The Net is paradise for lurkers: nameless, no-scent psychopaths. That's the way camouflage works—by blurring the outlines. Most people look to the edges for definition—when it's not there, they don't see anything at all.

But camouflage doesn't help when the other guy's willing to defoliate the whole jungle.

There's a few heavy players working the fringe now. They climb on the Net, usually one of those "kids only" boards, and they get right into the pen pal thing. It never takes long. One of the freaks engages them, chats a bit, makes some promises, and sets up a meet. The freaks especially love airport hotels—in­and­out's their game anyway. They check into the room and, in a little bit, a kid shows up. Whatever they thought they were cybering with—a little Latino boy, a freckle­faced white girl—doesn't matter. But before they can get down to what they do, the door pops open and there's a real big, real angry man there. Turns out—it always turns out—that the kid is his kid. Somebody's gonna get hurt. Real bad. But if the freak spills out enough oil, fast, maybe he can put out the fire before he gets burned himself. All it costs is money. It's the old badger game, updated cyber­style. And the freaks never run to the Law.

      —False Allegations p. 172