV, Mayeux has disappeared from the wrought-iron gate. The crowd is larger than before. The camera pans across several male faces painted with eye shadow and eyeliner. Disciples of Karin Wheat’s esoteric prose. A black-and-white photo of the author appears, filling one-fourth of the screen. It’s the publicity shot from her latest book. I recognize it because I have that novel—Isis—on one of my bookshelves. I bought it after I began having online conversations with Karin. Very interesting conversations.

Karin Wheat was a twisted lady.

I get up from the desk and go to my minifridge for an ice-cold Tab. I use them to break the monotony of Diet Coke. Not only do they pack a more powerful fizz rush, but I actually like the stuff. I’ve drunk half the can by the time I sit down at my Gateway 2000.

Price quotes from the Chicago Mercantile Exchange scroll slowly down the screen. This is my real job. Trading futures. Bonds, indexes, even agriculturals. I do it from my house with only my own money. Keeps it simple. No suicidal clients to deal with. I’m holding a ten lot of S&P contracts right now, but nothing’s in crisis mode.

I swig some more Tab and glance across at the postmodern black table that supports the EROS computer and satellite video link. It’s late afternoon, and online traffic is light. Mostly housewives right now. Bodice-ripper stuff. The real freaks are on their way home from work.

My wife should be as well. Today she’s working in Jackson, the state capital, eighty minutes away from our farmhouse in the flat Delta cotton fields. Drewe is a doctor, three blessed years out of her residency, and the same age I am—thirty-three. I’m thinking I should start cooking us some supper when the phone rings.

“Hello?”

“This is Detective Michael Mayeux, NOPD.”

His voice has the radio tinniness that cell phones aren’t supposed to have but usually do. “Thanks for calling back so fast.”

“Just checked my voice mail,” he explains. “I’ve got twenty-eight nutcase calls already. Vampires killed her. Mummies. One guy claims he’s an incubus and that he killed her.”

“So why did you call me?”

“You sounded slightly less nutty than the rest. You said you were calling from Mississippi?”

“That’s right. EROS—the company I sysop for—is based in New York City, but I do my job from right here.”

“I’m listening, Mr. Cole.”

“You know what online services are?”

“Sure. AOL, CompuServe, Delphi. But your message didn’t give me the feeling we’re talking about people using MUDs or booking vacations by modem.”

“No, you’re right,” I tell him, relieved to have found someone who doesn’t need spoon-feeding.

“So what’s this EROS? Live chat, email, role-playing, all that stuff?”

“Exactly.”

“My kid’s a computer fiend. I log onto CompuServe every now and then. I’m no expert, though. Keep it at the idiot level.”

“That’s my natural level, Detective. I told your machine that Karin Wheat was a member of EROS.”

“And you said it was confidential information.”

“It is. I mean, according to the rules of the membership agreement. Legally, we’re forbidden to give out any client’s true identity. There are a lot of married people online with us who don’t want their spouses to know. Quite a few celebrities, too.”

“But you gave me Wheat’s name.”

“I wanted you to know how serious I am.”

“Hang on—cut over to Chartres, Harry. I’m back, Mr. Cole. You said you thought Wheat’s death might be connected to some other women? Disappearances or something?”

“Right. What I’d like to do—for now, at least—is give you the names of those women and see if you can check them out. On the sly, sort of. You can do that, right?”

Mayeux doesn’t answer for a moment. “You mean check and see if they’re alive?”

“Right.”

“Yeah, we can do that. But why haven’t you done that, if you’re so concerned? You have their phone numbers, don’t you?”

“Yes. And I thought about doing it. But frankly … I was told not to.”

“By who?”

“Someone in the company. Look, can you just take the names? Maybe I’m nuts, but I’d feel better, okay?”

“Shoot.”

I read the names and numbers from a notepad. Mayeux repeats them as I give them; I assume he is speaking into a pocket recorder. “That’s five different states,” he notes. “Six women, five states. Spread across the country.”

“Information Superhighway,” I remind him.

“No shit. Well, I’ll get back to you if anything comes of this. Gotta go, Mr. Cole. Time to talk to the fairies and the vampires.”

The conversation leaves me strangely excited.

After weeks of suspicion, I have finally done something. I am tempted to call Miles in Manhattan and tell him exactly what I’ve done, but I don’t. If Miles Turner turns out to be right—if all those women have slipped contentedly back into the roles of happy housewives or fulfilled career women—then I don’t want to give him the satisfaction. But if I turn out to be right—if those women are less than healthy right now …

I’m not sure I want Miles to know I know that.