Thomas Perry - Runner

"You're telling me never to call you again?"

"I'm telling you not to do things she tells you are dangerous. She's taken you out of your old life and into a new one. That life will be hard to get used to, but sooner than you think, you'll be comfortable. Pretty soon you'll be too busy and preoccupied with being a mother to waste much time on anything else. I want you to know that I'll be thinking about you often, and I'll feel happy because I know you'll be happy—if not tonight, then in a few months. We'll still be just as close, even if we can't talk to each other. We're on the same side, and want the same things for each other. You've always been one of my favorite people, and that will never change. But look ahead now, not back."

"Oh, my God," said Christine, and she realized she was crying. "I'll miss you."

"And I'll miss you."

"We'd better get off now, huh?"

"Yes. If we don't talk very long it's harder for them. Good luck."

"Good luck to you."

They both hung up, and Christine lay back down on the couch. She cried for a long time, but then she awoke, still on the couch, and it was four A.M. For a few seconds, as she was making her way to her bed, undressing as she went, she wondered if the telephone call might have been a dream.

20

Christine drove past the FedEx Kinko's store a half dozen times every week on her way to buy groceries or rent movies or go to the pharmacy. She had not noticed it the first few times she passed it, but then one day she parked nearby and walked past. She saw the glass-enclosed room with its two rows of glowing computer screens. After that day, the computers lived in her memory, the nonsensical images of screen savers bouncing across their lighted screens.

A few weeks after she had spoken to Sharon she happened to be in the pharmacy waiting for her prescription prenatal vitamins. She shopped for things she didn't really need, like makeup and a new hairbrush, but she was thinking about the computers again. She missed the Internet. She had liked to start her day by going online. She would check the San Diego weather and traffic, read her e-mail, find out which movies had been released, soothe herself with some dumb celebrity gossip, and, if she had time and nobody was looking, read her horoscope.

When she had everything at the counter she paid in cash and went out the front entrance and walked along the sidewalk staring in the windows of the stores. She had often window-shopped when she had still lived in San Diego, but now she looked in windows for other reasons. She was fascinated with her own reflection in the big plate-glass surfaces. Since she had been in Minneapolis she had begun to look really, unambiguously pregnant, and if she stayed a few feet away from the glass she could see herself from head to foot from the side, walking along.

The reflections also gave her a way to keep her face turned away from the people driving along the street or walking nearby and still see them. Today as she walked she thought about the computers again. Sharon Curtis had been really critical of her for calling her on the telephone, but a few weeks had passed, and nothing had happened. If somebody had been able to trace calls to Sharon or had a list of phone numbers for people who had called her, then Steve Demming and his friends would have been here long ago. And the Internet was even safer. It was almost completely anonymous.

She walked into the FedEx Kinko's store, past the rows of copying machines, and up to the counter. There was a boy there about her own age, and his name tag said he was Mark, a "coworker," which she guessed was probably about as low in the hierarchy as he could get. She said, "I'd like to use a computer. How do I do that? Do you rent them by the minute or something?"

Soon she was in a quiet, private corner staring at a screen, just as she had been doing since she was a little girl. It made her happy to feel the click of the mouse and hear the clatter of keys again as she typed in her screen name and password. She waited for her mailbox to open, then drew in a breath. There were 287 new messages for her. She glanced at the hour and minute on the lower-right side of her screen. This was going to take some time. Christine went down the list deleting the notifications of sales, the ads, the offers for things she might have wanted a few months ago. Then she began to count the ones that had been sent from Richard's e-mail address.

There were two or three for each day since she'd left San Diego, and they all had subjects like "I miss you," or "Please write," or "Where did you go?" They all seemed to be different, and most of them had attachments.

Christine considered whether it was wise to open any e-mails from Richard. If he had been standing in front of her, she would never have listened to anything he wanted to say to her. But there was something safe and familiar about e-mail. He couldn't reach out and grab her through the screen. If she read his e-mails, he wouldn't know where she was. All he could ever know was that they had been received by a server at some building that belonged to the Internet provider's company, and that could be anywhere in the world.

Her hand shook a little as she clicked on the first of the e-mails from Richard. The screen said, "Do you know who sent you this e-mail?" Then there was the usual lengthy warning that began, "You are about to display an e-mail containing a picture or file attachment. If you don't know who sent you this e-mail..." At the bottom it said, "Do you wish to view this e-mail? Yes/No." She chose Yes and watched the blue line fill up the download box.

There was a picture of Richard, and when he moved she gave a little gasp. It was a video. He was standing in his office at work, in front of his computer. He must have plugged in a Webcam. He said, "Hi, Chris. It's me all right. I know this isn't something you would think I'd do. I just figured that maybe if you could see me face-to-face again and hear my voice whenever you wanted, you might remember how happy we were when we were together. I know things must have gotten too intense for you, and you just have to get away for a while. I can understand that, and I don't blame you. But while you're away, I hope you know that I'll be thinking about you every day and every night." She moved the cursor to the red box in the upper-right corner and clicked the white X to close the e-mail. Then she opened the next one.

This time he had put the Webcam on the computer in the bedroom at home, and he was sitting at the desk in one of the T-shirts she had bought him to sleep in a month before she left. It was the blue one, and she tried to remember whether she had ever told him that was the color that looked best on him. Part of her hoped that she had, and he had been listening to her and remembered, then chose it to please her. But why did she hope that? She detested him.

He said, "Hi, Chris. I hope it's you who's watching this, but of course I have no way of knowing. I'm sorry if that sounds kind of gloomy. I'm just tired and depressed tonight, I guess. Since you've been gone I've tried to keep myself busy working as much as I can." He gave a sad smile. "Because of that I've been making a hell of a lot of money, but that's not much of a consolation, because I don't have anybody to spend it on. The time when it really gets to me is always at night like this. I suppose it's partly because I'm tired at the end of these frantic, crazy days. Night is the first time when I can't keep moving and talking to people and staying occupied. I'm alone here in the empty house, and I can't avoid thinking about you and about every stupid thing I ever did or said in front of you. I keep going over and over everything and telling myself what I should have done instead." He stared at the camera with the dark, injured gaze he had often used on her. "I apologize, Chris. No excuses. I'm sorry for all of it. I'm not sure what day it was when you decided I couldn't be salvaged, but I know you must have been thinking about leaving for a long time before you did. I just wish that during that period when you were planning and arranging to leave, I had said or done something good that made you change your mind. Well, I've probably said more than you want to hear already. I love you, and I still will tomorrow. Close your eyes." It was what he used to say just before they went to sleep when they were together and he wasn't angry at her. He reached toward the camera and the video ended.