Mortal Fear - Greg Iles

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      I am typing, but suddenly nothing is going through to Eleanor. I stare at the screen in puzzlement until this message appears in large block letters:

      SHAME ON YOU, SNITCH

      My puzzlement turns to fury. This message can only be from Miles, and its sudden insertion into my private chat with Eleanor tells me something that makes my blood boil. Miles has the ability to read my private communications whenever he pleases. I blink as further characters appear.

      SORRY TO INTRUDE

      BUT WE CAN’T HAVE YOU

      SCARING THE PAYING CUSTOMERS

      LOOSE CANNON AND ALL THAT

      PLEASE FIND SOME OTHER WAY TO GET ELEANOR

      OFF THE NET

      IF YOU MUST

      CIAO

      The next words that appear are:

      ELEANOR RIGBY> What just happened?

      She must not have seen Miles’s message. I type:

      HARPER> A glitch in my modem.

      What now? Do I ignore Miles? Go ahead and warn Eleanor and a few others? My anger says yes. But what will be the result? A network-wide panic, probably. Eleanor and I are very close, but she has a writer’s imagination and love of drama. Could she really keep secret the possibility that there is a murderer stalking the female clients of EROS?

      ELEANOR RIGBY> You said I was in danger. Physical danger. What were you talking about?

      HARPER> You misunderstood. That was the start of a fantasy file I wrote for you this morning. It was sort of a Mata Hari thing, spies and sex, with you in the lead role.

      ELEANOR RIGBY> Well, if that’s the case, send it through!

      HARPER> My modem’s on the blink. Pretty embarrassing for the sysop, isn’t it? I’ll have it fixed by tomorrow. I’ll put the file through then. Sorry to interrupt you for nothing.

      ELEANOR RIGBY> Wait, Harper. I hate to confess this, but knowing you don’t need me right now makes me need you. Could you possibly conjure up some stimulating prose for a lonely 30-year-old spinster with an itch?

      HARPER> You mean realtime?

      ELEANOR RIGBY> Yes.

      HARPER> Unusual for you. How stimulating?

      ELEANOR RIGBY> My sister is at a film with her one friend. I have the house all to my selfish self. Please make it hot enough for an online conclusion; i.e. once we get to the good stuff, please don’t stop until I signal with a shriek of ecstasy.

      I pause, trying to rein in my thoughts. I honestly don’t feel like this tonight. Especially after Drewe and I had our actual-reality interlude in the Explorer. But Eleanor has done me this favor many nights.

      HARPER> Romantic or dangerous?

      ELEANOR RIGBY> Romantic _and_ dangerous.

      HARPER> All right. We are finally meeting face to face. Seeing each other for the first time.

      ELEANOR RIGBY> Where?

      HARPER> The Peabody Hotel. Memphis, Tennessee. We’re in the lobby, a huge open room with a bar and a grand piano and ducks and tons of atmosphere.

      ELEANOR RIGBY> _Ducks_?

      HARPER> Symbol of the hotel. Trust me.

      ELEANOR RIGBY> Oh, I do.

      HARPER> I’m not as handsome as you have imagined me, but you aren’t disappointed. I have a certain power over you that you didn’t expect. You want to please me, and this makes you a little angry. You understand?

      ELEANOR RIGBY> Perfectly. What do you think of me?

      HARPER> Mercy fuck.

      ELEANOR RIGBY> Harper!

      HARPER> Sorry. ;) You’re more beautiful than I imagined. Your body-double’s body was a given, but your symmetry still surprises me. Petite, and your face more feminine than I could envision.

      ELEANOR RIGBY> Feminine how?

      HARPER> The blend of curve and angle. Softs and hards. Cheek and jaw. Defined brows, nebulous eyes. Dusk is falling on the Memphis streets, over the river. Yellow lamps come up inside and light you like a painter’s hand.

      ELEANOR RIGBY> What am I wearing?

      HARPER> White linen. Appropriate for a deflowering.

      ELEANOR RIGBY> You give me far too much credit. <g>

      HARPER> I intend to boldly go where no man has gone before.

      ELEANOR RIGBY> Dare I ask?

      HARPER> No.

      ELEANOR RIGBY> Yummy.

      HARPER> I see shadows of your nipples through the linen. They look more brown than pink.

      ELEANOR RIGBY> How do you like my breasts?

      HARPER> Champagne-glass size, exquisitely shaped.

      ELEANOR RIGBY> What do we talk about?

      HARPER> Inanities.

      ELEANOR RIGBY> How long do we talk?

      HARPER> Not very. We’ve said all we have to say on EROS, haven’t we?

      ELEANOR RIGBY> Do we diddle under the table? Victorian teasing?

      HARPER> No. I sign the suite number on the bill and lead you by the hand across the high-ceilinged lobby to the bank of elevators. In the elevator we kiss for the first time.

      ELEANOR RIGBY> A long kiss?

      HARPER> When the door opens, we’re still kissing. An older couple is staring at us like we are crazy.

      ELEANOR RIGBY> I’m already wet.

      HARPER> Not yet.

      ELEANOR RIGBY> I’m speaking in the present tense, dear. Offline.

      HARPER> Fine, but we’re not going to rush. When the stupid credit card key finally works, I pull you inside the room but do not turn on the light.

      ELEANOR RIGBY> We haven’t been in the suite until now?

      HARPER> No. Before you can say anything, I close the door and slip past you in the darkness, pulling my shoes off as I walk. You call out to me, but I don’t answer. I hear you bang your foot into a chair. You curse. We’re going to play a game, I say. What kind of game? you ask.

      I stop typing for a few moments, letting the images flow freely in my head.

      HARPER> A hunting game, I reply. I’m going to hunt you in the dark suite. And the first rule is: we can’t talk to each other. Even when I find you, we cannot speak. And there’s another catch. I should have mentioned it earlier, but … well … there’s another person in the room.

       What? you ask nervously. Who? Don’t be frightened. He—or she—is standing silently—or sitting—somewhere in the room, but only watching. How, you ask? Simple. He’s wearing a night-vision headset I brought to the hotel during the afternoon. You giggle nervously, but I’m not joking. This person can see us right now and will watch us when I finally find you. You don’t believe me? Let down the top of your dress. A few seconds later, a whispered voice from across the room says, Beautiful. I can almost feel your heart stutter from the shock. Stay calm, I say reassuringly. This person is merely an observer. All right, you stammer, far from your normally confident self. But who is it? you wonder. Who _is_ it? Maybe it’s your sister, I say. You bastard, you hiss. Maybe it’s a bellboy I paid a hundred bucks to come upstairs and watch a beautiful woman having sex. Do you want to go on? I ask. Yes, you say softly. Even if you are seen? I can do anything in the dark, you say. Even if the whole city is watching.

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