The Mangrove Coast (24 page)

I was looking at
Darkrume
’s words on the screen—something else troubled me about the letter. It wasn’t the content. It was a word or a term or phrase … something that was out of place. What?

Tomlinson said, “I know why you’re shaking your head. It’s because none of this makes sense to you. The first time we met, Doc, I took one look at your face and I thought: This man is living a chronological nightmare. That face of yours, I’ve seen it in photos by Matthew Brady. John Ford’s films, same lost expression. It’s like the karmic mailman stuck you in the wrong slot.”

I said, “What?”

Tomlinson said, “You, Doctor Ford, were not made for these times. That’s all I’m saying. Know who’s got exactly the same problem? Your uncle. Yeah, Tucker Gatrell. Both you guys got sent to Earth a couple of generations too late.”

Tomlinson and Tuck: Each assumed he was an expert on the other.

He said, “This whole Internet business has got to be like fingernails on a blackboard to you. Or like teenagers arguing.”

After two joints and three hours looking at a computer screen, this is what I had a right to expect from Tomlinson.

Time to change the subject.

I said, “What I want to do is read all these letters in order. All of
Darkrume
’s first. He and Gail had this weird relationship going and I don’t like the business about her sending him videos. We need to check around the house, see if she really does own a camera.”

“She does. I was snooping in one of the closets while I was waiting for you to get out of the head. She’s got a video camera on a tripod. Perfect for taking self-portraits. No cassette in it, though. I checked that, too.”

“Then I don’t like it. Some guy wins her trust, she sends him self-made videos and he uses them to blackmail her. I can see that happening. How long were they E-mailing each other?”

Tomlinson reached over my shoulder and took the mouse. He clicked it, clicked again. “
Darkrume
started writing her about two weeks before Merlot did. The letter we just read was sent in late August, so they’d had a couple
of months together. Plenty of time to get a hot and heavy cybersex deal going. It’s scary how easy and fast you can win someone’s trust if you’re writing every day.”

I started to tell Tomlinson that something about the letters still troubled me. Was it a word? Yeah, maybe … maybe a word. So what I wanted to do was spend the next few hours and read each and every letter. Use the laser printer beside the computer to get them all on paper. That way, maybe put everything in perspective and figure out the detail, the nagging little detail, that continued to bother me. One by one, read
Darkrume
’s letter, read Gail’s reply. Read Merlot’s letter, read Gail’s reply. Go back and forth. Keep it orderly.

I said, “We’ve both seen her photograph. A woman this classy, it’s tough to imagine her writing graphic sex scenes to some stranger.”

“Not a stranger, he was her E-mail lover. There’s a big difference. This is America, man. For the last forty years, we’ve learned that our dreams can come true on a television screen. A TV screen is exactly what we’re looking at now. We trust this screen, man, it’s part of our family. What better place to find romance? You don’t believe she’d do it? Let’s check the lady’s letters and see.”

We checked and, yes, she’d replied to
Darkrume.
Replied with enthusiasm, too.
Ooohhh
, it was okay to do that and that and that to her, but what she really wanted was for him to do this and this and this….

The description went on for many paragraphs.

After reading the letter, Tomlinson said, “Far out! Now I can understand why your buddy was in love with this lady. Match the photo I saw with these words, and this is one of the great bedroom women I’ve ever had the honor to be associated with.”

Feeling an irrational animus, I flipped his hand away from the mouse and closed the file. He gave me a look like, Whoa, buddy, lighten up!

But enough. I’d read enough.

I said, “Just for the hell of it, let’s see what Merlot was
writing at the same time. These letters are listed chronologically, right?”

I opened another file and surprise, surprise. Merlot was also concerned about Gail’s involvement with her Internet lover. A couple of lines written during the same week in August: “My beautiful friend. When I left your house tonight I was so worried about you I drove straightaway to the beach. Even with all my investors hounding me for details, all I could think about was you and the mistake you might be making in trusting
Darkrume
too much….”

And: “… you don’t know this person. If he cares so much for you, why does he refuse to write to me, your closest friend?”

And: “… I promise you this. If he ever hurts you, I will be the friend there to help you. Why? Because you see me the way I am. Not the way I look. I will always be your servant because of that.”

I removed my glasses and cleaned them on the sleeve of my blue chambray shirt. I was about to comment on the obvious way that Merlot had manipulated her. By telling her over and over why he admired her, he was giving her subliminal instructions about how she should behave toward him. No, he wasn’t physically attractive, but that wasn’t important. It didn’t matter to her. She thought he was beautiful. Right? Right?
Right?

Told repeatedly, the time would come when Gail would feel obligated to behave accordingly. And maybe she was actually suggestible enough to believe it. It was a concept that Tomlinson would quickly grasp. But as I turned to speak, I was interrupted by a fairy-dust sound coming from the computer, a riff of bells.

Tomlinson whistled and said, “An instant message for the lady in question, man. How weird!”

I said, “What?’

“An instant message. Gail just received an instant message.”

A bordered rectangle within a bordered rectangle, typed words inside, had appeared on the screen.

“We’re in direct contact, man. Just him and us. See the screen? It’s from
Darkrume.
“

Tomlinson’s voice dropped a little, as if he didn’t want anyone to hear. “He’s out there, man. His computer, he must have it locked onto Gail’s screen name. He knows we’re here. He knows where we are.”

The message read:
Is it you?

After a few more seconds, the screen read:
I’m waiting.

I
called Amanda back into the room. She needed to be part of this.

She was staring at the screen, looking at the name—
Darkrume
—when I asked, “What do you think we ought to do?”

“Tell him to kiss off. Never write again or we’ll notify the AOL people. The jerk.”

I told her, “You don’t see this as an opportunity? I think you ought to write the guy, find out whatever you can about your mom. Maybe he knows where she is. Maybe he knows what happened to the money. Any information you can get, we’ll take it.”

I was standing, trying to make Amanda sit in the chair so she could use the keyboard. She wasn’t eager. She had her hands up, palms out—a “screw this” pose—as she said, “You think I’m going to be nice to this guy after the trash he wrote my mom? All that really sick stuff. No thanks. No way. Not me.”

The way she said it, there was a frustrating, petulant quality in her voice that I found irritating. The last time I’d heard that same infuriating tone was years ago in the jungles
of Cambodia. No doubt that she was her father’s daughter.

“Just throw away a chance to get information? You don’t have to be nice. Get a conversation going and let’s see how we can use him. Pump him for whatever he might know. You think he wrote some sick, ugly stuff? Fine. Get even by tricking him. He thinks he’s writing to your mom. That’s what we want him to think.”

“If it’s so important, why don’t you do it?”

“Because you’re her daughter. And you’re a woman. The way you write is way more likely to resemble your mom’s sentence patterns. These two exchanged letters for months. Thousands of words. Even if they never met, they know each other intimately. He’s not going to be easy to fool.”.

She turned away from me, arms folded. I felt myself coloring, getting angry. “Goddamn it! Your mother was a sexual person—what a hell of a shock that must be to someone as high-minded as you. Gee, she had men friends. They talked dirty to each other. She probably looked forward to it. She probably thought it was fun. Maybe she even had orgasms. Isn’t that just awful!”

“Knock it off, Doc! That’s not fair.”

“Yes, it is fair. It’s not only fair, it’s the truth. You want me to help find her? Then you’d better sit your butt down in that chair and cooperate.”

She glared at me. She turned to look at Tomlinson, as if he might offer her refuge. To his credit, he slowly shook his head. Nope. He couldn’t help. It was only then that she put her hands on her hips, made a fluttering noise of contempt through her lips, plopped down in front of the screen and placed her long fingers on the keyboard.

Amanda repositioned herself in the chair as she whispered, “Asshole. What a creep.”

I patted her shoulder as I watched the screen. Beneath my hand, I felt her take a deep breath.

There was a pause. A very long pause. Was he thinking about something? Maybe.

I touched my hand to her wrist. Made her take a few seconds before replying. “What do those little symbols mean? The little things he adds after sentences?”

“Cyber faces. Look at them kind of sideways, you’ll see facial expressions. It’s what people use on-line to show emotion. You know, happy, sad, joking. Like that.”

My recurring question:
Adults do this?
I said to her, “Keep playing him along. If he and your mom are still close, he knows where she went. No matter what he says. Find out.”

Beneath my hand, the pace of her breathing had increased. She said, “I can’t do this, Doc. I really can’t do this.”

“Those little arrows at the beginning of a sentence. What do they mean?”

“It’s like a present tense thing. The arrow means he’s doing it at the time. Laughing, remembering, whatever. With this guy, you can probably add whacking off.”

“I’m becoming a little uncomfortable with his approach.”

“He’s awful. And those little cyber faces. He’s disgusting.”

“Oh yeah, he’s that.” I was still patting her back. “Know what Amanda? You’re right. I was a dope to get you involved in this, way off base. Hell with it. Sign off. Or … whatever it is you do. This guy really is sickening.”

“I’m sorry, but … this is just too much. Pretending I’m my mom and him writing that stuff.”

“I agree. It’s awful. We’re all better than this. I had no idea.”

“But I didn’t get any information for you.”

“That’s okay. Yeah, maybe he knows something. But
the key is Merlot. We’ll deal with it. You don’t need to put up with this kind of garbage. Forget it.”

She was still breathing heavily, but also thinking about it.

“Look … I’m okay now. Let me just try one more thing.”

“Nope. Drop the whole act. I feel bad enough as it is.”

“What you’re forgetting is I can make my own decision.

I don’t need you to tell me what to do. I’m an adult. I may not act like it sometimes, but I really am a pretty solid person.”

Her fingers began to move again on the keyboard.

Gail73679
: I wish I was looking up at you right now. From my knees. Can just imagine the way you’d be. Call me on the telephone, sweetheart. Call me right now. I want to finish up hearing your voice. We’ll both have a wonderful time.

I patted her shoulder. It was a nice finesse. No one but Gail would risk asking him to call. Very convincing and completely safe.