“That’ll help. Or his wife?”
“Lucia’s a doctor,” I say. “She works at the medical center. Do you really think this person wants to hurt me?”
“He sure wants to cause you trouble,” the officer said. “And the vandalism seems more violent each time. Can you come down to the station?”
“I cannot leave here until after work,” I say. “Mr. Crenshaw would be angry with me.” If someone is trying to hurt me, I do not want anyone else angry.
“We’re sending someone out,” Mr. Stacy says. “Which building are you in?” I tell him that and which gate to enter and which turns to take to arrive in our parking area, and he continues, “Should be there within a half hour. We have fingerprints; we’ll need to take yours to compare with the others. Your fingerprints should be all over that car — and you’ve had it in for repairs lately, too, so there’ll be others. But if we find a set that doesn’t match yours or any of the repair people… we’ll have something solid to go on.”
I wonder if I should tell Mr. Aldrin or Mr. Crenshaw that the police are coming here to talk to me. I do not know which would make Mr. Crenshaw more angry. Mr. Aldrin does not seem to get angry as often. I call his office.
“The police are coming to talk to me,” I say. “I will make up the time.”
“Lou! What’s wrong? What have you done?”
“It is my car,” I say.
Before I can say more, he is talking fast. “Lou, don’t say anything to them. We’ll get you a lawyer. Was anyone hurt?”
“Nobody was hurt,” I say. I hear his breath gush out.
“Well, that’s a mercy,” he says.
“When I opened the hood, I did not touch the device.”
“Device? What are you talking about?”
“The… the thing that someone put in my car. It looked like a toy, a jack-in-the-box.”
“Wait — wait. Are you telling me that the police are coming because of something that happened to you, that someone else did? Not something you did?”
“I did not touch it,” I say. The words he has just said filter through slowly, one by one; the excitement in his voice made it hard to hear them clearly. He thought at first that I had done something wrong, something to bring the police here. This man I have known since I started working here — he thinks I could do something so bad. I feel heavier.
“I’m sorry,” he says before I can say anything. “It sounds like — it must sound like — I jumped to the conclusion that you had done something wrong. I’m sorry. I know you would not. But I still think you need one of the company’s lawyers with you when you talk to the police.”
“No,” I say. I feel chilly and bitter; I do not want to be treated like a child. I thought Mr. Aldrin liked me. If he does not like me, then Mr. Crenshaw, who is so much worse, must really hate me. “I do not want a lawyer. I do not need a lawyer. I have not done anything wrong. Someone has been vandalizing my car.”
“More than once?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say. “Two weeks ago, when all my tires were flat. Someone had slashed them. That is the time I was late. Then, the following Wednesday, while I was at a friend’s house, someone smashed my windshield. I called the police then, too.”
“But you didn’t tell me, Lou,” Mr. Aldrin says.
“No… I thought Mr. Crenshaw would be angry. And this morning, my car wouldn’t start. The battery was gone, and a toy was there instead. I came to work and called the police. When they went to look, the toy had an explosive under it.”
“My God, Lou — that’s… you could have been hurt. That’s horrible. Do you have any idea — no, of course you don’t. Listen, I’m coming right over.”
He has hung up before I can ask him not to come right over. I am too excited to work now. I do not care what Mr. Crenshaw thinks. I need my time in the gym. No one else is there. I put on bouncing music and begin bouncing on the trampoline, big, swooping bounces. At first I am out of rhythm with the music, but then I stabilize my movement. The music lifts me, swings me down; I can feel the beat in the compression of my joints as I meet the stretchy fabric and spring upward again.
By the time Mr. Aldrin arrives, I am feeling better. I am sweaty and I can smell myself, but the music is moving strongly inside me. I am not shaky or scared. It is a good feeling.
Mr. Aldrin looks worried, and he wants to come closer than I want him to come. I do not want him to smell me and be offended. I do not want him to touch me, either. “Are you all right, Lou?” he asks. His hand keeps reaching out, as if to pat me.
“I am doing okay,” I say.
“Are you sure? I really think we should have a lawyer here, and maybe you should go by the clinic—”
“I was not hurt,” I say. “I am all right. I do not need to see a doctor, and I do not want the lawyer.”
“I left word at the gate for the police,” Mr. Aldrin says. “I had to tell Mr. Crenshaw.” His brow lowers. “He was in a meeting. He will get the message when he gets out.”
The door buzzer sounds. Employees authorized to be in this building have their own key cards. Only visitors have to ring the buzzer. “I’ll go,” Mr. Aldrin says. I do not know whether to go in my office or stand in the hall. I stand in the hall and watch Mr. Aldrin go to the door. He opens it and says something to the man who is standing there. I cannot see if it is the same man I talked to before until he is much closer, and then I can tell that it is.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Hi, Mr. Arrendale,” he says, and puts out his hand. I put out mine, though I do not like to shake hands. I know it is appropriate. “Is there somewhere we could talk?” he asks.
“My office,” I say. I lead the way in. I do not have visitors, so there is no extra chair. I see Mr. Stacy looking at all the twinklies, the spin spirals and pinwheels and other decorations. I do not know what he thinks about it. Mr. Aldrin speaks softly to Mr. Stacy and leaves. I do not sit down because it is not polite to sit when other people have to stand, unless you are their boss. Mr. Aldrin comes in with a chair that I recognize from the kitchenette. He puts it down in the space between my desk and the files. Then he stands by the door.
“And you are?” Mr. Stacy asks, turning to him.
“Pete Aldrin; I’m Lou’s immediate supervisor. I don’t know if you understand—” Mr. Aldrin gives me a look that I am not sure of, and Mr. Stacy nods.
“I’ve interviewed Mr. Arrendale before,” he says. Once more I am astonished at how they do it, the way they pass information from one to another without words. “Don’t let me keep you.”
“But… but I think he needs—”
“Mr. Aldrin, Mr. Arrendale here isn’t in trouble. We’re trying to help him, keep this nutcase from hurting him. Now if you’ve got a safe place for him to stay for a few days, while we try to track this person down, that would be a help, but otherwise — I don’t think he needs baby-sitting while I chat with him. Though it’s up to him…” The policeman looks at me. I see something in his face that I think may be laughter, but I am not sure. It is very subtle.
“Lou is very capable,” Mr. Aldrin says. “We value him highly. I just wanted—”
“To be sure he would get fair treatment. I understand. But it’s up to him.”
They are both looking at me; I feel impaled on their gaze like one of those exhibits at the museums. I know Mr. Aldrin wants me to say he should stay, but he wants it for the wrong reason and I do not want him to stay. “I will be all right,” I say. “I will call you if anything happens.”
“Be sure you do,” he says. He gives Mr. Stacy a long look and then leaves. I can hear his footsteps going down the hall and then the scrape of the other chair in the kitchenette and the plink and clunk of money going into the drink machine and a can of something landing down below. I wonder what he chose. I wonder if he will stay there in case I want him.