The Truth Hurts

by Nancy Pickard

  Let him think I’m doing exactly as he says to do.

  “Like hell.” That instantaneous, rebellious thought is followed in my mind by another one, a cliché right out of a pulp western. “You son of a bitch, I’ll get you for this.” That sentiment makes me want to laugh at myself, but I restrain the impulse to show any amusement to anybody who’s watching me.

  My righteous indignation gets me moving again.

  As I finally turn around and head back inside, I feel an urge to close all of my sliding glass doors, pull down my windows, shut my drapes, and flip the thermostat to “cool.” My hand is reaching for the switch when I suddenly stop myself. Is it really the heat that’s bothering me? Or am I still more scared than I want to admit? Is it cooler I want to feel, or safer?

  “Which is it?” I demand of myself.

  The inner answer, disturbing and surprising me, is safer.

  With some effort, I resist the strong impulse to lock myself in. In a symbolic sense, it’s too late anyway. He has already penetrated my space. A shiver—a premonition? —raises gooseflesh on my arms. I rub them vigorously, angrily, to make them go away.

  This time I do what I should have done earlier: protect the “evidence” from my own fingerprints. After I fix myself a glass of iced tea, I fetch a roll of plastic wrap and a plastic grocery bag from my kitchen and carry them out to my patio. There I carefully spread the plastic sheeting over the front of the letter, smoothing it out some more as I do so, and then turn it over and cover the back, too. Now I can handle it without destroying any remaining fingerprints, not that I expect there to be any on it. Surely he has been more careful than that. But even the smartest felons make stupid mistakes, so maybe I can be more careful than he from now on. Next, I slip the FedEx envelope and the book into the grocery bag without touching them.

  On my way into my office, I open the bag and give the envelope a good look for the first time. On the FedEx routing sheet, there’s a name, address, and phone number for the “sender,” but I’m guessing that’s all as phony as his E-mail addresses. But there’s a credit card number under “method of payment,” and so maybe we can trace him that way.

  Back in my office, and seated in my swivel chair behind my desk, I study this new E-mail more closely. The glass of iced tea is sweating at my elbow. I pick it up to sip, concentrating for a long moment on the cool wet feel of it in my hand, the scent of mint, the tang of the lime juice I squeezed over the ice. I take a long drink, prolonging this last moment of relative peace. Finally, I set down the drink and pick up the printout. It captures my total attention, as if it held a gun to my head, which in a maddening way, it does.

  I’m supposed to write a chapter and e-mail it to him by two?

  I look at my watch: it’s already almost noon.

  There’s not much time, if I’m going to do this.

  I hate it that everything’s moving so fast, that he is giving me so little time to stop and think before I have to act, or not act. Hamlet had more time than this! No doubt Paulie Barnes wants it that way, because it makes it more likely that I’ll do what he wants.

  “But you will stop,” I instruct myself. “And you will think hard about it first, even if it means writing like a madwoman after that.”

  Okay, then. How paranoid do I want to be about this?

  Should I hesitate to use my house phones, for fear he has somehow managed to tap them? Tapping’s not hard to do or hide, so it’s better to be safe than sorry, I believe, until I can get my house “swept.” As for my cell phone and portable phones, I never think of them as being “secure,” anyway, even on normal days. What if he has some kind of high-tech listening device directed toward my home? Well, if that’s the case, he overheard Deb and me this morning, and so he already knows that I only pretended to fire her, so that damage would already be done.

  I tell myself: let’s assume that worrying about a distant listening device is too paranoid, but that worrying about the security of my telephones is not. Therefore, I will take the chance of saying what I want to on my own property, but I will refrain from using the telephone to talk about this problem.

  This is ridiculous! my ego protests.

  Never mind, walk through this process anyway, I tell it.

  Okay, next . . . what about E-mail and my computer? How secure?

  Can I use E-mail to contact anybody I want to?

  I think so. I have firewalls to deflect hackers from trying to steal data. I never download anything unless it’s from somebody I know and trust, and even then, I’m careful, so I don’t believe that any Trojan horse has trotted into my computer to dump a nasty load of spy ware. I’m hooked up to the Internet through my local cable system, which makes me less vulnerable to attack or infiltration than I would be if I had a dial-up system. I know that there are viruses and “worms” capable of squirming into a computer—any computer—and taking control of it, even down to recording every single keystroke and reporting them back to the “master.” A hacker could even steal one of my books in progress that way, although why would anybody want to? But overall—thanks to my computer consultants—I believe I am as protected as I can be from all but the most brilliant and determined of hackers. Which might be your average sixteen-year-old, but never mind.

  All right then. Phones, no. Computer, yes.

  That means I can e-mail for advice from experts who are not officially in “law enforcement,” and I will.

  But am I really going to do any of the rest of it, just because he says so?

  Yes, I am, because of what he threatens in the letter.

  If you disobey, first I will hurt Deborah Dancer, your girl with the ridiculous clothes and the hair that looks as if she stuck her finger in an electrical outlet.

  Do I have your full attention now ?

  “Yes, you nasty son of a bitch, you do.”

  Good, because you need to know that after I hurt her, I will turn my attention to your boyfriend and his children.

  When I read that the first time, outside on the patio, my heart nearly stopped. Hurt Franklin? His children? Even now, reading those words again, my palms go damp and my mouth goes dry.

  . . . And speaking of him, by “law enforcement” I don’t mean him. Do tell him everything. You have my permission to do that. Then, we won’t have to force him to leave you. He will abandon you in order to save himself and his family.

  Then you and I will be on our own, writing partners to The End.

  It gives a whole new meaning to those two words, doesn’t it ?

  “I’ll give you a whole new meaning,” I mutter, hoping bravado trumps fear.

  It’s clear that I have to play along, at least for a little while longer.

  But I don’t have to do it alone.

  That would be a mistake.

  I will forward these messages—right now—to two people who are not officially “law enforcement.” One is a private investigator I employ now and then. The other is a freelance criminologist. I’ll let those experts tell me if they think we should take this guy seriously.

  Until I hear back from my experts, and just to continue on the safe side, I’ll follow “Paulie’s” directions to the letter.

  I sit down with my computer. I raise my hands until they hover over the keyboard. Now or never. My fingers make the first keystrokes as I begin to write the strangest chapter of—quite literally—my life.

  9

  Marie

  Just before I finish chapter 1, I hear the chirp that alerts me to new E-mail. Immediately, I divert into that program to see if any help has arrived—a private eye on her white horse, or a criminologist on hers.

  Yes! Here’s one from my private investigator, Erin McDermit.

  In person, Erin doesn’t look like anybody’s stereotype of a female private eye. It’s true that she’s athletic—nearly six feet tall in the black running shoes she always wears with her trademark black pantsuits (even in the subtropics)—but she’s a thin woman, a blonde with a cover girl complexion
who doesn’t look as if she could possibly be as strong as her résumé hints she is. It lists her years as a police officer, several black belts in a martial art, exceptional firearms prowess, and degrees in law and accounting. I originally hired Erin because she struck me as being as smart as the computer jocks who staff her office for corporate investigative work and as tough as most of the ex-cops she hires to do her dirty work, now that she can afford to remain above the fray and just administrate. I don’t know if she’s honest, if all of her methods are legal, or ethical. When it comes to PIs, I’m a don’t-ask, don’t-tell kinda gal. I do know her firm is one of the best in south Florida, in a highly competitive, sometimes even lethal business. If she has ever overcharged me, it would take an accountant who’s smarter than I am to prove it, and even then, I’d probably still feel she gave me my money’s worth.

  It’s an air of latent violence in Erin, a feeling she inspires that here is a woman who would do literally anything to accomplish her ends, that makes me wonder about her. To be frank, it’s also why I keep hiring her.

  I’ve rarely seen Erin McDermit in the flesh; we conduct most of our business electronically. But I believe I could spot her anywhere, even from a long city block away, because of her height, her long stride, and that Johnny Cash outfit, not to mention the old-fashioned pageboy, and the way she sticks her hands deep into the pockets of her suit jackets, as if she’s got guns in both of them. There’s a definite Wyatt Earp flavor to Erin. The few times I have been around her, I’ve always been struck by how when she sits down she habitually turns her face to the person who’s doing the talking, but she turns her legs toward the nearest exit. Now there’s a telling detail I’ll put in a book if I ever need to include a description of her.

  Not surprisingly, when she talks, it’s blunt.

  As I peruse her E-mail, it’s what she says, not how she says it, that takes me aback.

  “What an asshole!” her E-mail begins.

  Hey, it’s probably just some harmless idiot getting his rocks off, but let me see if I can trace anything from the E-mail. Do you want me to assign somebody to watch your house 24/7? No charge. My pleasure. You’ve given me lots of business doing all those background checks for your books.

  I’ll get back to you asap on the E-mails.

  In the meantime, personally, if it were me, what the hell, just to be on the safe side, I’d do exactly what the little shit head says.

  Cheers, Erin

  Well, shit, to quote Erin. She was supposed to tell me it’s all baloney, not offer a twenty-four-hour watch on my house as if this might all be legit! Damn!

  Maybe there will be better news in the next E-mail, from Dr. Aileen Rasmussen. As I start reading, I can picture Aileen vividly, too—seventyish, letting her hair go gray, carrying thirty pounds more than are good for her five feet four inches and looking deceptively motherly. She’s a “mother,” all right, but not in that glorified sense of the word.

  The good Dr. Rasmussen’s E-mail is equally succinct, but unlike Erin’s it makes the blood pound in my head from annoyance.

  Marie. Male. Control freak. Intelligent. Organized. Determined.

  She has a phony, staccato way of communicating that makes me want to scream, “Subject, verb, object! Aileen! Try it sometime!”

  Her E-mail continues:

  Cold-blooded enough to display a sick sense of humor. Sexually focused on you. Angry at you for some reason. A grievance? What did you do to him? Combination of all that worries me. Don’t you have any idea who he is? My advice? Take him seriously. Be very careful in regard to the children. See me. Soon as poss. When?

  Aileen

  Right, like I haven’t thought about being careful with the children. Do I have moron tattooed on my forehead? Thanks so much for that useful tip, Aileen. And, don’t I “have any idea who he is?” Well, gee, if I did, I might have mentioned that in my E-mail to you, don’t you think so? “What did you do to him?” Oh, yeah, thanks, Aileen, blame the victim.

  Damn, again. Victim ? That would be me.

  I take the repeated, calming deep breaths I often have to take before replying to Aileen Rasmussen. Just to be on the safe side, so I won’t say anything overly snide to her, I write back to Erin McDermit first, telling the private investigator, “Yes, thanks, I’d like you to source the E-mails and to stake that watchdog outside my house. Wait until Monday to do it, since I’m going to be gone until then anyway.” (If I were Aileen, I’d probably insult Erin McDermit by advising her to make sure her operative stays invisible, as if a pro needs to be instructed like a student in Private Investigation 101. One of these days, I’m really going to let Aileen Rasmussen have it between her smug eyes. If I ever find somebody better. Please, God.) “You’re awfully kind to offer to do it for free, Erin, but I’ve got to turn that down. This is a bigger job than I deserve to get for free. I also want you to put a watchdog, your very best, on my assistant, Deborah Dancer. . . .” I give her Deb’s vitals. “You’ll have to be the one to tell Deb we’re doing this, since I don’t dare contact her directly right now.” Then I write, “In fact, I’d like you to relay messages between us,” but I immediately delete it. Maybe this computer is secure—Erin’s own experts did that for me—but what if it isn’t? I’ll take that chance for myself, but not for Deb. If Erin says to do what he wants, and what he wants is to separate me from Deborah, then I’ll stay completely away—unless and until I find an absolutely foolproof way to get around him.

  I finish by saying, “Ain’t this a hell of a way to spend your time & my money?

  “Thanks.

  “Marie.”

  My heavily self-censored E-mail to Aileen Rasmussen reads like this:

  We’re taking the kids away with us this weekend. Should be safe. “Paulie Barnes” says he won’t hurt anybody as long as I follow his instructions, so that’s what I am doing. I think we’ll be all right for a while, don’t you? I do want to see you when I get back. Is Monday okay? Send me a time that works for you, and I’ll show up then. Thanks, Aileen.

  Marie

  There. Why do I keep going back to this woman for my research into criminal psychology if she aggravates me so much? Okay, she’s good, but wouldn’t half -good do almost as well? Or maybe I just like being repeatedly poked with a stick.

  While I’m still pissed off from the effort of writing politely to Aileen, I return to the task of putting the finishing touches on the first “chapter” of my “assignment.” By the time I finish and come out of the writer’s trance, I find that the ice has melted in my glass of tea. The sun is almost directly overhead, and I am sweating in my open house. I see through my screen door that a seagull is swaggering on top of my patio table, leaving me souvenirs as he scavenges for crumbs.

  It’s one o’clock and Franklin hasn’t called me back yet.

  “Isn’t he out of court?” I ask his secretary when I call again.

  “Oh, that devil.” Arvida laughs. “I heard he slipped out as soon as the gavel came down. I guess he knew if he came back here I’d hand him more work to do. Y’all are going to the Keys today, right?”

  Great. And who else knows ?

  I tell her yeah, and she tells me to have fun.

  There’s no answer, next, on Franklin’s cell phone, but then if he is already in the car with Diana and Arthur, he won’t pick it up. His ex-wife forbids him to use a phone when he’s driving them.

  I’m sure they’re fine. I’m sure of it.

  But I’d like to see for myself. There’s just enough time left for me to eat lunch, pack for my trip to the Keys, and hit Send. When I do, I feel a welling up of helpless rage in me.

  “How dare you, Paulie Barnes.”

  Forget “how dare he.” Who is he?

  Years ago when my first book came out and I got my first obscene letter, I took it to a cop. “Hang on to this stuff, Marie,” he said, “so you’ll have evidence if you need it.”

  “I don’t want to hang on to it,” I protested. “I want to burn it.�
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  “I know. Listen, most of these guys, they’re creeps who don’t have the balls to do what they say, but there’s always the stray psychopath you have to watch out for.”

  Thinking of that advice now, I pull out that file of nasty mail and put it in a canvas briefcase. To that, I add paperback copies of each of my books so we can review who’s in them. Maybe there’s a disgruntled relative in there or, more likely, a killer who hates the way I portrayed him. Next, I stick in three file folders packed with information about murder cases I have considered but rejected as book ideas. I haven’t looked inside a couple of them for so long that they give off that old-file smell of dust and mold. It is not beyond the realm of strange possibility that some egotistical murderer in there feels unfairly “left out” of my true crime hit parade.

  “Egotistical murderer,” I grumble. “Now there’s a redundancy if I ever heard one.” Finally, I slide into the briefcase the “evidence” I’ve wrapped in plastic. In my mind, I keep wrapping the word evidence in quotation marks because I’m not even positive that any crime has been committed against me. I know it’s a federal offense to make threats through the mail, I don’t know about E-mail or package delivery services, and I don’t want to take the time to look that up, not when I’ve got my own personal prosecutor to ask.

  Once all that’s done, I start tossing clothing and toiletries into an overnight bag. I won’t need much in the Keys—clean underwear, shorts, T-shirts, a swimsuit, sunscreen and deodorant, and that’s about it. At the last minute, I fold in a pearly, silky bathrobe that’s pretty but modest. With the children there to see us, Franklin and I won’t be able to run around naked anymore.

  “Great.” In a spasm of self-pity, I grumble some more. “I was already nervous enough about spending a whole weekend with them, and now I have to worry about this, too.”