Muse of history, will be the first to die.” John looked up from the letter. “In other words, if he didn’t kill Professor Blaylock and put her body in the peacock exhibit at the zoo, he sure as hell knows who did, and knew about it long before it happened.”
Somehow having it all laid out this way made me stop thinking of it as a story and start thinking of it as personal contact with a killer.
“You look like you just swallowed a dose of castor oil,” he said.
“I guess some part of me kept hoping it was just another harmless nut. I’m not ready for this now.” I shook my head, trying to clear it of the kinds of thoughts I was still prey to; the fear that had been haunting me since I had been hurt.
“Sit down before you pass out, Kelly.”
I obeyed. I took a few deep breaths and felt better.
“Maybe you’ve come back too soon.”
“No!” John’s a big man and it’s hard to make him jump, but I apparently startled him with my vehemence. “Not on your life, John. I’m tired of giving up.” He started to interrupt, but I held up my splinted right hand in protest.
“I’ve moved out of my house. I’ve given up my sleep. I’ve had nightmares on a regular basis for weeks. And there are other problems. I’m often afraid to be alone. I’m scared every time I venture outside of Frank’s house. If a stranger walks up to me, I find myself bracing for a blow. Well, hell if I’m going to just give in to all of that. I’m sure as shit not going to abandon my career. Coming back — even part-time and as useless as I am — is important to me, John. I have to try to get back to some kind of normal life.”
He sighed. “I just don’t like the looks of this. Oh sure, it’s great for the
Coming from John, that was the sentimental equivalent of an orphan’s choir. I tried to lighten things up. “You know I hate the word ‘boyfriend.’”
“Oh, excuse me, your
He started stabbing his blotter with his ballpoint pen.
“What’s wrong?”
“In that list of things you’ve given up? You haven’t given up being bullheaded. I don’t pretend to understand it, but I ought to see it coming. I know when I’m wasting my breath. Go on, get out. Get back to work.”
“I’m sorry you’re worried about me, John.”
“Out.”
There was no use trying to mollify him.
I WENT OVER to the large recycling bin that sits in the newsroom and slowly started emptying it, looking for the blue envelope. The bin is about three feet tall, and an amazing amount of paper had accrued in it during the last twenty-four hours. I was bending deep into it when I heard a familiar voice behind me.
“Stuart Angert sent me over. He’s concerned about your loss of dignity.”
I turned to see Lydia regarding me with amusement. Stuart is a friend and veteran columnist on the paper. He writes a regular feature on the lighter side of life in Las Piernas. I glanced over at him. Judging from his grin as he waved from his desk, being on the phone was the only thing that had kept him from getting a staff photographer to capture the rather unflattering view I had presented to the newsroom. I could just imagine what a nice contribution that would have made to the office Christmas party.
“What are you doing?” Lydia asked.
“Trying to find the envelope my love letter arrived in yesterday.”
“Let me help.” She made sure the City Editor could handle the desk alone for a while, then started lifting papers out by the stackful. “What does it look like?”
I described it. It took some rummaging, but eventually we found it. We were able to make out the zip code on its blurred Las Piernas postmark. Lydia looked it up. It was the zip code for the college post office.
The phone on my desk rang. I limped over and sat down as I picked it up left-handed.
“Kelly.”
“Good morning, Cassandra.”
I froze. The voice was not human. The caller was using some sort of device that masked or synthesized his own voice into an unearthly, low-pitched sound. Clearly understandable, totally unrecognizable.
“Thanatos?” I asked it as calmly as I could. I stood up and tried waving my right arm in an attempt to get Lydia’s attention. It hurt like hell.
“You will believe me next time, won’t you?” he said. His voice was almost whisper-soft, mechanical.
“I believed you this time,” I fibbed, stalling, trying now to get anyone to look at me. For once, everyone in the newsroom was minding his or her own business.
“You failed me. There wasn’t anything in the newspaper about it.”
“I’ve been away from work for a while.”
“Yes. You were hurt. Your foot is in a new cast. And although you’re out of the sling, there’s something wrong with your arm.”
“Sweet Jesus,” I whispered. I tried tapping the splint on the top of my computer monitor to try to get someone to look my way.
