early to tell, but the buzz is that somehow the Post-it Ripper case has invaded this sleepy, peaceful area near the Navasota River reservoir….
Chang popped on a Mozart CD, struggling to escape the news and the stress. He got on the phone and called home to his wife for the second time today. The first time was to inform her of Lucas's having been shot twice and about his being in hospital in serious condition. This time he began by asking how she was doing, asking after the kids, apolo-gizing about the forty-eight-odd hours or so he had seen none of them, ending with a retinue of complaints about the job, the system, Lincoln's pomposity, of having had to fire Frank because of Frank, and the general callousness of the world.
Finally, his wife Kim stopped him, saying, 'Len-len, he is going to be all right. I just know Lucas is going to be all right.'
'How do you know? Have you heard from Meredyth?'
'No, I just have one of those intuitions. I just know.'
'Kim, the man is listed in critical, unstable condition. He's in a coma, and he lost so much blood.' The strings of Mozart filled the cab and traveled through the phone connection to her ear.
'You once told me that coma is nature's way of dealing with shock.'
'Yes, but-'
'And you once told me he's a fighter. He'll pull through.'
'Are you clairvoyant?'
'I have faith, as so you must.'
'How? How do you have faith, Kim, in the face of all…all I have seen on this day? All that this single crazed individual did to so many innocent people, the ripple effect to their families, to the collective fabric…to the soul of humankind?'
'Faith, Leonard. It's all we have left in the end, faith and one another.'
He said nothing.
'My hand is covering yours, my lips cover yours, my arms are folding around you, Len.'
He glanced at her photo, kept always overhead in his car, and he mentally embraced her. 'I am holding you too. I love you, dear one.'
She replied, 'I know… you are a thoroughly married man with three children who love you too. My thoroughly caring husband.'
'True, I love you thoroughly, my wife.'
'Yes, and it makes me happy. When will you come home to us?'
'In two hours.'
'Then you really mean four?'
'All right, four.'
'You sound so tired. How can you work with such necessary precision if they don't let you get rest?'
'I've got to learn to delegate more now that I have someone capable of taking over for me…thoroughly.'
'Dr. Nielsen?'
'I turned over a multiple-murder scene to her, Kim. You have to be proud of me for that. Isn't that what you want for me? Patterson could never be trusted to do things right.'
'I am glad for you, Len-len, so why will it take you four hours then?'
'I'm on my way back to Houston now, but I want to stop over to see how Meredyth is doing, and to see Lucas for myself. Go over his charts. Give Dr. Sanger any slight hope I might find in them.'
'Do you wish me to meet you there?'
'Yes…yes, I do.'
East Houston, the Colony in the Glade home of Paul and Caroline Sanger
Wearing a cleaned and pressed new Colony Security uniform and hat, Mike Wilson pulled up to the Sanger home in his official Colony vehicle with but one thing on his mind-impress, caress, and best Miss Lauralie Sanger from out of town. She hadn't called him back, and his repeated phone calls to the house had gone strangely unan- swered. He went so far as to leave messages on the answering machine. The Sangers were due back today, but when he arrived, he saw no sign of their being home. Perhaps they'd been delayed at some point on their long journey home from Paris.
He skipped up the stone steps to the huge Colony in the Glade home on Will-o'-the-Wisp Court. It was the largest of the models, called the Palatial in the brochures. The Sangers hadn't owned it long. They had reportedly moved off a large estate in North Houston to the Clover Leaf area, the home there having become too much for them to care for since retirement, especially since they had become world travelers. 'Can't imagine the size of the house that got away from them,' he'd told Jake Everly, his friend and superior on dispatch duty today. Mike had boasted that he'd met the young daughter, and he'd wagered they'd be dancing at Cimarron Kate's Cow Bam tonight. If he had to, he'd teach Lauralie how to square-dance.
He rang the doorbell, humming an old tune he now tried to recall the lyrics to. 'If you could read my mind, love…what a tale…what a story… what a…To hell with it. Come on, Lauralie…baby…answer the fucking door. Getting cold out here.'
He rang the bell, rocking on his heels. He watched his breath escape him like cigarette smoke. The thermometer had plummeted overnight, calling for a high of only forty- two. It felt like winter, but it was only late September. Weird for East Texas.
He again rang the bell.
He wondered if he ought to let it slip that he'd been an Ail-American at Tyler High in Tyler, Texas, and would've gone on to play for the University of Texas if not for an injury that sidelined him from the game for life. He wondered if he played it just right, if she wouldn't find that special spot of sympathy in her heart that inevitably led to necking. I can take it from there, he told himself.
Still no answer at the damn door.
An odd faint odor reached his nostrils, but Mike couldn't quite place it. Still no answer. Had she gone back to…where was it? Someplace in California, San Bernardino someplace, she'd said, by way of Phoenix.
She said she'd come in to surprise the folks, so where the hell was she? Maybe she's in the shower. Maybe she can't hear the bell.
He rapped his knuckles loudly against the door and slammed down the brass knocker several times for good measure. Enough to wake the dead, he thought. But still no one came to the door.
He was getting antsy…downright edgy.
Mike yanked at his sagging gun belt and tucked his shirt in better. He took in a deep breath and went to the window to peer into the interior through the sheer drapes. He squinted hard, trying to make out any movement inside. Seeing no one and no movement, but catching his reflection in the glass, he fixed his hair and admired his wide shoulders and thick neck bursting at the collar. Again came the odor he couldn't quite place. He'd been doing battle with a ragweed allergy, and lately could smell nothing, but this pungent on-off odor ran ahead of him. Still admiring his reflection in the window, he now noticed something odd about the complete stillness within. Something looked wrong, and even though he couldn't quite put his finger on it, he felt compelled to stare through at the living room until it hit him, and it did. Through the gauzy haze of the sheer cloth drape, he saw that the big fish tank along the living room wall was as devoid of life and movement as the surrounding room.
Squinting harder, he studied the tank, realizing some kind of strange layer of scum floated across the surface. Staring harder, he realized it was not scum but the residents of the tank-all the fish were lying belly-up at the top of the tank.
'Weird. Something's wrong inside. Lauralie could be in trouble inside.' He imagined saving the damsel in distress and being lauded a hero in the papers-a not-uncommon fantasy since childhood.
He got a whiff of the strange odor again. The cold air seemed to heighten the odor one moment, mask it the next, but there it came again, teasing his nostrils. Then it came to him. Gas! Natural gas!
'There's a gas leak inside!'
He snatched his key chain and his radio off his hip, calling it in. As he hailed help, he found the key he needed, a master for every house in the Colony for emergency use only. This qualified.
Jake Everly came on the radio as he inserted the key.
