Jon Evans - Dark Places

"Great." I swigged from my Scotch. "Huh. Jeez."

"What?" she asked, and I met those blue eyes directly for the first time and had to look away in a hurry.

"It's just nice to be able to talk to someone else about this," I said. "And, you know, even if I'm wrong, to be taken seriously. I'd started to wonder if I was just losing the plot and going paranoid."

"You've definitely got something serious here. Can I take this?" She put her hand out on the folder. "And the pictures? I'm going to try and talk my editor into giving you access. You still might be wrong, but we're going to take you seriously."

"Thank you," I said. "Thank you very much."

The next day I finished all the work I had by noon and spent the rest of the afternoon surfing the Web and playing foozball. There were a lot of people with time to play foozball. Not a good sign. Kevin reassured me that the Morgan Stanley project I was due to lead was just "hung up on the dotting the t's and crossing the i's stage." He sounded like he even believed it. If he hadn't I would have begun polishing my resume.

Just before I logged off and went home I got a crushingly disappointing email:

From: talenar@lonelyplanet. com

To: BalthazarWood@yahoo. com

Subject: Your proposal cc: editorial@lonelyplanet. com

Dear Mr. Wood,

We have considered all the information you have sent us and we regret to inform you that we have decided not to assist you in your investigation.

While we appreciate how serious your suspicions are, we feel it would be irresponsible of us to assist you without evidence that shows beyond any reasonable doubt that your theory is correct. While you have amassed an impressive collection of circumstantial evidence there remain unexplained holes in your timeline of events and there is no 'smoking gun'. Our stated Thorn Tree privacy policy is that we will never reveal information about a user without their consent, and any violation of this policy without being compelled by a subpoena could leave us open to damaging lawsuits. In short, so long as it is possible that you may be wrong, we do not wish to participate in what may be a wild-goose chase.

We do regret our lack of cooperation and hope that you understand our motivation. If you do acquire any new and compelling evidence, please let us know.

Sincerely,

Talena Radovich

Web Editor

Lonely Planet Publications

I restrained myself from punching my laptop. It wasn't the computer's fault. "Shit," I said. "Fuck. Shit fuck shit fuck shit fuck shit fuck." It didn't make me feel any better.

I went home to my apartment and turned on my TV and went up into Deep Cable to find the most brain-dead programming that I could. I was sick of thinking. I was beginning to think of lobotomies with longing.

About ten minutes into Married… With Children I got a phone call.

"Balthazar? Hi. It's Talena."

"Oh," I said. "Yeah. I got your email."

"Right. Let's pretend that you didn't."

I tried to figure out what she meant and failed. "What?"

"I talked it over with the board, and they're all very sympathetic and might even be willing to violate the privacy policy without a subpoena if you happen to get a videotape of the guy confessing his crimes."

"That's big of them."

"But first of all they don't want to violate their policy, and second of all they don't want to discourage people from traveling without hard evidence. Actually what they're scared of is that you'll go to the media. You can never tell what stories take off, and if yours does, we might be selling a lot fewer books for awhile."

"Well, you can tell them that their worst fears are about to come true," I said, trying to make it sound like a threat.

"I could. However. That's what the board thinks, and instructed me to tell you."

"I don't understand why you're calling me. And how did you get my number?"

She sighed patiently as if talking to a child. "The miracle of call display. And I'm calling you to tell you that the board and I think differently. That I think probably being onto something is good enough. So I'm personally going to help you."

"Really?"

"Yes, really."

"Help me how exactly?" I asked.

"What kind of help do you want?"

"I want the logs off your web server."

"Then I'll get them to you," she said.

"You could be fired."

"Only if you tell someone."

"I won't tell anyone."

"I know. Now tell me what you want me to get. WebTrends printouts or what? I'm computer-friendly but I'm not a techie so you'll have to give me explicit details."

I switched off the TV, sat down, and walked her through the details of where she could find the files that I needed. I heard her typing as I talked, presumably transcribing my instructions. She didn't ask any questions.

When I was finished, she said "Got it. I'll get them tomorrow. What's your address?"

"My address?"

"Your address. So I can bring you the floppy disk with the files. Like you said, I could get fired, so email's a wee bit too insecure for my liking."

I gave her my address.

"All right. Tomorrow at eight. Be there."

"I will," I said.

"Bye."

"Talena?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you."

"My pleasure," she said. "See you tomorrow."

After she hung up a thought occurred to me. I went to my study, sat down at my laptop, and logged on to the Thorn Tree. There were no new entries to my conversation, so I added my own:

PaulWood 11/06 19:45

BC088269: you think you're pretty smart, don't you?

With any luck I'd bait him into giving us new data.

I checked my email. There was a new message from Carmel, an Aussie girl from the truck, telling me how much she hated her new job in Sydney, and asking me how Nepal had been.

Good question, I thought. But are you sure you want to know the answer?

I wanted to answer. I wanted to send an email to all of the tribe of the truck, telling them everything I had found and everything I suspected. These were the people who would understand what I meant, and what it meant to me. Maybe some of them could even help me find out what was going on. Like Hallam and Nicole. He was an ex-paratrooper and a security consultant, and she had one of the keenest minds I had ever encountered. Or Steven, with his dubious past and host of shady connections. This was a job for people like them, not for a mild-mannered computer programmer.

But, really, what good would it do? Other than a meaningless moment of catharsis, what was the point in telling them what I had seen and discovered? What could they really find out that I couldn't? Why remind them of Laura's murder, and trouble them with this sick unsolvable mystery that seemed somehow connected to it? It didn't seem right to unleash it on their minds just because I couldn't stop it from preying on mine. All it would do was drag a bunch of horrible old memories out of the mud. I had gone through enough of that myself recently to want to wish it on others.

Talena showed up right on time, dressed in jeans and a purple sweater, a floppy disk in her hand. I took it from her and said "Thank you."

I expected her to turn around and walk away, and there was an awkward silence for a few seconds before she said "Aren't you going to invite me in?"

I blinked and said "Oh. Okay."

"I am risking my job for this," she reminded me. "Least you can do is let me shoulder-surf."

"Oh. Yeah, sure. No problem."

She followed me in.

"Nice apartment," she said.

"Yeah," I said, and then sheepishly "Sometimes it's a little cleaner… "

She laughed.

"Do you want a drink or something?" I asked.

"Let's just get to work."

"Right." I led the way into my study, where my laptop sat on the desk, connected to a cable modem. She sat next to me and I had to remind myself to focus on what I was doing. She was even prettier than I remembered, and she moved with athletic grace, and her jeans and sweater were both tighter than absolutely necessary, and she wore something that smelled like fresh strawberries, and I couldn't help but think that it had been four months, since a drunken encounter with a giggly blonde girl named Amy I had met at a party, since…