“I think you and Mary will get along fine,” I said to Stinger.
Stinger grinned. “Travis tells me she’s full of piss and vinegar.”
“She is,” I agreed. “She’ll give you a run for your money, Mr. Dalton.”
“She’s already asked him about helicopters,” Travis said.
“She wants a ride?”
“Yeah, but I mean, she wants to fly them, too.”
“God help us.”
Jerry came upstairs for his smoke, and Stinger and Travis soon left. They hovered, shining a bright light down on the roof, watching my progress to the access door the way someone might watch to make sure his date got safely inside the house. I waved to them and headed back down to the newsroom, reflecting on how much more tolerable this shift was because of their visits, outrageous as some might deem their method of arrival.
They helped me to get through this sentence Wrigley had passed on me, even allowed me to secretly thumb my nose at him. If Travis felt reassured that I was safe by checking up on me in this way, I could live with it.
The truth was, I did feel less vulnerable. Yes, I now parked close to the building and Jerry — on his own initiative — escorted me to and from the van. But these precautions were becoming routine. And each night as I passed the Box, I was becoming more and more certain that it had only been a burglar after all, and not Parrish.
The drive home at the end of these late shifts was always virtually free of traffic, but, like the newsroom, a little too shadowy and quiet. This night, fog had started to roll in, and as I drove down dark and empty, misty streets, I found myself thinking of science fiction shows where the protagonist somehow is the sole survivor of a neutron bomb attack or annihilation by aliens. He has the town to himself, but no one to share it with.
Well, I thought, I have someone to share it with — I should call Frank. But I knew that just hearing the phone ring would be enough to make him feel a few moments of fear that I was in trouble, so I decided to wait. I was only ten minutes from home.
I kept hearing a soft, intermittent thumping sound from the rear of the van, and worried that the LPPD had damaged it somehow when they towed it to the impound yard. The exact location of the noise was elusive; I couldn’t quite figure out what might be causing it.
I turned the radio on. A talk show was in progress. I listened to a so-called therapist berate a caller, who responded with masochistic groveling. It made me appreciate Jo Robinson. I switched to a jazz station.
I breathed a sigh of relief as I pulled into the driveway. I turned the radio off and was unplugging the cell phone from its dashboard charger when I noticed that its display showed that I had voice mail.
Shit! I should have checked it sooner — I pressed the button that retrieves messages, wondering if Wrigley had called to check up on me after all.
There were two messages. This did not bode well.
“First message,” the automated voice of the phone service said. “Sent today at 12:11 A.M.”
Not Wrigley, but John. Good news, actually. His message was that Wrigley had agreed to change my schedule to a solid week of late shifts, Monday through Friday. I would still only work part-time, but I didn’t have to try to get myself out of bed on three hours’ sleep to go in on Saturday morning. I would have the weekend off.
I listened to the overly pleasant recorded voice on the service saying, “To repeat this message, press one. To delete this message, press two. To save this message . . .”
I pressed two.
“Second message. Sent today at 12:16 A.M.”
Expecting that the second one would be John trying again, I wasn’t ready for what I heard.
Parrish’s voice.
“It has been so long since we’ve talked, my dear. I really have missed you, but we’ve both been busy, haven’t we? Tell me, is your phone cellular or digital? I did leave a
“I wonder if you’ve taken a good look at yourself lately? You’re looking a little tired. Not getting enough sleep? Careful, you’ll wear yourself to the bone.”
More laughter. I opened the door and got out of the van and stumbled toward the house.
“Now, even though you locked your doors like a good girl this time, I do need to let you know that locks won’t stop me. I’ve left something a little perishable — or should I say, ‘Parrishable’? — for you in the van.”
I turned back toward the van and shouted for Frank.
“I think Ben Sheridan will enjoy it,” Parrish went on. “Tell him I did. And tell him that I’m about to take you out of his reach.”
There was a click. After a slight pause, the pleasant recorded voice on the voice mail service said, “To repeat this message, press one. To delete this message, press two. To save this message . . .”
But pleasant voices were beyond my hearing at that moment. I tossed the phone on the lawn as if I had suddenly found myself handling a snake; I hurried to open the sliding side door on the van.
Frank ran out of the house with Deke and Dunk. “Irene?” he asked frantically. “What’s wrong?”
I pointed toward the phone as I crawled into the van and saw him go to pick it up.
“Irene, no!” he shouted, as I opened the refrigerator.
Too late.
A little light went on inside the tiny, aquamarine-colored space.
