by J. D. Webb
Trish studied Heather’s face. There was no sign of the question being one of the woman’s put-ons. “No, you can’t go with me. I shouldn’t have said anything. You could get hurt.”
“You can’t? I could be your backup.”
“Go sit down and get some work done. And I’m saying that in my official capacity as office supervisor.”
“Okay, okay. Just tryin’ to help.” She pulled Trish’s arm to get closer and whispered, “Did they give you a gun?”
“No.” Trish blurted. “Get out of here.” She gently pushed Heather toward her desk.
“I’m going. Stop shoving.” She raised a finger that sported a silver nail emblazoned with the head of a leopard, as she walked away. “Remember, you can borrow mine any time.”
Trish shook her head and turned to pick up her coffee. She was again shaken at the sight of Mr. Sloan beside her.
“I’m sorry, Trish. Did I startle you? I didn’t mean to.”
“No, no. I’m a bit out of sorts today.”
“I like the way you handled Samuels.” He picked up his coffee and started to leave.
Trish called after him. “Mr. Sloan, I need to take some personal time this morning.”
Sloan swirled back around. “Personal time? You know, we’re awfully busy right now…”
Trish’s eyes flashed. “Mr. Sloan, I’ve been here six years and have never missed a day. I’ve never asked for personal time. This is not a request. This is notification.”
Sloan stepped back. “Humph. Ah, well, okay. Yes, you’re right. You go ahead and take some time. Yes, you do that. It’s all right with me.” He hurried off to his office.
Take that, you pompous twit. Trish retreated to her desk. Did I just say that to my boss? I’ve never acted like that before. Must be from the stress. Although, it did feel pretty good. She smiled. I loved the look on his face and how he stuttered.
The rest of the morning moved with agonizing slowness. She was torn between wanting it to go fast and cursing her involvement. She tried to get some work done, but it was useless. The rest of the office bustled with activity. Come on clock, move.
One-way glass windows, taking up half the wall, kept people from seeing into the offices, but allowed each partner a full view of office activity. All desks and tables faced away from the offices so the partners could instantly verify the work status of their employees, and no one fooled around. No one had fun at SWW&S.
Heather’s desk sat two rows down from Trish. Charity occupied the desk in front of Trish, and her other breakfast buddy, Joan Landers, sat to Heather’s left. The new “hunk,” as Charity called him, sat in the desk closest to the front door. Luke Mattrick, a paralegal recently graduated from law school, answered phones, functioned as receptionist when a client arrived, and was the gofer for the remaining staff.
Trish wondered why she had stayed beyond the two years she had planned originally. Maybe it was time to think about moving on. If it meant Trish must leave Millvale, well, so be it. And, perhaps an obsessive, domineering husband to boot.
TEN
Trish glanced at the office clock for the umpteenth time. Thirteen after nine, two minutes slower than her watch. No doubt Mr. Sloan had set it that way on purpose.
“Good morning, Mrs. Morgan.” Henry Davis, the local mailman, plopped the company mail on her desk pad.
“Hello, Henry. How you doing today?”
Henry scratched his head. “My psoriasis is acting up today, but I’m okay.”
His red hair gushed out from under his mailman cap in all directions. Trish wondered if a good shampooing might be in order to alleviate the problem.
Henry had been delivering the mail since Trish had been with the company. He was an oddball, but always pleasant. Trish had long ago given up trying to carry on a normal conversation with him. It always turned to politics or religion—Henry was far right of the Grand Dragon of the Ku Klux Klan. And he was rabidly passionate about both subjects.
“Things going well with you, Mrs. M?”
“Just fine, thanks.”
He shuffled his feet, clearly ready to discuss some left-wing perversion. “Did ya hear what the Dems are wanting now?”
“No, I haven’t heard the news this morning, but I really must get some work done. I have loads to do.”
Henry leaned down, still scratching. “I’ll tell ya tomorrow. It’s going to bring the U S of A to its knees. It is for sure. Every American needs to know…” He continued mumbling as he walked out the door and Trish heaved a sigh of relief. A sense of dread swept over her as she reminded herself not to be at her desk at this time tomorrow. One thing was positive; Henry was always at the office at 9:20 am every workday. At least it was 9:20 by her watch.
Poor Henry. Trish couldn’t help feeling sorry for him in spite of his over-the-top views. He’d lost his wife and both children in a automobile accident three years before. His whole demeanor had changed from that of a happy-go-lucky pleasant guy to a deeply depressed, somewhat paranoid, man who believed the government was out to get him.
His slovenly dress and appearance were also a complete about-face. He had been, if not good looking, at least attractive. At six-foot two with a good build and no sign of a paunch, he would have had no trouble dating some of Trish’s single friends. More than one of them had remarked that they enjoyed watching Henry walk away when he was wearing his mailman shorts during the hot summer months. But now Henry had withdrawn from the world. Trish had tried to hook him up with a couple of dates, but her matchmaking efforts fell on deaf ears. So sad.
The SWW&S clock on the wall ticked to 9:43. Trish put away the papers she had been staring at for the last ten minutes. She pushed back in her chair and sat for a minute trying to ratchet up the courage to confront a killer.
The butterfly dance in her stomach began again. She’d awakened off and on all night, dreading the confrontation today. No use prolonging this anymore. Might as well dive in and get it over with.
She grabbed her purse from the lower drawer of her desk and checked to see that the disk was still inside. It was.
Heather tried and failed to look innocent as she ambled up beside Trish. She looked away and talked out of the side of her mouth. “I loaded my best gun with hollow points. I made them myself. In that brown purse on the corner of my desk. There’s no safety. Just point and shoot.”
“Oh, how thoughtful of you. I’ll just go out and blow him away.” Trish clenched her teeth. “No guns, thank you.”
“Only trying to help.” Heather shrugged her shoulders and walked off.
Trish rushed out of the office. At the elevator she took a deep breath and counted to ten. Those butterflies were jumping at full speed now. Blood pounded in her ears as the elevator sank to ground level. She stepped into the lobby of her office building and looked around. There was a man squeegeeing the windows. Was he one of the S.W.A.T. men? He didn’t make eye contact. He wasn’t one of the regular cleaning people so she assumed he was a policeman. It was marginally reassuring to know someone was there to watch over her.
Outside, the pedestrians scurried in both directions. She pulled her collar up against the cold wind and wished she had remembered her gloves. Trish acknowledged those she knew with a wave or nod, forcing herself to smile. She knew it probably looked fake, but it was the least she could do.
She covered the two blocks to the Citizens’ Building quickly. At the old-fashioned revolving doors she stopped and filled her lungs with cold, bracing air, squared her shoulders and resolutely walked inside. At the elevator a woman in a business suit carrying a briefcase eased up beside her and a man with an identical case moved behind her. They entered, Trish pushed the button for the third floor. Her fellow passengers made no move to select a different floor. They all stared up at the lights flickering first on two, then three. A bell dinged. The doors opened.
Trish stepped into the corridor. The man and woman stopped outside the office of Tim Hastings, DDS and began chatting. A black man guide
d a push broom down the marble hallway. Is he the one? Is he the killer? Trish’s knees went weak. She steadied herself by putting her hand on the wall next to the elevator. It was cold as was everything else in that hallway. Apparently the heat was on only in the individual offices.
The black man made a couple of trips up and down the hall, never looked directly at her. Probably one of the FBI people. Nervously, she got the disk out of her purse and cupped it in her hand. If he was the one, she wanted him to see the DVD. She watched as he made one more round trip. Nothing. Must not be him.
Okay, so we wait. Trish checked her watch. 9:51. Still nine minutes to go. She tried to whistle but her lips were too dry. The taste of coffee lay stale on her tongue. At 9:53 she realized she was tapping her foot and stopped. Then, looking up and down the corridor, she saw that the man and woman were still talking in low voices outside the dentist’s office. The push-broom-man was again making his rounds. Two other men exchanged places between the Chamber of Commerce office and the office of Barney Patterson, accountant.
The elevator bell rang. Trish wiped a fine mist of sweat from her palms. Old Mrs. Speagle emerged and nodded to Trish. “Hello, Mrs. Morgan. I’m off to help Dr. Hastings put his daughter through college.” She pointed to an enlarged jaw and trudged through the door between the conversationalists.
Trish sighed and again looked at her wristwatch. 9:58. She wished it were 10. No maybe she didn’t.
The old dark mahogany wood covering the walls deadened what little light came from the tall narrow windows at each end of the hallway. Until now, Trish had enjoyed the 1930’s architecture of the building. Today, it seemed creepy and intimidating.
The cell phone ringing in the depths of her purse brought a catch in her breath. The man and woman to her left quit talking, the push-broom-man changed his route to draw closer to her from the right.
Trish dropped her purse and hastily retrieved it, pulling out the phone. “Hello?”
“I see you’re on time. Good. Keep following my directions to the letter and you’ll get out of this alive.”
Trish shivered. “What do you want me to do? Where are you?”
His voice rose. “Never mind where I am. Is anyone with you?”
“Um, not with me but a couple of people are in the hallway.”
“That would be the police. Where are you in relation to the elevator?” Ah, he couldn’t see her from wherever he was.
“Just in front, about three steps.”
“Okay, here’s what to do. Turn your back to the elevator.”
“Done.”
“Now take about ten steps to your left.”
She went the distance and stopped. “I’m here.”
“You should be in front of or close to a mail chute.”
Trish turned and spotted an old plaque over a slot with the word ‘Mail’ in raised letters. “Yes, I am.”
“Drop the disk in the slot and wait for further instructions.”
Trish felt her hand shaking. Consciously not looking at the man with the broom, Trish slid the disk in the slot and waited till it hit bottom a few seconds later. Would this man be true to his word and leave her alone? God I hope so. She turned and lifted the phone to her ear once again. “Okay, I did that.”
No answer. “Hello, are you there?”
The man and woman were on their way to Trish as she spoke. She closed the phone and watched as three more men left the adjoining offices. One of them was Cheever.
“What happened, Mrs. Morgan?”
“I, ah, did what he told me. I put the disk in the mail chute.”
“Damn!” Cheever stomped his foot. “Everyone downstairs. Find out where that chute empties. Hurry! Take the stairs.”
Trish exhaled and punched the elevator button. That went well. I’m cold, my nose is running and I’m twitching with deflated energy. Suddenly we’ve lost our bargaining chip, the disk, and probably the killer, too. Peachy, just peachy.
ELEVEN
The elevator door opened. Trish sighed with relief when Bob Jenkins hurried out.
“Sorry, Trish. Are you okay?”
“Sure. Just a little shaken. The cavalry stampeded down the stairs a couple of minutes ago.”
“I came to give some protection in case you needed it.” He took her arm and escorted her into the elevator.
Trish pulled away. “I don’t think I need protecting anymore. The disk is gone.”
“I want to be sure you’re safe.”
Bob didn’t try to touch her again and Trish was thankful. His touch was electric. She couldn’t allow herself any such distractions. She’d already been thinking about Bob more than she should have.
They reached the lobby and saw no sign of any police presence. In fact the first floor bank and offices were empty as far as she could tell. They walked back to her workplace in silence. Bob kept his head moving, scanning the street for any perceived threat. Trish felt a bit more relaxed. The drama was over, she could go back to living her life, such as it was.
“Thanks for all your help in this. I’ve felt safer with you around.”
“Doing my job, that’s all.” Bob never looked at Trish during their return to SWW&S. At the building he held the door for her, nodded as she went inside and quickly left. She decided to take the stairs to her office instead of the elevator. The exertion felt good, she took the steps two at a time.
It didn’t bother her when Mr. Sloan glanced at his watch as she dropped her purse in the bottom desk drawer. She immediately dug into the stack of papers that had grown higher on her desk while she was gone. Sloan made one of his grunts of displeasure but retreated to his office, saying nothing about the time she’d missed.
The phone rang and Trish jumped, feeling her temperature rise. What now?
“So what happened?”
Trish let a sigh of exasperation escape. “Oh, Heather, absolutely nothing exciting. The guy asked me over the phone to drop the disk in a mail chute and the cops took off, looking for him. Haven’t seen them since and hope I never do again.”
“That’s it? Damn. I thought somebody might get shot or something.”
“Nope. Look, Heather, I’ve got tons of work to do and not enough time to do it. Can we talk later?”
“Guess so. How about grabbing some dinner at Abe’s tonight?”
“You know how Jim feels about that. I didn’t cook last night and he was not happy.”
“You’ve got to tell him to kiss off every once in a while. Show him where the skillet is and let him do something for once.”
Trish smiled and took a deep breath. “Easier said than done, I’m afraid. I’ll take a rain check. Okay?”
“Well, okay. Max wants to take me out tonight. I guess I’ll let him. But Trish, take some time for yourself. You’ve been through a lot lately. Promise me?”
“You’re a good friend, Heather. Yes, I promise.” She put down the phone; Heather give her a thumbs-up while still holding the phone to her ear. It was Heather’s way of convincing Sloan, in case he was watching, that they were not talking to each other.
Trish took a very brief lunch break and got back to work quickly. The paper pile shrank as Trish processed each one efficiently and rapidly. The phone rang again at 2:02 pm. She had worked through about half the pile. “Mrs. Morgan? This is Dr. Phillips. I wanted to see if you could come to my office this afternoon for a chat?”
Her throat constricted and her forehead beaded with perspiration. She’d had some routine tests done the week before and had forgotten about them. “Well, I don’t know if I can get off work.”
“It’s very important. I’d really like to talk.”
“Can you tell me what this is about? Is it the tests?”
“I think it’s best if we talk here.”
“All right. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
“Fine, I’ll see you then.”
Trish didn’t remember driving to Dr. Phillips’ office. The only thing she could think of was they must’ve f
ound something suspicious.
TWELVE
Thankfully she hadn’t killed anyone on her way back to the office. Concentration was impossible. Radiation, chemotherapy, metastasize, medical terms she’d hated during her mother’s futile battle, kept running through her brain. What if I die? Who would care? How will Jim react? Will he think this is just an excuse to shirk my duties?
Why, God? What have I done to you? I go to church. I try to be a good person. Do you hate me?
Tears ran in rivulets down her face. Mustn’t let anyone see her now. She rushed into the ladies room and locked the door. She stood with her hands on the sink staring into the mirror. What a mess. Mascara running, hair disheveled. Oh no. What if she lost her hair? It was the one thing she liked about herself. Everyone remarked about her beautiful hair.
She plopped on the toilet with her head in her hands. This can’t be happening. A soft knock on the door interrupted her thoughts.
“Trish, you all right in there?” Heather, God bless her.
Trish unlocked the door.
The tall woman took one look at the tear-stained face and threw her arms around Trish. “What’s happened? You can tell me.”
The words stuck in Trish’s throat and her voice quivered. “I have cancer, Heather.”
“Oh, my dear.” Heather squeezed harder, then pulled back to gaze steadily at Trish. “Listen my sister and my mom both beat that thing. You’re going to, too. I’ll help. Whatever I can do, I’m there.”
Trish heaved a huge sigh. Then she stepped back and held Heather’s hands in hers. “Thanks. What would I do without you?”
“Don’t even think about it. You and I are a team and we’re going to win.”
Trish laughed in spite of herself. One of the true benefits of life was having a friend like Heather.
“We better get back before Sloan has a hissy fit. I’ll go first. You wash your face and pull yourself together. We’re having dinner tonight. Just us girls.”
“Okay. Abe’s it is.”