Dead and Gone - Andrew Vachss [115]
“So nobody would ever see your pictures?” I asked him.
“Nobody outside my circle,” he replied. “On some rare occasion, I might exchange pictures of my boys with others … like myself. But never for money.”
“You mean you’d trade pictures? Like baseball cards?”
The man’s eyes hooded again. “You have a crude way of putting things, sir. I know you do not mean to be offensive.…”
I nodded my head in hasty agreement. I didn’t want him to stop talking. The Mole’s head was buried in his papers, but I could feel him telling me to watch my step.
“My boys enjoy knowing they give me pleasure. And it gives me pleasure to show their love for me to other men who believe as I do.” He took another sip of his drink. “To be sure, there may be an element of egotism in exchanging photographs with others. I am proud of my … achievements. But—and I am sure you understand—one must be very discreet at all times.”
I gave him another nod of agreement. I sure as hell understood that part.
“There are those who produce pictures of children for purely commercial purposes, ” he continued. “Not those who share my … life-style, if you will. But no true boy-lover would buy such pictures. They are so impersonal, so tasteless. One knows nothing of the boy in such a picture. Not his name, his age, his little hobbies.… Commercial photographs are so … anonymous. Sex is only a component of love. One brick in a foundation. Do you understand this?”
“I understand,” I told him. It was true that Satan could quote Scripture, as the Prof was always saying. “Would a person ever destroy his pictures … like if he was afraid there was a search warrant coming down or something?”
“A true boy-lover would never do that, no matter what. I can assure you that if the police were battering down my door at this very instant, I would not throw my memories into that fireplace.”
“But the pictures are evidence.…”
“Yes. Evidence of love.”
“People get convicted with evidence of love,” I told him.
A smile played around his lips. “Prison is something we face all the time. A true believer in our way of life accepts this. Simply because something is against the law does not mean it is morally wrong.”
“It’s worth going to prison for?” I asked him.
“It is worth anything and everything,” he said, rapt in the purity of his love.
“The people who … exchange … pictures of boys. You’d know how to get in touch with them?”
“We have a network,” the man said. “A limited one, of course. You see the computer?” he asked, tilting his head toward the screen.
I nodded.
“The device next to it, with the telephone? It’s called a modem. It’s really quite complicated,” the man said, “but we have something called an electronic bulletin board. You dial up the network, punch in the codes, and we can talk to each other without revealing our identities. And photographs can be transmitted the same way.”
I gave him a blank look.
“As I said, it’s really quite complicated,” he said smugly.
I could feel the Mole’s sneer clear across the room.
“Could you show me?” I asked.
“Very well.” He sighed. He got up from behind the desk, bringing his wineglass with him, and seated himself before the computer. He took the phone off the hook and placed it facedown into a plastic bed. He punched some numbers into a keypad and waited impatiently, tapping his long fingers on the console. When the screen cleared, he rapidly tapped something on the keyboard—his password, I guessed. “Greetings from Santa” came up on the screen in response, black letters against a white background now.
“Santa is one of us,” the man said, by way of explanation. He typed in: “Have you any new presents for us?” The man hit another key and his message disappeared.
In another minute, the screen blinked and a message from Santa came up.
“Seven bags full,” said the screen.
“His new boy is seven years old,” said the man. “Are you following this?”
“Yes,” I told him. Santa Claus.
The man went back to the screen. “This is Tutor. Do you think it’s too early in the year