Grave Secrets

from the bed looked as if it cost more than my entire collection of home furnishings.

While Ryan moved to a desktop computer, I opened the armoire doors. A poster covered the inside of each. On the right, White Trash Two Heebs and a Bean, scrawled across four stomachs. On the left, Punk Rock On-Girls Kick Ass.

The cabinet contained books, a TV, and an extensive compact disc collection. I scanned the artists. Dropkick Murphy’s, Good Riddance, Buck-O-Nine, AFI, Dead Kennedys, Rancid, Saves the Day, Face to Face, The Business, Anti-Flag, The Clash, Less Than Jake, The Unseen, the Aquabats, The Vandals, NFG, Stiff Little Fingers. Lots of NOFX.

I felt old as Zeus. I hadn’t heard of a single group.

The books were in French and English. Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina. Deepak Chopra’s The Return of Merlin. Douglas Adams’s The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. Guy Corneau’s Pere manquant, fils manque. Anne of Green Gables. Several Harry Potters.

I felt a bit better.

“Mixed messages,” said Ryan, pushing the computer’s on button.

“Think the kid’s having an identity crisis?”

The room was a schizoid blend of little girl whimsy, adolescent angst, and adult curiosity. I tried to picture Chantale in it. I’d experienced her punk manifestation, seen the Father Knows Best photo. But I had no sense of the real Chantale, had no idea who she was in this room.

I heard the CPU beep and whir as it powered up.

Did Chantale like gingham? Had she asked for the dolls? Had she spotted the orangutan in a mail-order catalog, insisted it be hers? Had she won it at a carnival? Had she fixed her eyes on the plastic stars at night, wondering what life held in store? Had she shut her lids tightly, disillusioned by what it had so far revealed?

The waterfall announced Windows. Ryan worked the mouse, typed something. Something else. Crossing to watch, I could see that he had launched AOL and was trying various passwords.

He tried another key combination.

AOL informed him his choice was invalid, and suggested he reenter.

“That could take a lifetime,” I said.

“Most kids are unsophisticated.”

He tried the first name of each family member, then their initials, the initials in reverse order, then in varying combinations.

No go.

“What’s her birthday?”

I told him. He tried the digits forward and backward. AOL would not budge.

“How about the cat?”

“Guimauve.”

“Marshmallow?”

“Don’t look at me. I didn’t choose it.”

G-U-I-M-A-U-V-E.

AOL thought not.

E-V-U-A-M-I-U-G.

The welcome screen flashed, and a melodious voice announced waiting mail.

“Damn, I’m good.”

“You didn’t know the cat’s name.”

Ryan clicked an icon, and Chantale’s mailbox appeared on the screen. She had two unread e-mails. We scanned them silently. Each was from a school friend in Guatemala City.

Ryan shifted to Sent Mail. Chantale had e-mailed [email protected] seven times since her release on Friday. Each communique spoke of her unhappiness, and begged for help. She’d also appealed to Dirtdoggy, Rambeau, Bedhead, Sexychaton, and Cripercant.

Chantale’s Old Mail contained two entries, one dated yesterday, the other today at 3 P.M. Both were from Metalass. Ryan opened the earlier message.

FUCKIN A I’M GLAD YOU’RE BACK. DIRT AND RAMBEAU ARE UNDERGROUND. THE HEAD’S GONE WEST. PHONE. YOU’VE GOTTA FRIEND.

“Terrific,” said Ryan, clicking on the second e-mail. “The guy’s a closet James Taylor fan.”

CHANGE OF PLANS. TIM’S. GUY. EIGHT. IF HEAT, GO TO CLEM’S.

“Do you think Clem, Tim, and Guy could be the cyber punks she e-mailed?”

Ryan was lost in thought.

I picked up Chantale’s phone and hit redial.

Nothing.

I looked at the orangutan, wanted to shake it into divulging where its mistress had gone.