this? Why? I can’t answer any of those questions.’
‘We have to find him,’ Yvette says.
‘The police have to find him. That’s their job,’ I point out.
‘Maybe,’ she concedes. ‘But the police didn’t create him; we did.’ I glance over at her and study her face for a second. Her profile is lit by the street lights,
and the silhouette looks almost regal. Her chin is set, and I can tell that she has taken this on as a mission of hers. She is clear that if we do not find
De Sade
she will view it as her
fault.
‘That’s bullshit,’ I say. ‘We didn’t create this sick asshole. If NextLife didn’t exist, he’d still be killing girls; he just wouldn’t be
practicing.’
‘We’re making it easier.’
‘How? He still has to go out and find them. He still has to actually do the murders.’
‘I’m not talking about logistics,’ Yvette says. ‘I’m talking about mentality. We’re making it easier for people to see what it’s like; to see whether
they like it.’
‘You could say that about almost every technology on the Internet.’
‘Maybe that’s right.’
I shake my head. ‘I want to catch this guy as much as you do, but I’m not putting this on you or me, or the company. This is all on the guy who’s doing it. It stops there;
we’re not responsible for how people use the site. You understand that?’
‘Yeah,’ she says. ‘I guess.’ She doesn’t sound very convinced. ‘We still need to catch him.’
Yvette gets out of the car at my house and comes in for a drink; we both need one. Ma is awake and sitting in the kitchen, her oxygen tank parked next to her chair, the hose
slipped over her back and snaked around under her nose. I’m thankful, at least, that she is wearing a housecoat. Not that it would make much difference to Yvette; she’s known Ma a long
time.
‘Hey, Mrs C.,’ Yvette says as she walks in, goes over to the refrigerator and pulls out two beers. ‘How’s it going?’
‘Help yourself,’ Ma says. There’s a tone in her voice, but I know it’s for effect. It took some time, but Ma eventually came around to liking Yvette years ago.
‘Thanks,’ Yvette says, ignoring the tone. She walks over and sits at the table with my mother, looks at the mug between my mother’s hands. ‘Coffee at night?’
‘Helps me sleep.’
‘Decaf?’
‘Irish.’
‘Ah.’
I shake my head. ‘Ma, the doctors said you’re supposed to be off that stuff.’
‘Doctors said I was supposed to die last winter. You want me to start doing now everything they tell me I’m supposed to do?’ She looks at Yvette. ‘I never had much use
for rules,’ she says with a shrug.
‘One of the few things we have in common,’ Yvette says with a wry smile.
My mother narrows her eyes at Yvette, examining her face. Yvette stares back, refusing to back down. I think this might go on all night. ‘You having sex with my son?’ Yvette is
taking a sip of her beer when Ma asks the question, and she snarfs some of it up on the table, drawing a look of satisfaction from my mother.
‘Ma!’ I yell.
‘What?’ She gives me the look of the falsely accused. It’s one I’m sure she practiced in the mirror for hours when she was younger, for all manner of occasions. She looks
back at Yvette. ‘Well?’
Yvette has recovered and waves me off as I begin to protest again. ‘No, Mrs C. We’re not having sex.’
‘What, you don’t like my boy?’
‘I like him fine.’
‘You just like girls better?’
That draws another laugh from Yvette. ‘That would be easier, wouldn’t it? No, I like guys, but we’re just friends.’ She looks at me. ‘And he hasn’t
tried.’
I am starting to feel very uncomfortable with this conversation. ‘We’ve got a long day tomorrow,’ I offer, in a futile hope to move off the subject. Ma is having none of it,
though.
She turns back to me. ‘You ain’t tried?’ she barks at me. ‘Why not?’
‘Ma—’
‘Don’t
Ma
me.’ She
‘We have to find him,’ Yvette says.
‘The police have to find him. That’s their job,’ I point out.
‘Maybe,’ she concedes. ‘But the police didn’t create him; we did.’ I glance over at her and study her face for a second. Her profile is lit by the street lights,
and the silhouette looks almost regal. Her chin is set, and I can tell that she has taken this on as a mission of hers. She is clear that if we do not find
De Sade
she will view it as her
fault.
‘That’s bullshit,’ I say. ‘We didn’t create this sick asshole. If NextLife didn’t exist, he’d still be killing girls; he just wouldn’t be
practicing.’
‘We’re making it easier.’
‘How? He still has to go out and find them. He still has to actually do the murders.’
‘I’m not talking about logistics,’ Yvette says. ‘I’m talking about mentality. We’re making it easier for people to see what it’s like; to see whether
they like it.’
‘You could say that about almost every technology on the Internet.’
‘Maybe that’s right.’
I shake my head. ‘I want to catch this guy as much as you do, but I’m not putting this on you or me, or the company. This is all on the guy who’s doing it. It stops there;
we’re not responsible for how people use the site. You understand that?’
‘Yeah,’ she says. ‘I guess.’ She doesn’t sound very convinced. ‘We still need to catch him.’
Yvette gets out of the car at my house and comes in for a drink; we both need one. Ma is awake and sitting in the kitchen, her oxygen tank parked next to her chair, the hose
slipped over her back and snaked around under her nose. I’m thankful, at least, that she is wearing a housecoat. Not that it would make much difference to Yvette; she’s known Ma a long
time.
‘Hey, Mrs C.,’ Yvette says as she walks in, goes over to the refrigerator and pulls out two beers. ‘How’s it going?’
‘Help yourself,’ Ma says. There’s a tone in her voice, but I know it’s for effect. It took some time, but Ma eventually came around to liking Yvette years ago.
‘Thanks,’ Yvette says, ignoring the tone. She walks over and sits at the table with my mother, looks at the mug between my mother’s hands. ‘Coffee at night?’
‘Helps me sleep.’
‘Decaf?’
‘Irish.’
‘Ah.’
I shake my head. ‘Ma, the doctors said you’re supposed to be off that stuff.’
‘Doctors said I was supposed to die last winter. You want me to start doing now everything they tell me I’m supposed to do?’ She looks at Yvette. ‘I never had much use
for rules,’ she says with a shrug.
‘One of the few things we have in common,’ Yvette says with a wry smile.
My mother narrows her eyes at Yvette, examining her face. Yvette stares back, refusing to back down. I think this might go on all night. ‘You having sex with my son?’ Yvette is
taking a sip of her beer when Ma asks the question, and she snarfs some of it up on the table, drawing a look of satisfaction from my mother.
‘Ma!’ I yell.
‘What?’ She gives me the look of the falsely accused. It’s one I’m sure she practiced in the mirror for hours when she was younger, for all manner of occasions. She looks
back at Yvette. ‘Well?’
Yvette has recovered and waves me off as I begin to protest again. ‘No, Mrs C. We’re not having sex.’
‘What, you don’t like my boy?’
‘I like him fine.’
‘You just like girls better?’
That draws another laugh from Yvette. ‘That would be easier, wouldn’t it? No, I like guys, but we’re just friends.’ She looks at me. ‘And he hasn’t
tried.’
I am starting to feel very uncomfortable with this conversation. ‘We’ve got a long day tomorrow,’ I offer, in a futile hope to move off the subject. Ma is having none of it,
though.
She turns back to me. ‘You ain’t tried?’ she barks at me. ‘Why not?’
‘Ma—’
‘Don’t
Ma
me.’ She
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