Pat stared at it for an awkwardly long time before shaking it.
“Thanks for your time. Next visit I’ll look into that text-messaging package.” Frank winked, then turned and left the store, Gavin right behind him.
As soon as the door closed, Gavin rushed to Frank’s side. “See? See! It could work. I mean, here these guys are, selling phones that are going out to all the residents. How easy would it be for them to download that program onto these phones and—”
“No, it’s not them.”
Gavin stopped on the sidewalk, watching as Frank opened his car door. “What do you mean?”
“They’re not doing it.”
Gavin dragged his feet and got into the car, closing the door. “How do you know that? You’re a mind reader or something?”
Frank tried to give the poor kid a break. “You’re just going to have to trust me on this. It’s not going down like you think.”
Gavin slid down in his seat and stared out the window of the cruiser.
Frank glanced at him. “I’m taking a break. Where do you want me to drop you?”
***
Damien stood in his boss’s office for a solid ten minutes listening to Edgar blow off steam. He yelled questions but didn’t leave time for responses before going on, so Damien just took it. There was no point in arguing. He couldn’t explain any of this anyway.
“Now get out there and get me what I want!” Edgar commanded, jabbing his finger toward the door.
But Damien didn’t budge. He stayed there and stared his boss down. “What is going on with you?”
“Excuse me?”
“We’ve known each other a long time. You’re acting strangely. You’re yelling at me like I’m some sort of idiot. Is there something on your mind? something you need to tell me?”
Edgar stood still, huffing, glaring, a vein on his forehead throbbing.
Damien crossed his arms. “It’s the site, isn’t it? You’ve been reading it. From the look of your bloodshot eyes, reading it nonstop.”
Edgar sat down in his chair, pushing a few papers around. “Just leave me alone.”
“But we’re frie—”
“Go.”
Damien turned and went to his desk, where his early-morning coffee was now cold. Cream circles floated at the top. He stirred it with the little red stirrer anyway as he tried to process the idea that evil had not arrived in their town with horns and a pitchfork. In fact, he thought, with much disgust for thinking it, that this kidnapping of Gabby Caldwell might’ve been easier to handle had it been a convict on the prowl in the quaint town of Marlo.
But no, it was not evil from the outside. It was evil from within. Evil that had disguised itself so brilliantly that no one ever suspected it.
Damien heard footsteps on the carpet and looked up.
Reginald Boren, the staff photographer, hurried up to Damien’s desk, out of breath. “Sorry,” he said, putting his hands on his knees and breathing heavily. “I took the stairs. Elevator’s too slow.” He yanked the camera strap off his neck and pulled a cord out of the small satchel at his waist. “You gotta see these.”
He knelt beside Damien’s computer, plugged something into the computer. Within seconds, a picture popped up on his computer.
“Look at this!” Reginald said. “Can you believe it?”
Damien made himself look. “This is Caydance?” She was trying to cover her face with a jacket as she left her house in an SUV.
“Yes. Caydance is the blonde. Zoey is the brunette.” He pushed a key. The brunette was on the screen, with a hand extended as she faced what was sure to be a lawn full of people with cameras. Both men stared for a moment. “They look so normal, don’t they?”
“They’re friends of my daughter’s,” Damien said, then punched off the computer screen. “How am I going to tell her this?”
Reginald unplugged his camera and leaned against the edge of the desk. “Yeah. This is whacked-out. I’ll let you know when I’ve got them downloaded.”
Damien nodded and Reginald left. Damien reached to turn on his computer screen again, but someone else was already standing over him.
The mail clerk greeted Damien and tossed a bundled stack of letters on his desk.
“Thanks,” Damien said.
Then he handed Damien another stack. “And give this to Sheryl. We’re not speaking.”
Damien didn’t stop him. It was just another day in the office these days . . . a night of reading on the Internet, a day of cold silence toward former friends.
He pushed both stacks aside, determined to get this article written. How could he even start? What could he possibly say to make sense out of any of this?
Cold. Hard. Facts.
Yeah, this was as cold and hard as it came.
Something caught Damien’s eye from the stack of mail. It was the letter on top. In bright red ink next to his address were the words
Open immediately
underlined twice. There was no return address. A small, greasy stain bled into the corner of the envelope.
Damien lifted the rubber band and pulled it out of the pile. He slid his letter opener underneath the flap, tearing it neatly. He held his breath, not in anticipation but rather from fear the thing was laced with anthrax. Was it so far-fetched these days?
He carefully pulled out the folded piece of paper. Didn’t seem to be any powdery substance involved. He let out the air he was holding in and opened the paper.
A crossword puzzle.
And an amateur one at that. Just a handful of words to solve? Please.
He threw it down and stared at his screen. He had to get comments from the police department. Or at least call Frank, who’d be willing to be an unnamed source for a good friend. He needed to try to get quotes from the families, knowing full well they would have nothing to say.
Leaning back in his chair, he grabbed his favorite crossword pen and decided to do the little crossword puzzle. Puzzles always relieved stress. Besides, this one was curious. Simple. And with no key, which always accompanied a submission. The theme read
Listen
.
One down. Guaranteed, like taxes.
Easy.
Death
. He jotted it down, but the word felt heavy, morbid.
Five across. Also, always spelled wrong.
Too
.
Four down. Steering, made easy.
Power
.
Damien hurried through the puzzle.
Life
.
And
.
Of
.
Now
.
Stop
.
Tongue
.
Can’t
.
Stake
.
Much
.
Are
.
In
.
Is
.
At
.
What was this? Tiny words?
And then he saw it. He held the paper up to read so his eyes would adjust properly. The words popped as he followed the first line from top to bottom:
I can’t stop now
.
The second line, from left to right, jagging toward the bottom, read
Too much is at stake
.
The last one caused his breath to catch:
Life and death are in the power of the tongue
. Someone was sending him a message? Why him? He put the paper down, looked hard at it, tried to calm himself.
Whoever was behind this Web site knew him? knew he worked at the newspaper?
Damien grabbed the paper and barreled down the hallway toward Edgar’s office. He paused outside. Was Edgar the right person to talk to? With this sudden influx of paranoia and flat-out anger? The door was shut, but he could hear Edgar on the phone. He peeked in the window. Whatever Edgar was discussing, it seemed important, judging by the deep line down the middle of his forehead.
He barely heard a few words. Something about the newspaper lifting out of despair.
Damien backed away from the door and studied the puzzle.
I can’t stop now. Too much is at stake. Life and death are in the power of the tongue.
What did this mean?
Suddenly Edgar’s door flew open, and he almost knocked Damien over. Damien stumbled backward.
“You need something?” Edgar asked, pausing his swift step.
“Um . . .”
“What?”
“No, nothing. It can wait.”
“Fine. Get me that article!”
Damien returned to his desk, where he laid open the letter. He could not stop staring at the words. His mind raced through the million possibilities linked to this.
His fingers brushed the tops of the keys on his keyboard. He should write the investigative piece.
But his heart said there was more to say than facts. The facts didn’t do justice to what Marlo had become, at its own hand, no less.
He glanced back at the paper. Disclosing this to Edgar was the obvious and only choice.
Except . . .
The author had reached out to him. Had sent him the message. Was communicating this to him. If he kept it private, he might have more of a chance of discovering who was behind all of this. Did anyone else receive a letter?
He grabbed the paper, carefully slid it into his briefcase, and hurried down the flights of concrete stairs. At ground level, he burst through the door, gasping for breath. He leaned against the brick in the alleyway, breathing. Thinking. Worrying.
This was too much.
His daughter had been friends with girls like this.
His son and the things he’d chosen to do behind closed doors. The way he couldn’t talk to him anymore.
His town, rotting from the inside out.
Damien closed his eyes, willing himself not to break down. The world felt heavy now, but there had to be a solution. Some way to stop this madness.
He took in the cold air, hardly fresh thanks to nearby smokers. He fingered the loose threads of his sleeve.
He should tell.
But he wouldn’t. He’d wait and see.
And maybe send a message of his own.
“Mr. Underwood?”
Damien looked up to find Reverend Caldwell approaching him, his hand outstretched just like on Sunday morning.
“Reverend,” he said, shaking it. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to see you, actually.”
“How is Gabby?”
Pain flashed across the reverend’s eyes. “She’s hanging in there. I don’t know if she’ll ever be the same.”
“I am so sorry this has happened to your family.”
“I wanted to tell you that Gabby is starting to talk a little about what’s going on.”
Damien wished he had a pen and a pad of paper.
“She mentioned your daughter.”
“What?”
“Jenna apparently hit a girl recently? Gabby said that Jenna was defending her.” The reverend’s eyes filled with tears. “I can’t tell you what it means to us, to our family, that someone would stand up for her. I wanted to personally thank you and ask that you would thank Jenna on our behalf.”
Damien felt himself choking up. Pride swelled through his whole body. “I will. Thank you for letting us know.”
The reverend started to walk off, then turned back to Damien. “You have a chance.”
“A chance?”
“I’ve always enjoyed all the columns you’ve written over the years. There’s a war raging now, and you have the right weapon.”
22
Frank got out of his cruiser, shut the door, and stretched and groaned, trying to shake the achy feeling in his muscles.
On the other side, Gavin did the same. “This must be how cops feel in Los Angeles.”
“I’ve never taken so many calls in one day.” Frank twisted his lower back, hoping to relieve the pain.
They walked toward the station.
“The women at the hair salon?” Gavin said, shaking his head. “Assault with a hot iron? over a dress size? And another fight at the post office. When is this going to stop?”
Frank nodded.
“Last night,” Gavin continued, “I was having a conversation with my girlfriend and I stopped, you know? I was like, man, I don’t want everybody to know this.”
They walked a few steps and then Gavin said, “Frank, where do you go?”
Frank glanced at him.
“I know it’s none of my business, but sometimes you just kind of disappear.”
He slapped Gavin on the back. Tried a warm smile. “Nothing for you to worry about. You ask a lot of questions. Maybe you should consider a detective spot later, huh? Go get some rest. Good work today.”
“Thanks.” Gavin turned toward the locker room.
Frank went for the coffeepot.
“Frank!” Grayson was flagging him down. “Get to my office, will you?”
Frank poured himself a tall Styrofoam cup full of the cheap stuff and headed toward the captain’s office.
“Come on in.”
In the corner of the room a man with broad shoulders and a shaved head stepped forward, offering a hand. “Gary Blanco.”
“State police sent him in to help with the investigation,” Grayson said. “He does a lot of work in child porn cases.”
“Good to meet you,” Frank said as Grayson gestured for them all to sit.
“Frank, it’s been crazy out there, hasn’t it?”
Frank nodded, glancing at Blanco. “People are losing their sense of self-control and reasoning.”
“Gary was just explaining to me what he’s turned up so far.”
Gary sat comfortably in his chair, glancing over some notes he’d grabbed out of his briefcase. “Usually these things are pretty easy to crack. The first line of defense is the use of the registrar’s privacy service. This normally comes with a fee, but it protects your identity if someone wants to go searching for who the Web site belongs to. Hackers usually can get past this anyway, and a subpoena works pretty fast for the host to cough up the information.
“And a lot of times these guys will put in fake names and addresses or what have you, but normally we can trace back to the computer being used and find them in their house.”
“Normally?” Frank said. “I take that to mean this isn’t normal.”