April shook her head. The letters couldn’t be from there. It was too weird.
“Are you sure?” she asked.
“Of course I’m sure. I took it to this buddy of mine in the lab at Jay. He popped it under the microscope, and a few minutes later he had a reconstruction. High resolution microscopy. Most of the letters were there. You just can’t see them with the naked eye. Canceling without enough ink,” he added. “The post office out there must be going broke like everybody else.”
April’s eyes widened with amazement. Sanchez went back into the city for her last night? Why did he do that? She shook her head again. San Diego. What did that mean?
“Piece of cake to trace the machine,” Sanchez said helpfully.
“Thank you.” She knew very well how to trace the machine, but who was going to send her to San Diego to do it?
He didn’t move away from the corner of her desk. She could smell the soap and the after-shave he used. Okay, so he got a piece of information for her. Why didn’t he go and do something of his own?
Her temper flared, but it didn’t show because she lowered her eyes demurely. “I can take it from here,” she said.
“Sure.” He sat down at his desk, swiveled away from her, and played with his stack of case folders. Then he swiveled back.
“That drawing he’s got on the bottom. It looks Chinese, doesn’t it?”
“It’s not Chinese,” April said flatly.
“I know. It’s a Harley symbol,” he said.
April took one out and studied it. “It doesn’t look like it.” A biker? Couldn’t be. Bikers didn’t sit around writing weird, menacing letters to women three thousand miles away. It didn’t make sense.
“Yeah, inside the fire part is a wing and a wheel. See it?” Sanchez said.
April nodded doubtfully. “Sort of.”
“The eagle is the Harley-Davidson symbol, and there’s its wing.”
“Maybe,” April said noncommittally.
“I’d bet anything on it,” Sanchez said.
“Well, you don’t have to. It’s my case.”
“True,” he said. He swiveled around so he was facing his desk again. “Just thought it might help.”
It did help. It helped a lot, but she didn’t want him in her head so much. It was hard enough as it was. She switched her attention to the two cases, both from the same place far away but with no connection to each other. She probably wouldn’t have another one that connected with California for the next six years. She checked her watch. It would be hours before she could start trying to reach Sergeant Grove in San Diego to ask if anyone out there was getting letters with a Chinese-looking Harley-Davidson symbol on them. Then he would tell her he was in Missing Persons and didn’t do letters. He’d tell her to check the post office; he’d ask her about the weather again and laugh.
29
Jason was right next door. Emma knew it because she heard the door open and close on a patient at five- thirty. Then at six-fifteen there were two sets of openings and closings, one immediately following the other. She wanted to look through the keyhole to see who it was, but was too far away to make it there in time. Finally she could restrain herself no longer. She moved swiftly into the bedroom and started going through Jason’s drawers.
“What are you looking for?”
“Aaah.” Emma jumped.
It wasn’t a patient going in. It was Jason coming out. He was standing in the doorway watching her.
“Jesus, you scared me,” she gasped. “What are you doing here?” He had his suit jacket on, and looked like he was on his way out. Why had she waited all day to start looking?
He frowned, peering past her at the open drawers. “I wanted to tell you I have to go out of town unexpectedly.”
“Why?” She rammed a drawer shut guiltily.
“I have to speak at the medical school in San Diego day after tomorrow.” He colored as he said it.
She stared at him, stunned. “Why?” she said again.
“What are you doing with my things?” he asked.
“Nothing.” She rammed the drawers closed one after another. “Just putting your clothes away.”
He didn’t move. He was able to stay absolutely still for long periods of time, as if in suspension while his patients talked. Emma hated it when he did it with her. She shook her head impatiently. His lecture arrangements were made months in advance. She studied his face.
“Why don’t you just tell me what’s going on with you and get it over with?” she said. “I know you’re not going out to San Diego to speak.”
“Yes,” he said testily, “I am. I was going to go later in the summer, but now is a better time. I’ll go see your parents. Would you like that?”
Emma closed the last drawer and headed out of the bedroom. No, she wouldn’t like that. She didn’t think for a minute he was going to San Diego. Why would he go there?
“Why don’t I come with you?” she said lightly. “I haven’t been home in ages.”
He followed her down the hall. “What were you doing in my things?” he asked again.
She turned, trying to catch him off guard. “Looking for those letters. What did you do with them?”
“I told you, I gave them to Charles.” His face didn’t say a thing. He had spent years learning how to appear invulnerable. He looked hard as nails now.
“Why?” Emma shook her head at him and moved into the living room.
It had been the dining room when the apartment was much larger. Although it was the living room now, it was lined with books and looked like a study. The former living room had been made into a separate office and waiting room for Jason years before she met him, during his first marriage. The letters were probably in there, she thought. She wasn’t allowed to go into his office unless she was specifically invited. He was a doctor; everything there was confidential.
She looked out of the window. She had wanted to live somewhere else when they got married. Jason didn’t like hearing her voice lessons, or seeing her around during office hours. He said patients got distracted easily and asked intrusive questions about his life that didn’t help their therapy. He wanted anonymity. It made her feel like she was in hiding all the time. She shook her head at the old wound. Why did he marry an actress, then?
It was raining again. She shivered and glanced at a clock. In the living room alone there were nine of them, evidence of Jason’s passion for the keeping of time. Two skeleton clocks, a regulator, a grandfather clock, a mantel clock, a desk clock, and two carriage clocks. They were all at least a hundred years old. All chimed on the hour, and half-hour, though none exactly at the same time. Jason kept them in working order, but they were old and unpredictable and sometimes did what they wanted.
“Why?” she said again. It was almost six forty-five.
“Why what?” Jason asked. He was poised by the door.
“Why did you give Charles the letters?” Emma demanded. The typed words kept going through her head, even when she was sleeping.
The first letter was a list of weres.
The blood rushed to her cheeks. There was something about Jason in the suit, now studying her face. He was looking at her in a way that always made her feel she was some kind of inferior being for not having gone to
