Safe House

“You wanted something done?” I asked her, playing her for a battered wife, looking for a hit man on one of those wannabe mercenary boards.

“No! I wanted to . . . talk. About what . . . happened to me. I thought he’d . . . understand. I thought he’d talk to me.”

“And he turned out to be . . . ?” I prompted her gently.

“It wasn’t him,” she said. “It was . . . I don’t know who it was. But it wasn’t him.”

I spread my hands in a “What-the-hell-is-she-talking about?” gesture to the women standing on either side of me.

“He pretended to be someone else?” Crystal Beth asked.

“Not the one I was looking . . . I mean, I don’t . . . He read my posting. And he e-mailed me that he was a fighter. Against . . . them.”

“People like your . . . ?”

“Father. Yes! Okay? My father. He had his own Web site. All kinds of stories about him from different magazines and stuff. How he rescued . . . girls. Little girls. He was a hero.”

I got it then. The real danger of the Internet isn’t just kiddie porn, or Lonely Hearts killers or race-hate filth or wacko conspiracy theories. Ever since the Polaroid camera and the videocam, once criminals saw the commercial possibilities, kiddie porn has flourished. People were lured into fatal meetings with correspondence lovers a hundred years ago. The race-haters would always have their shortwave networks and fax chains. And loonies never needed electronic assistance.

No, the seduction is of a whole generation of young people who affect that oh-so-blase cynicism about anything that’s in the newspapers or on TV, but lose all skepticism once it comes up on the Sacred Net. They never heard of fact-checking; they don’t even understand the concept of sourcing. Any freak can create a “magazine,” become a “journalist” and write an article about himself. Then he can post the article on some topic-related Web page, provide a link to his site and, bingo—he’s whatever he wants to be. Instant credibility with the latest class of volunteer victim . . . cyber-chumps.

“Leave us alone,” Lorraine said to me, pushing hard against my chest. I stepped back, toward the door to the plump girl’s bedroom. When I had almost reached the threshold, Lorraine made a “Stay there!” gesture. Then she moved close to the plump girl, dropping one hand onto her shoulder. “Did you ever meet him?” Lorraine asked.

“No. First I had to . . .”

“Tell him . . . ?” Lorraine left it open.

“Yes. Tell him. Everything. So he could help me.”

“And then?”

“Exercises.”

“Like a kata?” Crystal Beth asked.

“Huh?” the plump girl replied, clearly confused. Lorraine made a traffic cop’s motion with her hand, telling Crystal Beth to shut up. “A re-enactment?” she asked, voice so low I could barely hear her.

“Yes. He said it was to . . . give him information. So he could understand. He said he was going to . . .”

Nobody said anything. The plump girl stared at the screen, her hand playing with the mouse, moving it around on the desktop, clicking it on and off randomly as the screen jumped in response. We stayed silent, watching her search. I didn’t know what she was looking for, but I knew she’d never find it.

“I did it,” she finally said. “But nothing happened. To my . . . father. I did everything he said. Everything. I did it all again. Even the . . . pictures. But nothing happened.”

I kept waiting for her to crack. To break down, cry, smash her fist against the desk. Anything.

All she did was click the mouse and stare at the screen.

“Anyone can make up stuff on the Net,” Lorraine said. “You have to—”

“I checked him out!” the plump girl said sharply. “I e-mailed other girls . . . that he helped. And I saw this story they did on him and everything.”

“Anyone can have a few different e-mail addresses,” Lorraine told her gently. “Anyone can—”

“I know,” the plump girl interrupted. “Don’t you think I know that? But I know there’s heroes out there. Just waiting for me.”

“You open that modem, you’re spreading your legs,” Lorraine said harshly. “It’s too easy to go in disguise. Cyberspace is full of identity thieves. Web sites can be cloned. They can pretend to be anyone they want—you’ll never know the truth. And ‘e-mail’ ”—Lorraine’s voice now venom-coated—“what the fuck is that? You think it’s so ‘intimate,’ don’t you? But it’s not private. Every keystroke is recorded, don’t you understand? It goes from you to a central bank to the other person. There’s people with keys to that central bank. And people who can intercept even while you’re on-line.”

“I—” the plump girl started to protest.

“There’s people who can help you,” Lorraine said. “We can help you. Just stay off the Net, okay?”

“I can’t,” the plump girl said.

“Battered woman’s syndrome,” the black woman jeered, red square-cut fingernails grasping the front of the bar she was standing behind as though it were a lectern. It was a half-hour after closing time, and the joint was as empty as a senator’s heart. “What a joke.”

“What do you mean?” Crystal Beth asked her. “I thought it was a real . . . I don’t know . . . advance. Something women could use in court to—”

“Why you say that? Because every year some governor cuts the sentence of a couple of women who’re doing life for murder instead of walking around free behind self-defense? Bullshit!”

“But if society starts to under—”

“Society ain’t close to that, girl,” the black woman said. “And society ain’t shit either. Society’s all about control. Male control.”

“It was the women’s movement who got those laws passed,” Crystal Beth said, using her “Let’s-all-be-calm” voice.

“The women’s movement? You mean my sisters?” the black woman replied, sarcasm clogging her throat. “Pack of stupid bitches, chumped off again. Let me tell you something, baby. This whole ‘battered woman’s syndrome,’ that’s just another way of saying we crazy, that’s all. Man kills someone trying to kill him, only question is . . . was it gonna go down like that? Understand what I’m saying? Only thing the jury got to believe is that the other guy was gonna do it, just got beat to the draw, right? What we need some fucking syndrome for?”

“So a jury can understand how—”

“Oh just stop it, okay? Your man beats on you enough times, hurts you enough times, you know when he’s gonna do it again. Could be the way he starts talking, could be as soon as he’s had a few beers, could be a phone call from his goddamned mother . . . could be the way he starts breathing, all right? Point is, you know. Only thing is, that ain’t enough. Not for the cops, not for no DA and damn sure not for no jury. Man says: ‘Motherfucker went for his pocket. I know he always packs a piece, so I drilled him before he could get me.’ Now, that sounds righteous. That one will fly. Woman says: ‘Every time he start talking about how dirty the house is, I know, next thing coming, he’s gonna start beating the shit out of me.’ Now, that one’s worth nothing, see? Nothing at all. Your man tries to kill you that first time, you kill him right then, you might be okay. But if you let him do it a few times, then you stuck. You let him beat on you and beaton you and . . . one day, you know you can’t take another one. You know, soon as he wakes up from that drunken sleep, you’re gonna get hurt so bad, you just . . .”

“I underst—”

“You understand shit, girl. You ever sit in on one of those lame-ass groups? You know, like for battered women? I did that, once. Fucking fool stands up and says, like, he used to beat on his