Ben closed his eyes and slowly, not wanting to but knowing he had to, opened the microwave door.
There was a large shoebox inside. Closed. Taped shut. Just barely fit.
Not breathing, Ben edged the shoebox out of the tight space. He closed his eyes, said a quick and quiet prayer, and opened the box.
Giselle leaped out of the box, claws extended, and clutched onto Ben’s shoulder. Ben cried out in surprise, not to mention pain. A piece of cloth had been jammed in her tiny mouth and held in place by adhesive tape. Ben carefully cleared the cat’s mouth and a forlorn howl followed.
“Giselle!” Ben reached for her, but she eluded him and bounced down onto the floor.
“Giselle! Are you all right?” Ben held out his arms, but she had already scampered across the floor to the open can of Feline’s Fancy. She lowered her nose and attacked the food as if she hadn’t eaten for days.
“Well, you don’t seem to be in any immediate pain.” What a relief. For a moment there, he had been certain …
But he was wrong, thank God. He lowered his head to the table. He could feel his blood circulating again, his heart lurching back into action. Who the hell was behind this, anyway? What sort of game was he playing? As if the Barrett case wasn’t complicated enough already, now he had some psychopath tormenting him. Someone who had managed to find his office, his apartment, and his cat, with no problem.
And if he could get to Ben’s cat, how hard could it be to get to his friends? Or his nephew? Or Ben himself?
And what did the rest of the tape mean? The explosion. And the final words.
You’re next.
Joni rushed into the kitchen, Joey in tow. “You found her!”
“Yeah.”
“Thank goodness.” She sat in the chair opposite him. “You really had me worried there for a moment. What’s with the new jewelry?”
“Jewelry?”
“Yeah. Around her neck. Did you buy her that?”
“I didn’t buy her anything.” Ben rose out of his chair and walked to Giselle. He was surprised he hadn’t noticed it before—but everything had been happening so fast. Giselle had a bright red ribbon tied around her neck in a bow. And dangling from the ribbon beneath her chin was a coin-size gold heart engraved with two words.
SICK HEART.
It took Ben twice as long as normal to get Joey to sleep that night. It was as if the boy could sense how worried Ben was, how ill at ease. Ben tried to conceal it, at least until he could do something about it, but he apparently wasn’t doing a very good job. His mind was racing. Would this stalker continue with the sick pranks, or would he eventually try something serious? Maybe even deadly. Was it safe for them to stay here, and if not, where would they go?
Joey finally closed his eyelids, but only after Ben had run through “Annabel Lee” twice and sung the “A Dream Is a Wish Your Heart Makes” more times than he cared to count. It was just after ten; he decided to turn on CNN.
“Our top story this evening is our continuing coverage of”—a graphic image formed over the newscaster’s left shoulder—“Horror in the Heartland.” HEARTLAND appeared in large red letters, with what appeared to be blood dripping from them. The picture cut to video of the Utica neighborhood where Wallace Barrett lived. There was a sudden explosive noise—a gunshot—followed by two more in rapid succession. “Can you trust your neighbors? Are you safe? That’s what the citizens of the usually sleepy town of Tulsa, Oklahoma, have been asking themselves in this upper-class neighborhood, since their sense of security was shattered by the hideous murder of a mother and her two tiny, defenseless children. The people of this neighborhood thought they were safe; they thought violence couldn’t find them here. Little did they know that this illusion would be shattered by a hideous melodrama featuring their own mayor in the starring role.”
Ben shut the television off. This he did not need. Obviously, Barrett’s decision to speak to the media had not profoundly influenced the general tenor of the news coverage. He thought about playing the piano, always relaxing, but he was afraid to risk waking the baby. He retrieved his box of childhood treasures from under his bed, but somehow, given his current mood, a Magic 8-Ball and a bag of marbles just wasn’t going to help. He considered reading; it seemed as if there was some book he was halfway through, but he hadn’t read a page since he became embroiled in this case and now he couldn’t remember what it was.
Nights like this, he had to admit, it would be nice to have someone else in your life. Someone to talk to, to relax with, watch a movie or listen to a CD with. Whatever. Truth was, he hadn’t had anyone like that since Ellen, and that had been an increasingly long time ago. And that had ended in tragedy.
Ben picked up the phone and was halfway through dialing Christina before he stopped and pushed the interrupt button. It wouldn’t be right. He monopolized too much of her time as it was during the day; he didn’t have any business invading her nights. She probably had a social life, unlike him. She belonged to clubs and support groups and a church and went to parties and all that stuff.
What do I belong to? Ben asked himself. He didn’t have an answer.
Without even thinking about it, he began dialing her number. Long distance to Oklahoma City. He was afraid she might not still be awake, but in fact, she answered in less than three rings.
“Hello?”
“Hi. Mother?”
“Benjamin?” There was a brief pause. “Is today a holiday?”
“No, Mother. I just thought I’d see how you were doing.”
Her voice could not disguise a certain incomprehension. “You just called … to talk?”
“Is it too late? I hope you weren’t already asleep.”
“You know, Benjamin, when you get to be my age, you don’t sleep as much as you used to. How’s my grandson?”
“He’s fine, really. All in all.”
“You don’t sound convinced.”
“Well, he doesn’t talk much.”
“Some children don’t. Your sister barely spoke until she was three. But once she started, you couldn’t stop her.”
“Maybe it’s genetic.”
“What else would it be?”
Ben stretched out on his sofa. “I don’t know, Mother. I’m doing my best, but I don’t know very much about raising a kid.”
“No one does, Benjamin. It’s all trial and error.”
“Yeah.” He sighed. “I just don’t want my errors to destroy someone’s life.”
There was another long pause. “Benjamin, is something wrong?”
“Oh, no. Nothing. I’ve just been very busy lately.”
“Yes, I know.”
“You do?”
“How could I not? I see you on television constantly—scowling at reporters and refusing to comment. I can’t go anywhere without running into someone who wants the inside scoop. Majel Howard stopped me at Crescent Market yesterday and I thought I would never get away from her. She wanted to know all about my son, the famous celebrity. Can you imagine? My son, the famous celebrity. Who’d have thought?”
“I’m hardly famous. More like notorious.”
“Nonsense. But Majel kept pressing for information, so eventually I had to pretend that you and I talk occasionally and that consequently I might know something.”
“Mo-ther!”
“Sorry, Benjamin.”
“The trial starts soon.”
“Yes, so I’ve heard. Do you have your trial strategy mapped out?”
Ben hesitated. “Not exactly. We have a theory, but no way to prove it.”
“It must be very stressful. Handling such a high-profile case. Having reporters swarming around you every second.”
“Yeah, it is.”
“Well, you’ll think of something, Benjamin. I know you will.”