“What?” he asked.
“I didn’t have time to get anything written up,” I said, hoping he wouldn’t figure out what I was trying to do.
“Well, you’ll know better next time.”
He hung up. Just then, three different people took notice, Lydia among them. Their expressions plainly said they thought I was having some kind of fit.
I swore as I hung up the phone.
“What’s wrong?” Lydia asked.
“That was him!”
“Who?”
“Thanatos. The letter writer.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.” I sat down and shook my head. Fought down nausea. The phone rang again and I just stared at it. Lydia picked it up.
“Irene Kelly’s desk… No, she’s right here, Frank.” She handed the phone to me.
“Frank? Frank, he just called me. He’s seen me. He knows I’m wearing a cast and that my arm is hurt—”
“Whoa, slow down. Who called you?”
“Thanatos. The letter writer. The killer.”
“He called you at the paper?”
“Yes.”
He was quiet for a moment, then asked, “Did he threaten you?”
“No. He just kept talking about next time—”
“Tell me exactly what he said.”
I repeated the conversation. This time, there was a long silence.
“I don’t like it,” he said at last.
“I’m not so hot about it myself. We found the envelope, by the way. He mailed it from the college post office.”
“Are you okay? You sound upset. I can understand why—”
“I’ll be all right. Just shook me up.”
“How about if I come by in a few minutes? I need to talk to John anyway.”
I felt some of my tension ease. “I’ll warn him you’re on your way.”
We said good-bye and I went off in search of John. He was talking to Stuart but broke off when he saw me hobbling in his direction. He met me halfway. I told him what had happened. He was scowling when I said, “Frank’s on his way over. He said he needed to talk to you.”
“Yeah, well, I need to talk to him, too.”
I didn’t know what to make of that.
I spent the twenty minutes or so that I waited for Frank trying to figure out why the letter writer had contacted me. I logged on to the computer and called up an index of stories I had written in the past six months. Nothing seemed to fit; no stories on ancient or modern Greece, nothing on mythology, nothing on the college or its professors. My stories mainly focused on local politics and government; outside of some implausible connection to ancient Greek city-states, it didn’t make sense that I should be the person he contacted. Why write to me? I wasn’t even well-versed in mythology.
I made a note to ask Jack for recommendations on mythology books.
I searched the computer for stories that might have appeared in the
Although this first round of inquiries didn’t prove fruitful, it did have the effect of helping me to calm down. I was still unnerved by the idea that Thanatos had watched me, but by the time Frank arrived, I had stopped feeling like my knees were made of gelatin.
Geoff, the security guard for the building, must have let John know that Frank was on his way to the newsroom, because he stepped out of his office just as Frank entered the room.
“So, when’s the wedding?” he boomed.
“It’s up to Irene,” Frank answered, making his way to my desk. John met him there with an extended hand.
“I haven’t had a chance to offer my congratulations, Frank.”
Frank thanked him and shook his hand. At the same time, he studied me.
“I’m okay,” I said, answering the unspoken question.
