The Guardians

'Do lines like that actualy work on your dates?'

'Acting has taught me this much, Trev: it's not the line—it's how you sel it.'

Randy crunches into his shortbread. Crumbs cascading down onto the doily Mrs. McAuliffe had placed before him.

'What are you doing here?' I ask.

'I'm your escort.'

'To the police station? I think I know where it is, thanks.'

'I'd like to stop somewhere else along the way. You've got to see something.'

'What?'

'A website. There's an internet cafe on Downie Street. They've got terminals and little privacy wals between them so you—'

'What website?'

'You know, one of those places where boyfriends submit photos of their girlfriends.'

'Jesus Christ, Randy. You're hauling me downtown so I can be your porn pal?'

'First of al, it's not really porn,' Randy qualifies, popping the rest of the shortbread into his mouth. 'And second, it's Tracey Flanagan.'

If my memory's right, Insomnia Internet used to be Klaupper's Deli, the latter seling Polish sausages and German chocolates to the Grimshaw immigrants who couldn't shake their taste for home. Now there are racks of hyperviolent games where the meat counter used to be, and rows of computers where I recal walking the aisles with my mother, searching for the imported butterscotch candies Klaupper's sometimes carried. When Randy and I enter, I imagine there is stil a trace of fried schnitzel and Toblerone—and unexpectedly, my mother's Sunday- only spritz of Chanel No. 5—in the air. But then, on the next sniff, it is replaced by the fungoid aroma of teenage boys.

'Back here,' Randy directs me, waving me to a terminal he's already secured in the rear corner.

I'm worried at first we'l be observed by the kids who machete and Uzi their way through the carnage on their screens. But as I pass, not one of them turns to look at the shaky old guy who makes his way to the back. And though some of them are apparently engaged in some communal game involving others in the room, they don't acknowledge their felow players in any way, aside from an occasional cry of 'Backup! Need backup!' and ' Why won't you die? '

'Have a seat,' Randy says, puling over a wheeled chair from the next cubicle. I watch as he takes his walet out and, from within it, a slip of paper with a web address written on it.

'Who told you about this, anyway?' I ask.

'I went by the Moly Bloom for a nightcap on the way back to the hotel last night. Had one with Vince Sproule. Who tels me about this.'

'This?'

'Mygirl.com. Where Tracey has her own page.'

'How does Vince know about it?'

'The boyfriend, Gary Pulinger, let the cat out of the bag. Told one of his buddies that he uploaded some snaps, and then the friend told some other friends and .. .

wel, it's a smal town.'

'Are the police aware of this?'

'It's part of why they're stil griling Gary so hard. They're trying to see if these pictures are part of a motive somehow.'

'Motive for what?'

Randy types in the address and clicks Enter. Only then does he turn to look at me. 'She's missing Trev. Odds are she's not coming back. And you always start with the boyfriend. Or the dad.'

'They think Todd has something to do with this?'

'I don't think he's at the top of the list. The Pulinger kid holds that spot. But you never know. Do you?'

I'm searching for an answer to this when suddenly Tracey is there on the screen.

There are no toys, props, costumes. No leather or rubber or lace. Just a young woman without any clothes on. Standing in front of a cluttered bookcase or sitting on the edge of an unmade bed in a basement bedroom, a towel on the floor around her feet darkly wet from a recent shower. Her hair clinging to her shoulders, framing her breasts. Water dripping off the ends and leaving a map of streaks over her bely, fading sideroads al converging on the dark curls between her legs.

She is smiling in most of the shots. The same expression of welcome she offered us when we first wandered into Jake's Pool 'n' Sports. In a couple of pictures she attempts a pouty look of wanton invitation, but it is play- acting that fails to convince either the photographer or her, judging from the laughter that folows.

In al of the photos, even the siliest ones, she is beautiful. Beautiful in her nakedness, but equaly for the fun she is having, the goofing around that has as much to do with pretending at being a seductress as with the provocation of real desire. She is a young woman showing herself not to the camera's vacant lens but to the man behind it.

'Close it,' I say.

'God. You've got to admit. She's something, isn't she?'

'Randy—'