Lullaby

Chapter 13

Back in the newsroom, Wilson from the International desk wants to know if I've seen Henderson today. Baker from the Books desk says Henderson didn't call in sick, and he doesn't answer his phone at home. Oliphant from the Special Features desk says, «Streator, you seen this?»

He hands me a tear sheet, an ad that says:

Attention Patrons of the French Salon

It says: «Have you experienced severe bleeding and scarring as a result of recent facials?»

The phone number is one I haven't seen before, and when I dial, a woman answers: «Doogan, Diller and Dunne, Attorneys-at-Law,» she says.

And I hang up.

Oliphant stands by my desk and says, «While you're here, say something nice about Duncan.» They're putting together a feature, he says, a tribute to Duncan, a nice portrait and a summary of his career, and they need people to think up good quotes. Somebody in Art is using the photo from Duncan's employee badge to paint the portrait. «Only smiling,» Oliphant says. «Smiling and more like a human being.»

Before that, walking from the bar on Third, back to work, I counted my steps. To keep my mind busy, I counted 276 steps until a guy wearing a black leather trench coat shoves past me at a street corner, saying, «Wake up, asshole. The sign says, “Walk.” »

Hitting me as sudden as a yawn, me glaring at the guy's black leather back, the culling song loops through my head.

Still crossing the street, the guy in the trench coat lifts his foot to step over the far curb, but doesn't clear it. His toe kicks into the curb halfway up, and he pitches forward onto the sidewalk, flat on his forehead. It's the sound of dropping an egg on the kitchen floor, only a really big, big egg full of blood and brains. His arms lie straight down at his sides. The toes of his black wing tips hang off the curb a little, over the gutter.

I step past him, counting 277, counting 278, counting 279 …

A block from the newspaper, a sawhorse barricade blocks the sidewalk. A police officer in a blue uniform stands on the other side shaking his head. «You have to go back and cross the street. This sidewalk's closed.» He says, «They're shooting a movie up the block.»

Hitting me as fast as a cramp, me scowling at his badge, the eight lines of the song run through my mind.

The officer's eyes roll up until only the whites show. One gloved hand gets halfway to his chest, and his knees fold. His chin comes down on the top edge of the barricade so hard you can hear his teeth click together. Something pink flies out. It's the tip of his tongue.

Counting 345, counting 346, counting 347, I haul one leg then the other over the barricade and keep walking.

A woman with a walkie-talkie in one hand steps into my path, one arm straight out in front of her, her hand reaching to stop me. The moment before her hand should grab my arm, her eyes roll over and her lips drop open. A thread of drool slips out one corner of her slack mouth, and she falls through my path, her walkie-talkie saying, «Jeanie? Jean? Stand by.»

The last words of the culling song trail through my head.

Counting 359, counting 360, counting 361, I keep walking as people rush past me in the other direction. A woman with a light meter hanging on a cord around her neck says, «Did somebody call an ambulance?»

People dressed in rags, wearing thick makeup and drinking water out of little blue-glass bottles, they stand in front of shopping carts piled with trash under big lights and reflectors, stretching their necks to see where I've been. The curb is lined with big trailers and motor homes with the smell of diesel generators running in between them. Paper cups half full of coffee are sitting everywhere.

Counting 378, counting 379, counting 380, I step over the barricade on the far side and keep walking. It takes 412 steps to get to the newsroom. In the elevator, on the way up, there's already too many people crowded in. On the fifth floor, another man tries to shoulder his way into the car.

Sudden as breaking a sweat, me squeezed against the back of the elevator, my mind spits out the culling song so hard my lips move with each word.

The man looks at us all, and seems to step back in slow motion. Before we see him hit the floor, the doors are closed and we're going up.

In the newsroom, Henderson is missing. Oliphant comes over while I'm dialing my phone. He tells me about the tribute to Duncan. Asks for quotes. He shows me the ad on the tear sheet. The ad about the French Salon, the bleeding facials. Oliphant asks where my next installment is on the crib death series.

The phone in my hand, I'm counting 435, counting 436, counting 437 …

To him, I say to just not piss me off.

A woman's voice on the phone says, «Helen Boyle Realty. May I help you?»

And Oliphant says, «Have you tried counting to 10?»

The details about Oliphant are he's fat, and his hands sweated brown handprints on the tear sheet he shows me. His computer password is «password.»

And I say, I passed 10 a long time ago.

And the voice on the phone says, «Hello?»

With my hand over the phone, I tell Oliphant there must be a virus going around. That's probably why Henderson's gone. I'm going home, but I promise to file my story from there.

Oliphant mouths the words Four o'clock deadline, and he taps the face of his wristwatch.

And into the phone, I ask, is Helen Hoover Boyle in the office? I say, my name's Streator, and I need to see her right away.

I'm counting 489, counting 490, counting 491 …

The voice says, «Will she know what this is regarding?»

Yeah, I say, but she'll pretend she doesn't.

I say, she needs to stop me before I kill again.

And Oliphant backs away a couple steps before he breaks eye contact and heads toward Special Features. I'm counting 542, counting 543 …

On my way to the real estate office, I ask the cab to wait in front of my apartment building while I run upstairs.

The brown stain on my ceiling is bigger. It's maybe as big around as a tire, only now the stain has arms and legs.

Back in the cab, I try to buckle my seat belt, but it's adjusted too small. It cuts into me, my gut riding on top of it, and I hear Helen Hoover Boyle saying, «Middle-aged. Five-ten, maybe one hundred seventy pounds. Caucasian. Brown, green.» I see her under her bubble of pink hair, winking at me.

I tell the driver the address for the real estate office, and I tell him that he can drive as fast as he wants, but just not to piss me off.

The details about the cab are it stinks. The seat is black and sticky. It's a cab.

I say, I have a little problem with anger.

The driver looks at me in his rearview mirror and says, «You should maybe get some anger management classes.»

And I'm counting 578, counting 579, counting 580 …