Dear Irene

12

I WAS STILL SCREAMING my head off when it opened again, not more than a few seconds later. Molly, red-faced, was leaning over the opening, saying, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Brutus, unhappy with both of us, shot up past me and out of the basement. I gained a modicum of control over myself and did the same.

“I thought I heard you call to me,” she said, only slightly less upset than I was. “It’s so darned dark in this hallway, I accidentally knocked the door shut. I’m so sorry, honey, I know I scared the bejesus out of you. Are you all right?”

“Yes, I’m fine,” I said. “Let’s get out of here.”

As soon as we were out of the house, she said, “So there wasn’t anybody down there after all?”

The optimist.

“I wish I could say there wasn’t.”

She stared at me a moment, the color draining from her face. “She’s dead?”

I nodded, then put an arm around her big shoulders and walked out to the front yard with her, leaving the gate open. I stayed there; she kept walking, her eyes on Brutus, who waited in her own front yard.

I used the cellular phone to call Frank’s pager and left a message on his voice mail, asking him to meet me at the address on Sleeping Oak. I dialed the City Desk next. Let John bitch about the order of the calls, I thought. Lydia answered on the fourth ring. I stood in the ankle-deep grass, watching Molly walk back to her house, looking twice as old as she had just moments before. I told Lydia to call the police, but to mention to them that I had already called Frank’s pager. I told her I would be waiting in front of the house. I heard John yelling, “Is that Kelly?” in the background, told Lydia I didn’t want to run up the bill, and hung up.

The phone rang almost immediately. I thought it might be John, but it was Frank.

“I’m on my way,” he said. “I’m not too far from you.”

“Hurry,” I said, looking through the gate, suddenly noticing that there were long leafy stems growing out of a place at the far corner of the yard. The stump of an oak tree.

“You think she might still be alive?” he asked.

At my feet, another trail of ants.

“No. But hurry.”

BY THE TIME I finished writing my contribution to the story on Rosie Thayer, I was fighting off a serious case of the megrims. The story itself made me feel down, but that wasn’t all that was getting to me. The general atmosphere at the paper was tense. I learned that Lt. Carlson had argued with Wrigley and others over a new issue: whether or not the police should be allowed to put a wiretap on my phone line. So far, Carlson was being forced to live with the paper’s refusal.

I felt restless and decided to get some fresh air. Let the chronicling of cruelty be left to others for a while. I put on my coat and stepped outside.

Holiday decorations lined the street, as they had since Thanksgiving. I walked aimlessly, listening to the sounds of the downtown streets – the rumble of passing traffic, snippets of pedestrians’ conversations, horns echoing off tall buildings, the sharp staccato of a jackhammer at work in the shell of an old building. I heard a street musician playing “Fever” on a flute. The same guy played this same song every day, so that by now “Fever” seemed to be the anthem of this block on Broadway. He was getting better at it. Some days I noticed the improvement, heard the notes one by one; some days the flute’s song was nothing more to me than all the other sounds of the street. As I walked that afternoon, whenever I thought of Rosie Thayer, I tried to listen for the flute again. It worked for a little while. I turned up the collar of my coat against the chilly air and kept moving.

I walked east a couple of short blocks to Las Piernas Boulevard, and then south a couple more, past the old post office and bank buildings and found myself standing in front of Austin Woods & Grandson Books, a used bookstore not far from the paper. I know a remedy when I see one, so I pushed the front door open and stepped inside.

The bookstore occupies a huge brick building that has withstood both earthquakes and city redevelopment plans over the last century. I’ve been told that it was once home to a market, then a car dealership, and later a machinery warehouse, but I’ve only known it in its present incarnation.

Once inside, I stood still for a moment, letting the store’s warmth and cathedral quiet welcome me. Skylights in the high, arching ceilings overhead brought softened sunlight into the cavernous rooms. Around me, wooden crates were nailed together to form walls of bookcases. Ten feet high or higher they stretched, holding row upon towering row of musty tomes. Each cover and spine seemed to long to be held again, the way a widower might long for his late wife’s embrace.

I took a deep breath, inhaling the distinctive old-book fragrance of yellowed paper and aged binding glue. Images of dark basements and bloodstained offices faded. I walked down the aisles, reading titles, and eventually began smiling to myself. You can find just about any book in this store, provided you aren’t really looking for it.

The shelving system was designed by Austin Woods, who has a mind that apparently views the universe of printed matter in a unique way. Books should not be subjected to silly things like alphabetical order or genres; even a division between fiction and nonfiction was unnecessary, since the latter might have less to do with the truth than the former. This whimsical approach was not to his only son’s liking; Louis Woods refused to work in the store and went on to start one of Las Piernas’s oldest accounting firms.

In one of those twists of fate that have long caused parents to go gray and balding, Louis’ own son, Bill, rebelled against the accountant’s orderliness. Bill spent most of his childhood helping his grandfather; Austin rewarded this loyalty by giving him half-ownership and adding the “ & Grandson” to the name of the store.

O’Connor had introduced me to the place, and taught me that the best strategy was to relax and browse and let something intrigue you on its own; if you really wanted a specific title, just ask one of the Woods and they’d miraculously make a beeline for it. O’Connor sometimes asked for a certain title just to watch Austin or Bill do this; he figured the entertainment value was worth the price of a book.

Austin is a dried apple of a man, with a face that can hardly be found among his wrinkles. At ninety-six, he spends most of his time sleeping at an old desk in a cluttered back office, glasses atop his head and buried in wisps of thin white hair, some favorite tome opened and serving as a pillow beneath him. Bill, his wife Linda, and his daughter Katy carry on the business, which has attracted a faithful clientele over the years.

I browsed for a while, then made my way over to the counter, where the fourth generation was at work. Katy Woods looked up from a beautifully bound volume of The Master of Ballantrae. She’s about nineteen, very pretty, but shy. “Hi, Irene,” she greeted me. “I didn’t think I’d see you until Christmas Eve. Are you doing some early Christmas shopping?”

I laughed. “I suppose I should, Katy. In fact, you’ve just given me an inspiration. I’d like to purchase one of Stevenson’s other works to give to my former brother-in-law.”

“The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde?”

“You know me too well.”

She called to her mother, who took over at the register while Katy unerringly steered me directly to the book, which was next to a 1948 high school science textbook. All the other works on the shelf appeared to be science fiction or relatives of science fiction.

“I give up,” I said. “Why’s the textbook here?”

“This science book has a few pages in it that espouse some pretty silly ideas about radiation. Austin says this shelf is where we should have works about what happens when scientists don’t fully understand the impact of their discoveries.”

With Katy’s help, I found an old edition of Jane Austen’s Emma, and decided to buy it for Barbara, quite sure that she would never get the hint it might offer about sticking one’s nose in where it doesn’t belong.

Katy found a few books on mythology for me as well. Hermes, or Mercury, was pictured on the cover of one of them. It sparked a memory, and I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out the message slip I had taken from E.J. Blaylock’s office. Hobson Devoe.

“Could I use your phone for a local call, Katy?”

She nodded, and I followed her back to the front counter. The phone was made of black metal and had a rotary dial. “I’ll bet it really rings, too,” I said.

She smiled. “Yes. I like it better than an electronic chirping.”

I called the number on the message slip. I got a recording. A woman’s silky voice, saying, “Thank you for calling the Mercury Aerospace Museum. The museum will be closed for the holidays from Monday, December 17 through Tuesday, January 1. The museum will reopen on Wednesday, January 2. Museum hours are ten A.M. to three P.M. on weekdays; other hours by appointment. To make an appointment, please press the pound sign, located below the number nine on your Touch-Tone phone. If you are calling from a rotary dial telephone, or wish to speak to an operator, please stay on the line.”

I waited. And waited. I feared my call was a captive in that strange electronic dimension where transferred calls wander without direction until the end of time. I finally heard a voice say, “Mercury Aircraft. How may I direct your call?”

“I’m trying to reach Hobson Devoe-” I began.

“One moment,” she interrupted, and transferred me right back to the recording about the museum.

I hung up, muttering to myself, but softly enough to hear Katy clear her throat.

“I couldn’t help overhearing,” she said. “You want to talk to Hobson Devoe?”

“Yes. Do you know him?”

“I’m assuming there aren’t too many Hobson Devoes in Las Piernas. But if he’s the one who works at Mercury, he’s one of my great-grandfather’s friends.”

“Austin knows Hobson Devoe?”

She nodded. “Austin’s taking a nap now, but when he wakes up, I could tell him you need to talk to Mr. Devoe. I’m sure he’d be happy to pass a message along.”

I took out a card and wrote my home number on it. “Please ask him to tell Mr. Devoe that it’s urgent that I speak to him. I’d consider it a great favor.”

She waved a hand in dismissal. “Remember that column you and Mr. O’Connor wrote about the store? Back when the city wanted to tear down this building?”

“It made more sense for the city planners to put the convention center where it is now, anyway,” I said. “They probably wouldn’t have stayed with the plan to close the store down.”

“Well, that’s not how we see it. You kept us from being closed down while they made up their minds. Austin will be happy to do a favor for you. Mr. Devoe is in here quite often. Austin talks to him about Las Piernas in the good old days. I like to listen to them – I love history. I’m thinking of majoring in it.”

“Are you dating anybody special these days, Katy?” I asked, thinking of Steven Kincaid. She blushed, then, as she rang up my purchases on the antique cash register, proceeded to describe her boyfriend. I had to admit that he sounded like a perfect match for her.

She paused and looked at me over the top of the register. “He knows how to find the books,” she said, pushing down the keys that made the bell ring, the cash drawer open, and the total-with-tax appear behind dusty glass.

Well, that settled that.

I went along to other downtown shops and picked up gifts for almost everyone else on my list. I bought a couple of pairs of sweatpants for Frank from Nobody Out, a sporting goods store. Helen, my favorite salesperson there, was working that afternoon, and I briefly considered introducing her to Steven. She’s a college student, very bright, and gorgeous. Closer to Steven’s age than Katy. She’s not stuck on herself, and I can’t understand why.

Then I thought about the book I had just bought for Barbara and decided to stay out of the matchmaking business. I wished her happy holidays and left without mentioning available males.

I lugged all of my purchases back to the Express and piled them into the Karmann Ghia. I drove home, then walked next door to talk to Jack. I needed his help with my plans for a gift I had in mind for Frank, and he was willing to lend a hand. As we drove off together toward the animal shelter, he asked me if I was sure Frank wanted a dog, given all the work Frank did on the yard.

“Oh, sure. We had a long talk about dogs the other night. I know he wants one, or I wouldn’t do this.”

“Don’t you think it would be better to let him pick out the one he wants?”

“Well, I did wonder about that, but I think I’ve got a pretty good idea of what kinds of dogs he likes best.”

“Hope you’re right.”

“If he doesn’t like the dog I pick out, I’ll just tell him it’s my dog.”

For some reason, Jack found this funny.

There were lots of people touring the pound that day, the last day the city animal shelter was open before Christmas. After Jack and I went through all of the kennels, and he had finally convinced me that owning eighty-seven dogs would not be practical, we found a huskie-shepherd mix that won my heart. I paid the fees and bought a leash. Fortunately, the dog was already neutered, so we didn’t have to wait three days to take him. He was not quite done with being a puppy; the shelter said he was about a year old. He had a long, creamy coat, a dark muzzle, and big feet. He was very affectionate.

“I’ll tell you what, Irene,” Jack said as we tried to get the dog to crawl in behind the seats. “If Frank won’t let you keep him, bring him over and I’ll adopt him.”

That made me feel much more at ease, and I thanked Jack. I was mortified when the dog showed his gratitude by getting carsick on Jack’s right shoulder on the way home, but Jack graciously took it in stride.

“What are you going to name him?” Jack asked when we finally pulled up in front of the house.

“Frank gets to name him. His family has a knack for naming pets.”

If Jack thought that was an odd compliment to give to the Harrimans, he didn’t say so. I gave the pooch a good-bye scratch on the ears and let Jack take him home. Knowing Frank’s schedule, I figured the ever-observant detective could be kept from discovering the new dog in Jack’s backyard for a day or two at the most. And not wanting to abuse Jack’s generous offer to temporarily stable the mutt, I wasn’t willing to leave the dog at his house much longer than that. So we arranged that Jack would keep an eye on the dog until late the next night, when Frank and I got home from the party. Jack’s a night owl, so he was likely to be awake no matter when we got home.

I made a quick trip to the local market and bought dog food, bowls for food and water, and a rawhide chewbone. Jack had changed shirts and was playing with the dog by the time I brought all of this by his place.

“By the way, Jack, did Frank ask you if you had seen anyone around our place late last night?”

“Yes, he did. But no, I’m sorry, Irene. Your sister called me and we went out to grab something to eat at Bernie’s last night. I guess it was right around the time the jerk broke into your house. I feel bad about it.”

“Forget it. It’s not as if you’re supposed to be our guard service.”

With effort, I held back any comment on the dinner with Barbara. The only time I ever wished Barbara would marry Kenny again was when I wanted Jack to be safe from her. She had met Jack on one of her visits to our house, and I knew she was attracted to him. Jack didn’t seem to be able to figure out that she had the red hots for him, and never seemed to treat her as anything more than a friend. Still, these late-night dinners…

“Well, I’m glad you’re getting a dog,” he was saying. “I know it doesn’t make you perfectly safe, but it can’t hurt. And I think this fellow will be good company.”

I thanked Jack again for dog-sitting and went home. Cody sniffed curiously at my clothes, but was easily distracted when I fed him.

FRANK CAME HOME about an hour later, and we had a quiet dinner together. We share silences fairly easily, but I noticed that this one had an edge to it. He wasn’t eating much, but he was looking at his plate more than he was looking at me. I wondered if he had reconsidered our truce.

“Did you learn anything more about Thanatos?” I asked.

He shrugged, then said, “Is this for publication?”

“Does it really matter?”

He sat back and pushed his plate away. “Yeah, I guess it does. Carlson is hot under the collar. John Walters really ticked him off today, so if I tell you something and it ends up in the paper, I’m in trouble. He threatened to take me off the case at least once an hour this afternoon.”

“He’s mad at John and he’s taking it out on you?”

“Right now, anything or anyone that reminds him of the Express can send him into a fit. Needless to say, I remind him of the Express. And it’s not just John. It’s Wrigley as well – the lieutenant is convinced that a wiretap would lead us to Thanatos.”

“I wasn’t involved in that discussion, but I understand why the paper said no.”

“Other papers have said yes under similar circumstances.”

“Not without a lot of soul-searching. In the only case I now of, the reporter’s life was being threatened.”

“Oh, I see. And in this case, it’s just a few unfortunate members of the public that are in danger. The paper would protect you, but not E.J. Blaylock or Rosie Thayer – or whoever is next.”

“That’s not the problem and you know it. I get calls from sources on that phone, people who would clam up on me for good if they ever thought the police could trace or record their calls. And I don’t like the idea of the cops listening in on my calls all day long.”

“You could set up an outgoing, separate phone line – a secure line without a tap – and tell your callers you’ll call them right back.”

“Because the call they’ve just made is being recorded and traced? I’m sure they’d be in a real hurry to thank me for that. I don’t find myself on Wrigley’s side very often, but this time I agree with him. A police wiretap would have a chilling effect on our sources, and in turn, on our ability to report the news.”

He sighed, looked like he would say more, then stood up and started clearing the table.

“Frank – talk to me.”

He hesitated, then sat down again. After a moment, he said, “I had to listen to arguments about this all damned afternoon, and I guess I’m just tired of hearing about it. The funny thing is, I’m arguing with you, and taking a position directly opposite the one I took with Carlson.”

“What do you mean?”

“I wasn’t as hot as he was on the idea of a tap – although for different reasons than yours. From what you’ve told me, Thanatos doesn’t stay on the line long enough to trap it. And from what we’ve seen of the guy’s methods, I can’t believe he’d be careless enough to call from his home or office. He’s a man who makes plans. He’s probably calling from pay phones or using an electronic device to hide the origin of the call. Even if he’s not, I knew what the paper would say when Carlson started talking about a tap, and hassling the Express won’t help us with this case. I figured the request for that kind of surveillance would only create a greater strain in the department’s relations with the paper.”

“You were right. I heard a rumor that the lieutenant is going for a warrant.”

“He’s already tried it. Judge wouldn’t give it to him. That didn’t improve his humor any.”

“I’m sorry you’re having to take flak off him on my account. Is there anything you can do to avoid his temper?”

“Just ride this out. And try not to give him grounds for any complaints. I know I can trust you not to report our private conversations, but Carlson doesn’t know you as well as I do. So he’s going to assume that anything that’s in the paper came straight from me to you. I’ll talk to you, but you’ve got to keep it out of the paper for now.”

“That’s not going to solve your problem. What if Mark Baker or one of the other reporters hears something from another cop?”

“Look, that could happen whether I say anything to you or not. I just want to have a clear conscience.”

Assured that I’d keep quiet for the time being, he told me what he had spent his day on whenever Carlson wasn’t bitching at him. Frank and Pete had talked to neighbors, to the realtors who were selling the house, and made phone calls to the people who owned the house. There was no sign of forcible entry at the house. They were tracking down anyone who might have had a key. They were talking to anyone who might have had any excuse to go near the house.

Just as Molly had said, the real estate listing on the house had expired three weeks ago, and the owners were considering finding a new agent. The realty company that had listed the property was trying to talk them out of switching. Frustrated, the owners had decided to leave the house off the market until after Christmas; they were planning to fly out in January to talk to other realtors. All of the people who had been contacted by the police claimed they hadn’t been in the house during the last three weeks. The Las Piernas Board of Realtor’s lockbox was still on the house, the key to the house still in it.

“Any of these people know Rosie Thayer?”

“No, at least they say they don’t. Hernandez is still working on cause of death.”

That surprised me. “Is there really any doubt?”

“Yes, there is. Hernandez doesn’t think she starved or died from dehydration. She’s been dead for a while, but with the ants – well, I won’t go into that at the table.”

“Thanks.” When it comes to the coroner’s work, there’s still a big gap between what Frank can stomach watching close at hand and what I can stand to hear him refer to in more than a vague sort of way.

As we finished clearing off the table and started to wash the dishes, something he said stayed with me. I frowned down into the sinkful of suds and scrubbed a plate. “How long is ‘awhile’? More than two days?”

He reached over and stilled my hands, making me realize that I had done a fairly good imitation of Lady Macbeth as a scullery maid. His voice was gentle when he said, “She was dead before you got the letter.”

“You’re sure?” Not too steady. Sort of squeaked it.

“Definitely.” He pulled me into his arms, and even though I was getting lemon dishwashing soapsuds on his white shirt, held me there. “He never really gave anyone a chance to save her – not by sending you the letter, anyway.”

“Why is he involving me in this?”

“I don’t know. Publicity, for one thing. He does things to frighten you, it comes across in your stories, and other people feel afraid. Maybe it makes him feel more powerful to have the whole city running around in a panic because of him.”

I leaned back. “You think I’m helping him? That we shouldn’t publish the letters?”

He hesitated, then said, “It’s a useless question. It’s not up to me.”

I knew that meant he thought we shouldn’t, but figured he’d had all he needed of arguments about the police and the press for one day. I let it drop.

I WENT TO WORK the next morning, even though it was Saturday. Like other people at the Express who were scheduled to have time off on Monday and Tuesday, which were Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, I was trading my weekend for the holidays. The weekend before Christmas is, however, a nearly impossible time to reach anyone by telephone. I wanted to contact officials at Mercury Aircraft, to try to persuade someone to help me look for a link between Rosie Thayer and E.J. Blaylock’s mothers. A couple of phone calls confirmed that I would have to wait until Mercury’s offices reopened on Wednesday – if I made any progress that soon. Corporations that do work for the government are not hasty to let reporters snoop around their plants, let alone ferret through confidential – and legally protected – personnel files. Big companies are often sensitive about their public image, but the fact that two murder victims were children of women who once worked for Mercury Aircraft wouldn’t give me much to push with. Mercury had long been one of the largest employers in town, and my finding out that a couple of local residents had links to it would not scare anyone into giving me an interview.

In the meantime, my imagination was going wild: I wondered if the two mothers had worked on some secret military project together. But why would Thanatos attack their daughters and not the workers themselves? Why wait until years after the workers had died? And even if Mercury Aircraft turned out to be the link between the victims, how was I linked to them? I was still confounded by the fact that Thanatos had singled me out for his contact with the paper.

I kept hoping Hobson Devoe would call.

I also wondered if Thanatos would call to gloat over all the attention he was getting with the second murder.

I had plenty to keep me busy in the meantime. Fortunately, the political beat had slowed a little as the holidays approached, or I would have been hopelessly behind in my work on City Hall stories. I did some catching up.

After a couple of hours in the office, I noticed that some of my coworkers were avoiding me. Stuart Angert seemed to notice it, too.

“It’s not your breath, in case you wondered,” he said, sitting on a corner of my desk.

“I wondered. Glad you stopped by. So what is it?”

“It’s the letters. Same thing happened with me over Zucchini Man. Only this is much worse.”

“Zucchini Man?”

“Let me tell you the story. We had a couple of slow news days one summer, and Wrigley gets a brainstorm. Decides we should have a contest among local amateur gardeners, see who can grow the biggest zucchini. You ever plant zucchini?”

“Frank has the green thumb, Stuart. If he’s smart, he won’t ask me to do more than look at the garden. If the army had known about me, they could have saved a lot of misery by using me instead of Agent Orange.”

“Me, too. I am the bane of the botanical world. Nevertheless, Wrigley decided this contest should be run from my column. I didn’t like it, but what the hell, he’s the boss.”

“Ever stop to think of how much trouble that phrase causes around here?”

“Plenty. And boy, did I get plenty of trouble. Zucchini, I thought, were these skinny little Italian squash I bought in the grocery store. Six, seven inches long, max. ‘Mail in your entry,’ I foolishly said. We were inundated with them.

“As you probably know – I didn’t, but learned very quickly – left to grow on the vine, zucchini can best be described with words like humongous and gargantuan. People couldn’t afford to mail them; some of them weighed as much as a watermelon. So they’d bring them into the paper, hand-carrying them to the security desk. Geoff was calling me from the lobby every few minutes, asking me to come down and get these three-foot, twenty-pound vegetables.”

“So you became known as Zucchini Man?”

“No, Zucchini Man came on the scene a little later. As you can imagine, I quickly tired of lugging the things around, so I was happy when the contest deadline arrived. I declared a winner as quickly as possible, gave out the check for one hundred dollars in prize money, and prayed I’d never see another squash of any kind. I had become the butt of a lot of newsroom jokes.

“However, this one participant was very unhappy with the outcome. He was certain that he should have won. He kept bringing in zucchinis. They would be accompanied by long, rambling notes that didn’t make much sense. He signed them ‘Zucchini Man.’ Geoff warned me that the guy who dropped them off was wearing a tinfoil hat.”

Stuart did not need to explain the tinfoil hat. They are worn by a small segment of our downtown population, and can be seen in many other cities. To the people who wear them, the hats are not a fashion accessory, but a device whereby they attempt to deflect the radio waves that are interfering with their thoughts.

“And people in the newsroom started avoiding you because of that?”

“No, it was when he managed to get past Geoff one day and into the newsroom itself. He knew me from the picture on my column; headed straight for me. This guy has a huge zucchini with him, probably one of the twenty-pounders. He was carrying the zucchini on his shoulder like a baseball bat. Geoff had already called up to warn me, and he had called the police, but it took them a little while to get here.

“Zucchini Man calmly asked me where his million dollars was, his prize for the biggest zucchini. I kept my cool, told him that we were getting the editor’s signature on it at that very moment, and if he would just have a seat and wait, it would soon be here. Everything was going fine until Wildman Winters decided to play John Wayne.”

Wildman Billy Winters, a former staffer, was a walking Bad Hemingway Contest. He had none of Papa’s talent for writing, but that didn’t stop him trying to emulate the lifestyle. His successes were generally limited to accolades like “person who made the ugliest scene at the party.” I winced thinking of what he would have added to the situation Stuart was describing. “Not the best defender you could have asked for.”

“Right,” Stuart said. “He tried to grab Zucchini Man from behind, but he didn’t make it. Zucchini Man ducked, then came up swinging. Walloped Winters but good with this great green gourd. Knocked him out cold; Winters ended up in the hospital for a few days. The Zucchini Man was going berserk then, whomping one surface after another with this zucchini. He didn’t try for anyone else, just objects, but it scared everybody and made a huge mess. Pulp all over the place.

“The cops got there about then. The LPPD was smart, sent a couple of guys who knew Zucchini Man. They greeted him like he was an old friend. When he saw them, he calmly set the remainder of the zucchini down and walked out with them. He paused near the door and asked me to send his check to him in the mail.”

“Not to speak ill of the dead, but I’m not so sure that Winters wasn’t a bigger menace to society.”

“I agree. You ask me, a guy like Winters was scarier than a guy who’s proud of his vegetables. But what I was trying to explain to you was that for a few weeks after this event, some of the people in the newsroom avoided me. They sort of blamed me for the guy being here, and for Winters getting hurt. It was as if they thought I might attract other people like this Zucchini Man – standing next to me was like standing next to a bull’s-eye.”

“I see what you mean. If Thanatos is coming by my house, he might visit the newsroom.”

“Right. You’ve already brought him too close. He calls you here. He sends things to you. Apparently watches you now and then.”

“And he’s more dangerous than someone with a large squash.”

“Don’t get too discouraged.”

“Thanks, Stuart.”

He started to walk away.

“Stuart?”

“Yeah?”

“What happened to Zucchini Man?”

He smiled. “He was lucky. Too many people said Winters went after him first, and Winters didn’t have too great a reputation with the cops, so Zucchini Man wasn’t charged with anything. We ran his picture in the paper; turned out his family had been looking for him. They got him on some meds that worked for him, and they make sure he stays on them. He’s still around – he helps out with a community garden program over on the west side of town.”

I DIDN’T GET a call from Hobson Devoe or from Thanatos. When I got home that evening, I took a nice, hot bubble bath. It was relaxing, but my thoughts kept returning to Stuart’s story about Zucchini Man and Billy Winters. Stuart didn’t need to tell me what had happened to Billy Winters. Everyone on the staff knew about the night when Winters got himself good and lit, drove off in a drunken rage, and died in a head-on collision. The Wildman himself might have thought of it as going out in style, if he hadn’t also killed a family of five in the other car.

I’d rather ride home with someone wearing a tinfoil hat.