I could feel the heat rush to my face.
Ranger gave me the wolf smile. 'I lied about it being tonight,' he said.
* * * * *
AT LEAST Joyce was gone for a while, and I didn't have to worry about her following me to the 7-Eleven. I trudged upstairs to my apartment, made myself a peanut butter and Marshmallow Fluff sandwich on worthless white bread and channel surfed until it was time to go see Helen Badijian.
Most of the time I enjoyed my aloneness, relishing the selfish luxury of unshared space and ritual. Only my hand held the television remote, and there was no compromise on toilet paper brand or climate control. And even more, there was a tentative, hopeful feeling that I might be an adult. And that the worst of childhood was safely behind me. You see, I said to the world, I have my own apartment. That's good, right?
Tonight my satisfaction with the solitary life was tempered by a bizarre message still scrawled on my door. Tonight my aloneness felt lonely, and maybe even a little frightening. Tonight I made sure my windows were closed and locked when I left my apartment.
En route to Olden I did a two-block detour, checking my mirror for headlights. There'd been no sign of Joyce, but better to be safe than sorry. I had a feeling this was a good lead, and I didn't want to pass it on to the enemy.
I reached the 7-Eleven a few minutes before ten. I sat in my car a while to see if Joyce would miraculously appear. At 10:05 there was no Joyce, but from what I could see through the store's plate glass windows there was also no Helen Badijian. A young guy was behind the register, talking to an older man. The older man was waving his arms, looking royally pissed off. The young guy was shaking his head, yes, yes, yes.
I entered the store and caught the end of the conversation.
'Irresponsible,' the older man was saying. 'No excuse for it.'
I wandered to the back and looked around. Sure enough. Helen wasn't here.
'Excuse me,' I said to the clerk. 'I thought Helen Badijian would be working tonight.'
The clerk nervously looked from me to the man. 'She had to leave early.'
'It's important that I speak to her. Do you know where she can be reached?'
'Girlie, that's the hundred-dollar question,' the older man said.
I extended my hand. 'Stephanie Plum.'
'Arnold Kyle. I own this place. I got a call about an hour ago from the cops telling me my store was unattended. Your friend Helen just walked out of here. No notice. No nothing. Didn't even have the decency to lock up. Some guy came in to buy cigarettes and called the cops when he figured out there was no one here.'
I had a real bad feeling in my stomach. 'Was Helen unhappy with her job?'
'Never said anything to me,' Arnold said.
'Maybe she got sick and didn't have time to leave a note.'
'I called her house. Nobody's seen her. I called the hospital. She isn't there.'
'Have you looked everywhere in the store? A storage room? The cellar? Bathroom?'
'Checked all that out.'
'Does she drive to work? Is her car still here?'
Arnold looked to the young guy.
'It's still here,' the young guy said. 'I parked next to it when I came in. It's a blue Nova.'
'Must have gone off with one of her friends,' Arnold said. 'You can't trust anyone these days. No sense of responsibility. A good time comes along, and they kiss you good-bye.'
I turned my attention to the clerk. 'Any money missing?'
He shook his head no.
'Any sign of struggle? Anything knocked over?'
'I got here first,' Arnold said. 'And there wasn't anything. It looked like she just waltzed out of here.'
I gave them my card and explained my relationship with Helen. We did a brief behind-the-counter search for a possible note, but nothing turned up. I thanked Arnold and the clerk and asked them to call if they heard from Helen. I had my hands on the counter, and I looked down and saw it. A book of matches from the Parrot Bar in Point Pleasant.
'Are these yours?' I asked the clerk.
'Nope,' he said. 'I don't smoke.'
I looked at Arnold. 'Not mine,' he said.
'Do you mind if I snitch them?'
'Knock yourself out,' Arnold said.
At the risk of seeming paranoid I checked my rearview mirror about sixty times on the way home. Not so much for Joyce, but for the guys who might have spooked or snatched Helen Badijian. A week ago, I'd have drawn the same conclusion as Arnold . . . that Helen took off. Now that I knew about chopped-off fingers and scalpings I took a more extreme view of events.
I parked in my lot, did a fast look around, inhaled a deep breath and bolted from my car. Across the lot, through the rear entrance, up the stairs to my apartment. The hate message was still on my door. I was breathing hard,
