I never wanted to see another telephone book or stack of green bar printer paper for as long as I lived.
According to the window at the back of the conference room, it was dark outside. We had been at it hard and heavy for a few hours now, and I had lost all track of time. Since, in Ben’s words, I wasn’t a “duly authorized law enforcement officer,” I wasn’t allowed to make any of the actual calls. Instead, my presence had been utilized cross-referencing listings in various phone books against computer printouts and screens full of data on an ancient, out-of-focus monitor.
I was tired, I had a headache, my eyes were itching, and I wanted a cigarette; but, most of all, I was depressed. We didn’t seem to have accomplished a thing. In fact, we were still perched firmly in the middle of square one, and someone else was redeeming a free turn card.
The only positive thing to come out of it thus far was that I hadn’t been dwelling on Eldon Porter’s resurfacing. Well, not too much.
“Stick a fork in me, I’m done,” Ben announced with a tired yawn as he sat back in his chair. He and Detective McLaughlin had been contacting other police departments within the range of possible zip codes. What I had been overhearing of their conversations had not sounded promising.
“Anything at all?” I asked aloud.
My elbows were resting on the table in front of me, and I was holding my head tight between my hands, palms on either side of my face. My brain felt as if it was about to explode, and I couldn’t be certain if it was from staring at all the shrunken print, something more sinister, or a combination of the two. I had my eyes closed and was slowly massaging my temples, trying to will the pain away.
“Nada,” my friend returned. “Not a goddamned thing. And that was the last one, so it’s all we’re gonna get tonight.”
“What about all these numbers from the phone books?” I asked. “Shouldn’t we start calling them?”
“And say what, Row?” he contended. “Hi, this is Detective Storm with the city police department, and I’m just wonderin’, are you by any chance a crazed serial rapist?”
McLaughlin half snickered and began massaging her own temples. “Storm’s right. We can’t just start calling people arbitrarily without something more to go on. Besides, what if we did happen to call the right guy? Then he’d know we were getting close and he’d disappear.”
“Yeah, remember the ‘South Side Rapist’?” Ben added. “When things got hot and heavy around here Rabbitt took the whole ‘go west young man’ thing ta’ heart. The last thing we need ta’ do is call the guy and tell ‘im that we’re on to ‘im.”
“There’s got to be something we can do,” I appealed.
“There is,” my friend answered. “Call it a night and come back at it fresh.”
I opened my eyes as I twisted my arm around and looked at my watch. “But it’s only a little after five.”
“Yeah, and it’s freakin’ Christmas Eve, Rowan,” he said. “Remember? Santa Claus, reindeer, divine births of babies in mangers, goodwill towards men? You know, all that holiday stuff? We’ve done all we can do today.”
“What about Debbie Schaffer’s parents?” I pushed the button he had revealed earlier in the day.
My friend frowned at me, hard. The kind of thin-lipped scowl that told me instantly that I shouldn’t have ignored the sign next to the button that read, “Caution: Do Not Press.”
“Like I said before,” he snarled, “it’s gonna be a real disappointin’ holiday.”
“Sorry, Ben,” I apologized, “I shouldn’t have gone there.”
“Yeah, well now that you’ve been there, do me a favor and remember that.”
“Okay, you two,” McLaughlin spoke up. “I’m going to leave you to beat each other up by yourselves. I’ve got a husband and daughter waiting at home for me.”
“Big plans?” Ben asked without looking up.
“Scott always makes the traditional Turducken for dinner, and then we just relax and enjoy being a family.”
“What the hell’s a Turducken?”
“A turkey that’s stuffed with a duck that’s stuffed with a chicken. Oh, and there’s andouille sausage in there too.”
Ben finally cast an eye over his shoulder. He had a classic “give me a break” look creasing his face when he said, “I was serious, Chuck.”
“I’m serious too,” she told him with a grin. “Scott’s from Baton Rouge. It’s a Cajun thing.”
“No friggin’ way. A chicken in a duck in a turkey. Bullshit.”
“Yes way. I’m not kidding.”
“I’ve had Turducken before, Ben,” I interjected. “She’s really not kidding.”
“No shit. Well maybe you two should get together then.”
“Why’s that?” I asked.
“Well why stop there,” he submitted with a shrug. “Shove that damn thing inta’ the bird ya’ served the other night and ya’ can have yourself one big Osturduckenrich.”
The Trans Siberian Orchestra was filling the cab of my truck with their particular brand of no-holds-barred holiday music when I merged onto Highway 40. I had the volume set mid-level so as not to drown out my cell phone if it was to ring. My headache was still with me, but thankfully it had settled to an almost ignorable dull thud somewhere in the vicinity of the right rear portion of my skull. Of course, had it not been for the two-fold reason of A) I liked the song, and B) I liked the song enough that it was helping keep my mind from dwelling on things I’d rather not think about, I would have turned the radio off completely.
Unfortunately, there was still one item that my mind insisted it be allowed to ponder, and that was the fact that I still couldn’t shake the sensation of being watched. The feeling had just grown worse as the day wore on. I’d been able to keep it at bay, for the most part, since I was intensely occupied with the cross-referencing tasks. However, now that I was alone and somewhat relaxed, even the frantic rhythms of the music weren’t enough to drive away that annoying itch at the base of my neck. I physically shivered, trying to shake off the feeling, and took another long glance in the rearview mirror.
There wasn’t much to see. Just a wide span of blackness, marred here and there by a pair of headlights- nothing on my tail. No one was purposely following me that I could tell. Of course, I wasn’t any kind of expert on the subject. But it still looked clear as far as I could see.
Even so, the feeling was still there.
I punched in the lighter on the dash and fished a cigarette out of my breast pocket. This would be the third one since I’d walked out of police headquarters. I spit out a hollow cough and noticed tightness in my chest then stuck the butt between my lips anyway. I really needed to do something about this. Maybe now that I had connected the recurrence of the habit with one of the victims it would be easier for me to break.
The lighter popped and I snatched it out of its receptacle, touching the glowing end to the cigarette and taking a deep drag. After replacing the device I took another puff and tucked the smoldering roll of paper and tobacco between my fingers.
“You know that’s really gross, don’t you?” a painfully familiar voice bled through the music.
I tried to ignore the presence. I’d seen enough for one day, and I simply wasn’t sure I could take any more. I continued to stare straight out the windshield.
“I said, you know that’s really gross, don’t you?” the voice insisted.
I still pretended not to hear.
“Hey, I’m talking to you, Rowan!” Debbie Schaeffer demanded my attention again.
Without a word, I reached over to the controls on the radio and moved the volume up a few notches. Almost instantly the speakers let out a staticky pop and went dead.
“I said I’m talking to you, Rowan!” she asserted.
“Well, I’m not talking to you,” I finally muttered under my breath.
It didn’t really matter that I was mumbling. I didn’t even have to speak for her to hear me. The simple fact that I acknowledged her with my thoughts was enough to set her in motion.
“And why not?”
