Bones (46 page)

When it was finished, the cook urged Jason to take one end into the dining room while he held the other end in the kitchen. What they whispered back and forth, I'll never know, but it caused a great deal of amusement on both sides.

With some difficulty, and only with promises to return soon, were we able to leave without eating a meal. Jason was quiet on the way home, and when we pulled up in front of the house, he said, "Don't tell Gilly what I said about her, okay?"

"Okay," I said, relieved to see some sign of brotherly affection in him after all.

Jack told him that he'd ask Giles if Jason could go with him to the Italian restaurant some time.

"That would be fun," he said, but he seemed subdued, perhaps not believing Jack would follow through.

He thanked us and said good-bye, taking the tin can phone with him. As he walked into the house, I saw him speaking into one end, while holding the other to his ear, absorbed in some private conversation with himself.

** CHAPTER 46

FRIDAY AFTERNOON, SEPTEMBER 15

Las Piernas

Nicholas Parrish surveyed his new workroom with pride. A vast improvement over the last one.

Again, he had to give his little Moth credit. His Moth had seen that he was hampered in his work, and had suggested this alternative. This was infinitely more suitable to his needs. The workbench was larger, there was a sink nearby, and even--to his delight--a freezer.

The dwelling itself was more comfortable than his last, but that was of little matter to him. He was not a soft man, after all. Like any other artist, he was most concerned with the space in which he would do his creative work. He had spent several days getting this place shaped up to his satisfaction--emptying the freezer of its previous contents and so on--and now--voilr! Perhaps it was not a studio worthy of his masterpieces--Alas, could there ever be such a place?--but he would be able to carry on very well here.

He could not help feeling a sense of pride in the way things were going lately. Irene was actually seeing a shrink! Obviously, he had her on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Delightful! What good were shrinks when one's terrors were real? She was terrified, all right! Just as he had promised.

Witness the woman's reaction to those bones! It made him wish he had stayed around to see what had happened when she got the roses.

He frowned, remembering Jack Fremont's arm around her. She was too free with her favors, to say the least. The woman was a real whore. Ben Sheridan, Jack Fremont, and God knows who else. Probably her own cousin.

He sat musing over what he might have to do in order to purify her of such defilement.

He stopped himself before the richness of those imaginings caused him to become overly excited. There was a great deal of work to do.

He studied his maps, mentally going over the routes he had already driven, considered once more all the possible hazards along the way.

He changed the plates on the Honda, and chose a blond wig for today's disguise. He had already called the newspaper, had already filled out the vacation hold form for the post office. The tools he would need for the first phase of his work were already in the trunk of the car.

He looked again at the small piece of paper the Moth had given him and felt a frisson. How had this information been obtained? The Moth was up to something. He did not believe the story the Moth had given him about this.

He disliked having to expend energy thinking about the Moth, especially at a time like this. He must stay focused.

He looked again at the markings on his map. Most were in blue. His eye was drawn to the single red mark.

He knew its exact address: 600 Broadway.

The Wrigley Building.

Home of the Express.

** CHAPTER 47

SUNDAY MORNING, SEPTEMBER 17

Las Piernas

I hesitated outside the front door of the Wrigley Building. The arrangements Jo Robinson had made were not even close to what I had in mind when I had asked for a "return to work," and my pride was smarting. I knew Frank was watching from the Volvo, waiting to make sure I got safely inside. For a good ten minutes or so, I seriously contemplated going back to the car and asking him to drive me straight back home. Then I'd get Jo Robinson and Wrigley on a conference call, and tell them both to shove it.

Wrigley gave me twenty hours back at the paper, all right. He scheduled me to work a part-time graveyard shift, from ten at night until two in the morning on Tuesday, Thursday, and Friday--after deadline. To add a little additional punishment, I was also scheduled to work Saturday and Sunday from seven to eleven in the morning. That meant that on Friday nights, I had exactly five hours off before I'd have to report the next morning.

John gave me less than forty-eight hours of warning, saying my first shift was going to be the next Sunday morning. "I guess Wrigley assumes I have no plans?" I said. "That I'm just sitting here waiting for him to invite me to take complaint calls at the Express?"

"Do you have plans?" John asked.

"Yes, but not until later on Sunday," I admitted.

A phone call to Giles's office had finally resulted in getting Gillian's new number--his secretary had to find it for me--and Gillian had agreed to meet me on Sunday afternoon. Gillian was working as a waitress now, at a small cafe that served breakfast and lunch. "Just part-time," she had said. "I'm off after two o'clock."

"So you can come in?" John asked me.

"Yes, I'll be there. I guess he's determined to make me grovel."

"I don't like it, either, Kelly, but up until now, the fight has been to keep him from firing you. It's going to take some pressure from the board to get him to ease off on the hours. You know I'm doing whatever I can for you."

Knowing that John and others were making efforts on my behalf made me decide to go ahead and push the front door open that Sunday morning.

The building was all but empty, which, I decided, was not so bad. I didn't look forward to facing everyone who had seen me go haywire.

I could hear the phones ringing before I reached the top of the stairs. You work a Sunday morning, you listen to people bitch. They don't check to see which number is the one for circulation, which one for the city desk. So they dial whichever number they see first, and whoever sits in the newsroom takes complaint calls.

The calls were being picked up on the second or third ring though, and soon I heard voices. So I wouldn't be alone after all.

I stepped into the newsroom to see Mark Baker and Lydia Ames answering phones. I was puzzled. Neither of them should have been working that morning. Lydia waved me to a seat next to her.

Another line rang. I answered a call from a man who claimed that the guy who delivered his paper that morning had tossed it into a mud puddle. The man went on at length, never seeming to need to come up for air; the only thing making it bearable was watching Lydia and Mark comically gesturing and rolling their eyes as they each answered another call.

I finally managed to end the call with Mr. Mud Puddle just as Stuart Angert entered the room with a box of breakfast rolls and four cups of hot coffee.

"Welcome back!" he said.

"Thanks, but what are the three of you doing here at this ungodly hour on the Lord's day?" I asked.

"John told us what Wrigley was pulling," Mark said, "so we decided to change a few schedules of our own--with John's approval, of course."

"We didn't want to miss your first day back," Lydia said.

"You shouldn't be sticking your necks out for me like this," I said. "What if Wrigley decides to stop by?"

"He won't show up," Mark said. "He's scared to death of you."

Another round of calls came in. By nine o'clock they had slowed enough to allow us to talk to one another for more than two minutes at a time. I apologized to Stuart for wrecking his monitor.

"Feel free to use any of my other desk equipment the next time you want to launch a missile," he said. "I love the new computer monitor. Everybody's jealous of me."

"No, we're jealous of Irene. We'd all like to know how it feels to throw something at Wrigley," Lydia said.

"Not as wonderful as you'd think," I said.

This led to some all-too-serious "How are you really?" talk. I was evasive. They got the hint, and acting against journalistic instinct, let up.

At ten-thirty, I realized my shift was nearly over, and I hadn't even started sorting my mail. Lydia offered to help while Stuart and Mark covered the phones. I was able to give Lydia a few items that would need immediate dayshift follow-up. Some of it, I'd ask John to let me work on at home. Most of it could wait, or could be answered with a letter. I decided to save answering my e-mail for my first graveyard shift. One of the beautiful things about the Internet is that it's open 24/7.

Among the envelopes was a strange lumpy package with no return address. Lydia eyed it doubtfully and said, "Now what are your strange fans sending you?"

I used a letter opener to slit it open and dumped the contents out with a flourish.

I watched a pair of panties fall onto the desk.

"My underwear," I said blankly.

For an awful moment, all I could see and hear was Nick Parrish in the mountains, taunting me, telling me he had my scent.

Then I heard Stuart laughing uproariously.

For a brief moment, I felt humiliated.

Then he said, "Jesus, Kelly, I've heard of having your laundry sent out, but this is ridiculous."

The humor of the situation struck me--Stuart was right, it was just a pair of underwear, after all. I started laughing, too.

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 Express, picturing him hatching this grand scheme as he carried my dirty drawers around with him for three months has given rise to all sorts of hilarity.

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.