Dear Irene

I sighed, looking down at my latest orthopedic fashion accessory. Fiberglass.

I was recovering from a run-in with a group of toughs who wanted to rearrange my bones. I was healing, but my emotions could still surprise me. This was my first week back at work, and I found I had to be on guard against sudden bouts of extreme frustration.

“Sorry, Lydia. I’ll cheer up in a few minutes. Things aren’t going the way I planned. Thought I’d be running around, no casts, no slings, no splints. My day to be wrong. I’m also cranky because I feel useless around here.”

“Just be patient with yourself, okay?”

“I’ll try. But patience and I have been estranged for many years.”

She laughed. “I don’t think you’ve been introduced.”

Mr. Irene Kelly

Las Piernas News Express

Dear Mr. Kelly,

I am writing again to tell you that something must be done to stop the United States Government’s heinous

MIND CONTROL

experiments. I am just one of

THOUSANDS

of persons who, after being

INVOLUNTARILY

incarcerated in a government mental hospital under the

PRETEXT

of being under observation, was subjected to

SURGERY

in which a computer chip was embedded under my skin. This chip is used by the government to send

MESSAGES TO MY BRAIN

.

Fortunately, I received an earlier model, so THEY DON’T KNOW that I’m writing to you. The newer models can tell them EVERYTHING you are thinking at all times. PLEASE HELP US. If you don’t, there will be BIG TROUBLE for all concerned…

Big trouble. Frank has complained that sometimes I seem to go around looking for trouble. Not a comforting thing to hear a homicide detective say, but maybe he’s right. After all, being a reporter often involves looking for somebody’s trouble. But it’s not supposed to become my trouble. My news editor, John Walters, tries to impress this point on me every so often.

Irene Kelly

Las Piernas New Express

Dear Irene Kelly,

I was dismayed to learn that Las Piernas does not have a city song. I am a songwriter (still waiting for my big break) and I know I could write a terrific song for our city. However, I would like to be fair about it, so I came up with the idea of a contest. I asked around City Hall and found little interest there until I happened to talk to a Mr. P.J. Jacobsen who said that maybe the newspaper could sponsor a contest. Mr. Jacobsen said you were just the person to contact. He said to be sure to tell you that this was the least he could do for you after that article you wrote about him last August…

Poor P.J. “Sleepy” Jacobsen. What a lousy attempt at revenge. The previous August, I had brought the public’s attention to the slipshod way in which Sleepy ran his office as Assistant City Treasurer. I guess he hadn’t heard that old adage that says you shouldn’t pick fights with people who buy ink by the barrel. The Express buys it by the tanker truckload.

I WASN’T CONCENTRATING at all now, just flipping through the envelopes, bored silly. Among other injuries, my right shoulder had been dislocated and my right thumb had been broken, so I was slow as molasses on the keyboard. Over the last few days, I had managed to peck out a few commentary columns and a couple of obits. Lydia sent some rewriting my way, nothing that was on fire.

MY THOUGHTS DRIFTED to Frank, and the conversation we had as he drove me back to work.

“You know what you need?” he had said, glancing over at me. “You need a good story to work on. Something that will get your mind off your injuries.”

“I’m not much use as a reporter right now. Besides, the most intriguing stories don’t just knock on the paper’s front door, looking for a reporter. You have to go out and find them. And I’m stuck at a desk.”

Nobody’s right all the time. As I said, it was my day to be wrong. That November afternoon, trouble came looking for me. Trouble got lucky. There was a story waiting for me on my desk. It was over two thousand years old, but it would become big news in no time.

2

I DIDN’T SEE IT until I made a second pass through my mail. It arrived in a plain blue envelope, addressed to me in care of the paper, the address on a white computer label.

Dear Miss Kelly,

You will always be the first to know, because you will be my Cassandra. Who will believe you? I will.

The time has come for us to begin.

The first Olympian will fall on Thursday. The hammer of Hephaestus will strike her down and the eyes of Argus will be upon her remains.

Clio will be the first to die.

Forgive me my riddles, but it must be so. Soon you will be able to see the truth of it, Cassandra. But who will believe you?

Your beloved,

Thanatos

Oh brother. Here was a letter from no less a figure than Thanatos, the ancient Greeks’ name for Death himself. My beloved. And I was going to be his Cassandra, the prophetess who spoke the truth but was never believed. Charming. I looked through the rest of my mail. Little of worth.

Having nothing better to do, I read the Thanatos letter again. It had been years since I had read anything about ancient Greek stories or mythology. I couldn’t remember Hephaestus or Argus. Thursday — tomorrow. My brows