Donahue cleared his throat… “Didn’t think you’d take it so well, considering.”
“Considering what?”
“Considering that brings us right back to Dinah.”
“I think we’ve all got bigger problems to worry about right now.” She held her arm out, snapped three times. “Can I get a pen?”
Donahue handed her a ballpoint, even as Randal chuckled: “Now she’s giving you orders.”
Jessica went down the length of Angry Jonny’s letter.
Underlining, circling, making notes.
Donahue and Randal locked eyes.
“I call that foreign currency,” Jessica informed them, scribbling away.
“You call what foreign currency?”
“When the two of you exchange a look you think nobody understands.” Jessica made it to the last line, drawing a small clock next to the word doomsday. “All I’m seeing right here… is a where, when and who.”
Donahue crossed his arms. “You’re saying you have something?”
“I’m saying I have it.” Jessica started on the third line, tapping her pen with each word. “I’ll get him where he lives… Angry Jonny’s next victim; where does he live?”
“Before the elder bush.”
“It’s a plant,” Randal said. “Known as Sambucus Nigra. Found in Europe, northwest Africa and southwest Asia. Long way from home, far as where goes.”
“Unless where is also a who,” Jessica said. “I know it seems like a million years ago, but Barack Obama wasn’t always president. Before him we had George W. Bush. Before him Bill Clinton. And before him –”
“Before you were born,” Donahue sighed.
“– before him we had George H.W. Bush… known nowadays as the elder Bush.”
“Before him, we had Ronald Reagan.”
“Or, if you want to get genealogical… the elder Bush’s grandfather; Prescott Sheldon Bush.” Jessica frowned. “As in the Prescott-Pantheon Hotel.”
“Wait a minute –”
“Past a West Broadway area,” Jessica continued, on a roll. “He’s not talking about the New York Broadway. He’s talking about a Broadway out west. On the West Coast, in Los Angeles. But I don’t think area refers to a location, but an area code. If we take the same idea, and think of past not as a place but as a time… then what we have is the old area code for all of Los Angeles… Two-one-three. Or, if you like: the Prescott-Pantheon, room two-thirteen.”
Donahue and Randal exchanged more foreign currency.
Before they could interrupt, Jessica moved to the next line. “When the maker of a modern utopia dies. Angry Jonny ain’t interested in a perfect world. He’s too busy punishing people in this one.”
“I’m starting to agree with you,” Donahue ventured.
“You searched my entire apartment, and you don’t remember the book?”
“What book?”
“On my shelves. A Modern Utopia. Written by H.G. Wells.”
Donahue nodded. “And when did the maker of A Modern Utopia die?”
“1946… On August Thirteenth.”
“How would you –”
“Everything I need to know, I learned in high school. Wrote a report on him just last year.”
Out beyond the reaches of the cubicle, phones continued to ring off the hook.
“So we’ve got the Prescott Hotel, room 213 on August Thirteenth,” Donahue reiterated, finally coming aboard. “What about the last two lines? I will be there, halfway to doomsday.”
“You ever heard of the doomsday clock?”
“No.”
“It’s a theoretical clock. Conceived by some science cats at the University of Chicago back in 1947. It’s meant to monitor how close we are to world annihilation. The closest we’ve ever been is at two minutes till, and that was between 1953 and 1959. The farthest we’ve ever gotten is seventeen minutes, between 1991 and 1994. Last I checked, we were at four minutes till.”
“And at midnight?”
“End of the world as we know it…” Jessica gave a cold smile. “But I guess Angry Jonny’s content with eleven-thirty.”
Donahue tossed his coffee cup into the garbage. “How the hell did you just figure all this out, Jessica?”
“Maybe it’s because Angry Jonny knows me. Maybe it’s because I’ve walked more than a mile in his shoes. But maybe it’s because, just last week, I got myself a room at the Prescott. Room two-thirteen. Reserved for Thursday, August thirteenth.”
“What are you saying?”
“Any leads on Eli Messner?”
“No…” Donahue rubbed the back of his neck. “We’re thinking he must’ve left town by now.”
“Huh.”
“Why?”
“John of England, in a looking glass darkly…” Jessica let the air conditioner bring theatrical chill bumps to her arms. “That’s King John, isn’t it? King John is slang for the starting hand King-Jack. Put it in a looking glass, another name for a mirror, and what do you get?”
“Jack-King.”
“Or, if you want to use the abbreviation… J.K.”
“Or maybe Jessica Kincaid,” Randal concluded.
Jessica nodded. “I guess I just kind of worked backwards from what I already know.”
“Which gives us?”
“Two days,” Jessica agreed. “Two days before Angry Jonny comes looking for me.”
Randal and Donahue didn’t waste time. Trading rapid-fire ideas, figuring out who to call next, standing on their toes and craning their necks over the cubicle, already questioning who they could trust with this information.
Jessica let them talk it out, patiently waiting to spell out her own terms for the inevitable sting.
Casually laying the letter on Donahue’s desk.
A work of absolute genius.
Chapter 68: Last Rites.
That night, at half past nine, Jessica stopped by On The Rail.
Slid on up to the bar and ordered an orange soda from Casper. Easily ignored the whispered looks from curious regulars. Finished half her soda in two gulps. Checked out the action, humming to the strains of an Aretha Franklin throwback. Took in a fair amount of smoke before she motioned for Casper to come over.
He threw his weight over the bar, enthusiasm overcompensating for another long night of making ends meet. “Yes’m!”
“Got a favor to ask.”
“Shoot.”
“I need to borrow your iPod for a few days.”
“My iPod?” He popped the top off a beer, threw the cap out across the pool tables. “That’s my brain, my little girl. Ain’t got but a couple of CD’s at the house. Hell, I got more vinyl than CD’s.”
“Just for a few days.”
“Oh, well. When you put it like that…” Casper reached back to a rickety shelf and handed it over. “Now you guard this with your life.”
“I’ll do you one better…” Jessica smiled, pocketing the device. “Write down your five favorite movies that you don’t already have, and I’ll have them waiting on here for when you two reunite.”
“Can’t say no to free shit.” Casper took a Post-it and scrawled out a few titles. “Now when I say Lolita, I mean the original 1962. Peter Sellers and Sue Lyon. Don’t be slipping me none of this 1997 Jeremy Irons shit.”
“Noted.” Jessica took the list and downed the rest of her drink.
“Need another one?”
“Nope. Got a big week ahead of me.” Jessica threw a five-dollar bill on the counter. “And let me just thank you, Casper. For all your help.”
He tilted his massive head to the right. “You ain’t dying now, are you?”
“Born again,” Jessica replied. “I’ll be seeing you.”
“You know it.”
A rush of pleasant humidity greeted her on the outside.
Jessica crossed the street, into the funeral parlor’s parking lot.
Vague memories of some altercation involving her and vice-principal Davenport. It had
been raining. Her skin wet against his fingers as they tried to work their way around her throat.
None of it mattered.
“He got his in the end,” Jessica said, stepping into Eli’s car.
Heading for home, signaling her intent all the way.
***
Wednesday, August 12.
9:30 am.
Waking up was Jessica’s only proof that she had ever been asleep.
She drove to the Prescott. Parked and walked through the lobby, straight for the stairs.
Although she had already been through this once before, it remained the weakest link in her plan.
Jessica trotted up the carpeted steps, pulling back her forest of curls and securing them with a hair tie. She poked her head out from the third floor stairwell. Spied the housekeeping cart two doors down from room 323. For the next twenty minutes, Jessica remained on the landing, periodically checking on their progress. She kept her phone glued to her ear for the benefit of anyone who might be skipping the elevator in favor of walking.
Once the ball got rolling, there could be no witnesses. If just one person caught her prowling the third floor hallway, Jessica would have no choice but to abort the entire operation.
And so she waited for the perfect moment.
No guarantees it would even come.
Finally, Jessica snuck out of the stairwell.
Walked past the cart, now stationed before the open door to Jerome Keanen’s room. Snatched a shower cap from the tray of toiletries and kept moving. She turned the corner and slipped on a pair of black leather gloves.
Peeking back around, she saw the housekeeper select a fresh set towels from the cart, preparing for bathroom detail. Jessica readied herself, knowing she only had one shot.
Now or never.
The maid went back inside. Jessica booked for the room. She wrapped the shower cap over her bundled hair. Down the hallway, the elevator chimed, its doors sliding open. Jessica crossed over into Jerome Keanen’s room. She crouched low, pressed close to the wall and eased her head past the corner.
The door to the bathroom was almost completely closed.
Sounds of the maid humming to herself as she went about her business.
Jessica nipped across the bedroom and hid herself in the closet.
She stood perfectly still, careful not to brush against any of Jerome’s clothes. Through the closet door, she could hear the roar of the vacuum. She was happy to wait it out, completely at home in pitch black. Jessica thought back to her first trial run. Just two days ago, shortly after the detectives had called her in to go over Angry Jonny’s latest letter. She had left the station, driven to the Prescott. Gone through all the same steps; the stairwell and the cellphone, the gloves and shower cap. Wondering at every stage if she wasn’t going to have to come up with a plan B.
Wasted worries. Everything had gone without a hitch.
She had made it into the closet undetected, and waited for the maid to finish her work.
Cautiously stepping out and into an empty room.
This time, there was far less work to be done. Jessica had already run reconnaissance on room 323, and now it was just a matter of collecting her prize. She opened the dresser drawer, everything just as she had found it last. Leafed through Jerome’s day planner. Currently on tour of Camelot Apartments. His plans for the night of August thirteenth remained unchanged .
Nothing but another lonesome meal in the Prescott dining room.
Followed by an entry so pathetic, it was almost moving:
10:30 - BED.
Yeah, you get your beauty rest.
She closed the planner and opened up the small, leather-bound guestbook. Jerome hadn’t bothered to leaf through any of the brochures boasting Verona’s local attractions. He hadn’t even put his parking permit to use.
To say nothing of the spare key card, which Jessica was happy to take off his hands.
She closed the drawer and stood by the bed for another ten minutes.
Gave housekeeping enough time to make their way down the corridor, and out of sight.
The whole time, just looking down at the freshly changed comforter and pillowcases.
Counting the hours before she would be seeing them again.
***
11:15 am.
Jessica left through the main entrance, then went around to the back. She greeted the kitchen staff, each one happy to take a moment to wave back as the lunch orders piled up. Jessica caught the arm of a passing waiter and told him she wanted to talk to Nora in her office.
She let herself into the cramped office, always unlocked under the premise that trespassers would be fired on sight. Jessica was already on borrowed time, good as gone anyway. She rifled along the hangers of freshly dry-cleaned housekeeping uniforms. Picked out something nice for herself and stuffed it into Dinah’s book bag.
Not a minute too soon.
Nora entered the room, doing her best to seem interested in Jessica’s needs.
Jessica fed her a sob story about needing just one more week of work.
Nora listened as patiently as her persona would allow, repeatedly glancing at her watch.
Jessica made it easy on her by offering an out: Just think about it.
Nora was happy. Jessica was happy. The two of them left the office together.
One of them off to deal with a dining room of oversized, hungry toddlers.
The other making preparations to deal with just one.
***
That same day.
2:15 pm.
Jessica pulled up to the Center For Human Genetics. She bounded up the stairs, and into Benjamin Morris’s office. Caught him in the middle of packing up a few personal items.
“Jessica, long time…” He scratched his dense curls, unwilling to be beaten to the punch. “July fourth, I believe. Am I right?”
“Right as rain...” She took a look at his bundling, hardly able to recall the afternoon she’d helped Angela Lansing pack up her office. “You moving out or something?”
“Unemployed,” Benjamin announced, laughing merrily. “As of next week.”
“Tough break.”
“Eh. Everyone gets outsourced sooner or later.”
“India?”
“Florida.”
“Ah…” Jessica nodded knowingly. “So you can’t even lose your job like a decent, patriotic American.”
“I’d expect this kind of abuse from Chaucer…” Benjamin pulled a chair. Enjoying the padded contours for as long as he could. “Speaking of which, you ever get a hold of Disney Owens?”
“That’s yesterday’s paper, Benjamin.”
“As for today?”
Jessica unsheathed Casper’s iPod. “I need you to get me some movies.”
“Ah…” Benjamin placed a finger next to his nose. “And I’m guessing you don’t want to pay for said movies?”
“Movies stolen are twice as sweet as movies earned.”
“Say no more. You got a wish list?”
Jessica handed him Casper’s top five choices. One of her own inserted at the end.
“Ah, yes…” Benjamin stroked his finely trimmed beard. “I don’t think I’d be too embarrassed downloading any of these.”
“Yeah, thing is; I need them by Thursday.”
“Ah. That would be tomorrow, yes?”
“Problem?”
“Might be.” Benjamin’s large brown eyes flashed quizzically. “You know much about bit torrents?”
“I know it’s a good way to get what I want without paying for it.”
“Essentially. But peer-to-peer file-sharing relies on demand. Between the trackers and the seeders, the file distribution isn’t always predictable. It’s like an anarchist’s free market. Without enough people leeching, you won’t get much action from seeders. Doesn’t matter how kind the original tracker is, without enough peer connections –”
“Let me ask you something,” Jessica interrupted. �
�How is it you’ve never gotten the shit kicked out of you?”
“My best friend plays rugby.”
“Got it.” Jessica tapped the list. “If all else fails, just make sure you get me that last one.”
“Now here’s a classic…” Benjamin’s face turned dour. “Unless you’re talking about the remake.”
“Nope. Straight black and white.”
“By tomorrow, you say?”
“You can stop by my place. I’m at Camelot Apartments.”
“I thought they were tearing that place down.”
“They are.”
“Ouch.” Benjamin extended a caring hand, respectful fingers hovering as close as they dared. “Hope you’ve got a good backup plan.”
“Got a great one,” she said, wrapping her arms round his shoulders and squeezing. “Thanks for your help.”
Jessica kissed him on the forehead, leaving Benjamin speechless enough to allow for a fast getaway.
***
That same day.
5:00 pm.
Jessica made a point to park in the back lot, round Camelot Apartments, and approach from the front sidewalk. Only one of the local stations had bothered to stick around. Hopes paying off as they caught sight of her. A blonde reporter with red-painted lips came bounding on noisy pumps.
Leading with her microphone, camera man on an invisible leash.
“Ms. Kincaid, do you have any thoughts on the latest letter sent to the Observer?”
Jessica waved dismissively. “No comment.”
“The police say it’s a phony. That the envelope was postmarked from Wilmington, out on the coast. Any comment as to the authenticity?”
How impressive the truth would have sounded. It had been Jessica’s idea to tell the press that the latest letter was a hoax. Keep any eager beavers from trying to decipher the content. She had driven out to the coast herself the previous Friday night to drop the letter in a Wilmington mailbox. Call it a quiet homage to Chaucer Braswell. Or perhaps another fine piece of misdirection along with Jessica’s impromptu interview.
“No comment,” Jessica repeated.
“Ms. Kincaid, is there anything you’d like to say, personally, to Angry Jonny?”
Jessica had reached the edge of the front lawn, far as the press could follow without trespassing. Not a minute too soon. She turned to meet the camera. Leveled her words with steady bravado.
“If he’s watching, I want him to know I think he’s a coward… No. Coward is too kind. More descriptive than true. He’s a punk.” Jessica caught the reporter’s eyes light up, gave her a tasty morsel for the evening news. “Angry Jonny, I don’t care how many people in this town think you are righteous and just. Doing God’s work or not. I know you don’t have the guts to show yourself for who you really are. Final act? Take a bow, already.”
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