Mark and Lydia seemed uncertain, but when Mark asked, “Shouldn’t you call the police?” Stuart and I laughed so hard, they lost it, too.
When we had all calmed down a little, I said, “Hell, I guess I should call the police. But I think I’ll call Frank first. I don’t even like to think of what he’s going to be hearing from the other folks at work.”
Frank, as it turned out, didn’t think there was anything funny about what had happened. Far from being worried about what kind of teasing he’d get at work, he insisted on being with me the rest of the day.
“But I’m going to see Gillian this afternoon.”
“Fine,” he said. “I’ll be nearby.”
I looked at the envelope while we waited for the police. Postmarked just before I took my leave of absence from the paper. “At least I made the little bastard wait,” I said.
“I suppose I should cover this,” Mark said, which started Stuart howling again.
Then I felt my temper kick in — not at Stuart, but at Parrish. “God damn it,” I told Lydia, “Parrish sent that to me here hoping to humiliate me in an office full of coworkers. He thought I’d be terrified, while all of you would be wondering what my problem was. Well, I’m sick of it. Enough of playing defense. Time for the offense to take the field.”
Stuart, overhearing this, said, “She’s back, ladies and gentlemen!”
Lydia and Mark, on the other hand, cautioned me. “Don’t do anything foolish,” Mark said.
I turned to my computer and logged on. “I’ll cover my own underwear, by God!”
“Put that slogan on the masthead!” Stuart said.
I started writing:
What sort of loser thinks he can terrify a woman with a pair of her own underwear?
Perhaps smarting from his previous failures, Nick Parrish has brought out his ultimate secret weapon. The man (I use the term loosely) has attempted to frighten me with an unlaundered pair of my own unmentionables.
Nicky obviously has no idea what sort of horrors await the average woman on wash day.
Here at the
Nicky, who’d have thought you were a panty rustler?
Yes, I know you’d prefer to go down in history as Mr. Evil Incarnate, and you’ve certainly done your best to make that moniker stick. But the world of the media is everchanging, Nicky, and I’m afraid that here in the newsroom, that Evil Incarnate business has already been forgotten — you’re doomed to be referred to as the Bloomer Bandit.
Lydia, reading it over my shoulder, shook her head and walked off.
But I was enjoying myself too much to care. It felt great to imagine what Parrish’s face would look like when he read it. Here he was, trying to terrify me, and if things went my way, I’d make a laughingstock out of him.
I was on the verge of forwarding it to John, when for some odd reason, I suddenly I thought of Parzival. Parzival, whose good intentions did not prevent bad things from happening as a result of his actions.
Suppose Parrish decided to prove that he should be taken seriously? What if, instead of being utterly cast down and immobilized by my needle-sharp prose, the man grew so enraged he killed another dozen women to make us fear him again? Would I be able to live with myself then? Did I think for a moment that he would burst into tears and turn himself in, saying “I’ll confess, just tell Irene Kelly to stop being mean to me?”
Then again, should I censor myself because in my heart of hearts I was afraid of Nick Parrish?
I printed out a copy of the story and gave it to Lydia, but told her I wasn’t ready to file it yet, that I wanted a little time to think it over. I saved the story on a floppy disk, and then deleted it from the main system. If I changed my mind, I could hand over the floppy.
I called John at home to tell him what had happened with the package. “You’re probably going to have some guys from the crime lab in here,” I said.
“Oh, hell, Kelly, not even a full day back, and you’ve got the cops walking around in the newsroom.”
As it turned out, the police weren’t at the paper for long. Once they had taken the package and its contents, asked me a few questions (“When did you last have the garment in your possession?”) and determined that the package had been mailed and not hand-delivered, they were on their way. They even mentioned that I’d probably be getting the van back soon.
I went to lunch with Frank, who seemed more quiet than usual.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“Lydia told me about the commentary you wrote.”
I tried to read his expression, and couldn’t. “I’m sorry she did. I was going to tell you, but I don’t suppose you’ll believe that now.”
“I believe you.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“The problem is that you’re infuriating a serial killer. Or in this ‘everchanging media world,’ had you truly forgotten that?”
“What do you suppose the answer to that question is?”
“Then what the hell were you thinking of?”
“I’m tired of playing it his way all the time, Frank.”
“There are experts in forensic psychology who are working on these cases, Irene. People who study this type of guy for a living are on the task force. You ever think it might be a good idea to contact one of them before mouthing off to Parrish?”
