It's like the air in this glass, he thought. I'm holding it, but am I really? I'm holding the glass but the air inside is invisible. It could be pure oxygen or laced with poison. How would I know until I've let it fill my lungs? How would I know about feelings of any kind until it's too late?
He put the glass to his lips again and realized it was empty. He considered refilling it but wanted to keep his head clear, in case. He let his hand fall to the side. The glass slipped away, bounced once on the rug and then rolled under the old sofa.
So where the hell is she?
His gaze fell to the cell phone where it rested on the edge of his desk, as though the act of wishing it would play its merry little ringtone would make it so, the ringtone he hated because it was stupid, the ringtone he loved because it was her ringtone. Beautiful Woman would have been perfect, but no, she liked the Gummy Bear song. One day she snatched the phone out of his hand and in a flurry of flying thumbs had downloaded the stupid song and assigned it to her number.
He wished it would play the Gummy Bear song right now... RIGHT NOW!
And suddenly, the phone came to life. It wasn't Gummy Bear, though; instead it was the default ring for any caller who was not Stella. He snatched at it, nearly tilting his chair over as he strained to keep from dumping his feet off the other corner of the desk. He settled and touched the Answer button.
"CJ."
He heard nothing but dead silence.
"Hello!"
Still nothing. He pressed the phone to one ear and covered the other, dropped his feet to the floor and leaned forward.
"Hello?"
There came what sounded like a shuffle followed by a soft slap as though a paperback book was dropped, and then a click. He looked at the phone.
Call Ended, it displayed.
Duration: 19 seconds.
Caller Unknown.
After a time he took a breath, tossed the phone back on the desk and stood. He paced to the door, then back to his desk. He snatched up the phone and paced again, the fear he had been suppressing for the last hour rebuilding with each step, each turn. Without stopping he pressed "2" to speed-dial Stella's cell phone. When her voicemail kicked in he ended the call. He'd already left three messages in the last dozen or so times he had attempted calling her.
What was it he'd heard during the dead call? Was the shuffle actually Stella crawling out of sight while trying to sneak a call on the perp's phone? And the other sound, the paperback slap; what was that? Her hand reaching, slapping down for a grip? And then the shuffle; her pulling herself along? Why didn't she say anything? Couldn't? Gagged? Afraid of being overheard? Why did she hang up? Afraid of being caught? Accidental? Why has she not tried to call again?
He looked up at the ceiling.
Or was the call as simple as a wrong number, the caller embarrassed to say anything?
Something tightened in his chest. He pounded on his breastbone, blew out air, sucked in, blew out again, coughed hard with each exhale.
"Not now!"
He'd never had a heart attack, but Stella made him read about how to stave one off because he was at that age. He was only 44. What did she mean by that age? The pressure didn't go away, but there was no pain and he otherwise felt fine.
He jumped with a sudden start as the phone vibrated in his hand and began playing the Gummy Bear song. He looked at the name, Stella, displayed on the caller ID, unable to believe that she chose to call at that very second. He punched the Answer button and put it to his ear.
"Stella?"
Silence.
"Stella?"
"Clinton. Sorry I didn't pick up when you called. I'm still a bit tied up and won't be..."
"What happened? You just disappeared."
"I know. I'm sorry. Can't talk right now, but tomorrow I'll call. Sorry. Okay?"
Clint looked up at the ceiling again and then closed his eyes. "I don't understand. Where are you? When tomorrow?"
"Sorry. Got to go. Bye."
"Stella!" He looked at the phone. The words, Call Ended, glared back at him again. He touched "2" until her number started dialing and then put the phone to his ear. It rang once... twice. "Damn!" He waited through the uninterrupted ringing until her voicemail greeting cut in, then waited for the tone.
"Stella. What do you mean you can't talk? You can always talk, even when you shouldn't. When tomorrow? What's going on? I'm worried about you. Call me."
He allowed several cycles of breathing and who knows how many racing heartbeats before he finished with the words he'd had been avoiding their entire relationship.
"I love you."
He looked at the phone for a long time before he pressed the End Call button, fearing when he did that the end would be all too literal. When the screen went black he lowered his weight onto his chair, the air escaping the cushions in rhythm with that escaping his lungs.
Chapter 2
It was several minutes before CJ's mind came back around to Stella's call and then he tried to convince himself that she was trying to pass him a message, that she was being cryptic because, hell, that's just the way Stella was. She never said anything straight forward, always had to present her ideas in such a way that he had to, one, understand that there was something between her lines, and two, figure out what the hell it was.
He put three fingers to his forehead and thought about her words. First, she talked slow and he was surprised he hadn't picked up on that right off. Slow talking was not part of Stella's persona. Second, she let him interrupt her. She's uninterruptible. He tapped the three fingers against his forehead. Third.… There's got to be a third. So what if she talked slow and allowed him to interrupt. It's 1:00 in the morning. She's probably tired, a long day of whatever she was doing. But.... He shook his head, grabbed the phone and jumped to his feet. He put it to his ear and tried to replay from memory the conversation exactly as it came out of her mouth.
"Clint," she'd said. "Sorry I didn't pick up when you called."
She never says she's sorry, even when she is.
"I'm still a bit tied up...." What did that mean? Was she being figurative or literal? Tied up! He started pacing again. Tied up! He shook his head. They only do that in mysteries or police shows. No way that she meant it literally, thinking that he'd really get it. But he did get it, didn't he, or would if that's what she meant.
He suddenly realized he was going on like she always accused him; making a mountain out of a fire ant hill. Her little joke that never made sense. Where did he get the idea she might be in trouble anyway? There were two women found, a month apart, wrapped in old quilts and left in a dumpster; one on the Eastside, the other south of the interstate. They were believed to be call girls, undoubtedly were, while Stella was anything but. However, she was investigating the murders even though he had told her to leave them alone. He was the PI. She was his secretary slash assistant. Besides, they had no related client and it was for the police to solve.
One doesn't tell Stella anything.
She wasn't licensed, wasn't trained, didn't carry a piece or at least not one that he knew of and he certainly would know, wouldn't he, if it was strapped to her body somewhere. Maybe in her purse? She did carry mace. That he did know, because he'd bought it for her just last month. It wasn't the only birthday gift he'd given her. He smiled at the vision of her appearing in the little lacy thing and then him taking it off of her.
He snapped his mind back to the phone call. She'd said she couldn't talk, that she'd call tomorrow, and then, "Sorry" again. That was twice, or was it three times in a thirty second phone call? Was that on purpose? It wasn't that she'd never say she was sorry, but would reserve it for only those times when she was truly, to the bottom of her heart–her words–sorry. He closed his eyes and tried to remember the entire conversation, word-for-word. She used it at the beginning. "Clint, sorry. I'm tied up." Then he said something like, "What happened?" She said, sorry, again and that she couldn't talk, she'd call tomorrow, and then, sorry, a third time.
Then he asked when she'd call. She said, "Sorry. Got to go. Bye."
That was four times! She talked slow so he'd hear it and said she was sorry four times. That was calculated, each sorry like a poke in the arm saying, "Read-between-my-lines."
And then, suddenly, he saw it, saw her very first word. He was staring at the window overlooking the parking lot, but the focus was on the reflection in the glass, his own shocked, slack-jawed expression. She had not opened with "Clint." She'd said, "Clinton." She didn't like initials for a name, preferred the full given name. He had stood his ground and they compromised on Clint because he detested Clinton, went by CJ with everyone but her. She had used Clinton to get his attention right off, and then said, sorry, four times.
After patting himself on the back for figuring it out, he paced back and forth a half dozen times, wondering what he should do about it. His conclusion was that there wasn't anything he could do except go home, but going home was too much like giving up. He holstered his cell phone, grabbed up his keys and went out the door.
Stella's apartment was as dark as it had been when he had gone by two hours before. He let himself in, then called her name as he strode straight into her bedroom and flipped on the light. The made bed was crumpled in one spot. He froze for several seconds before recognizing it as his crumple, not Stella's. The crumple was where he'd sat earlier. He let out a disappointed breath.
He turned around and went to her desk in the living room, found her address book, opened it to her sister's name and then wondered what the point would be to call Sara in the middle of the night. She wouldn't know anything and he'd just be getting her unnecessarily worried. Besides, Sara didn't much like him, he had the feeling, even though they’d never met. He entered her number in his cell phone contact list because it just seemed like a good idea. Then he paged through the address book, finding nothing more that would be of any help.
He closed the book and sat at the desk. Her laptop was closed. He considered opening it and powering it on, but what would be the point? He knew how to do little more than email and web surfing.
Email! Maybe she sent him an email. He'd never thought to check. Sometimes she'd do that when she didn't want to get tied up on the phone. Also to annoy him, he was sure, because he hated email. He opened the computer, touched the start button and then pulled his hand back. This was her private space and he felt very weird violating it, had already felt weird going through her address book. If it was a case he was working on, that would be one thing, but this was Stella.
He closed the computer. He could go home and check his email, or back to his office. Going home still felt like giving up. Going back to the office would accomplish nothing. He spun around in the chair but didn't get up. He didn't know where else to go to look for her. Besides, now that he was in her apartment, he didn't want to leave. If he didn't hear from her by 8:00 in the morning, noon latest, he'd think of something else. She'd probably come bounding in the door any minute now and all his fears would turn out to be rather silly.
He rose with great effort, went into her bedroom and sat on the crumpled spot on her bed. He took off his shoes and stretched out, setting the cell phone on the bed within easy reach, and closed his eyes.
About the author
A retired graphic designer, James Paddock lives in Florida with his wife, Penny, a retired teacher. Novel writing, which keeps his sanity, if there is such a thing, is his passion and gives Penny, an avid reader, something to look forward to every few years. Together they claim five children and many grandchildren, and they, of course, are all beautiful and highly intelligent.
James began his writing efforts in 1993 with the publication of his very first short story. He became hooked on the craft of storytelling and soon began longer works, completing his first novel, Elkhorn Mountain Menace, a story of terrorism in rural Montana, in August of 2001, only weeks before 9/11.
Novels by James Paddock
Elkhorn Mountain Menace
(Previously titled Angels in the Mist)
Before Anne After (Book 1)
Time Will Tell (Book 2)
Smilodon (Book 1)
Sabre City (Book 2)
The Last Sabre (Book 3)
Lost & Forgotten
Deserving of Death
Novellette
Hot Roast Beef with Mustard
For purchases, eBook or paperback, visit:
desertbookshelf.com
Connect with James Paddock Online
Twitter: jameswriter
Facebook: DesertBookshelf
Blog: DesertBookshelf/blog
Table of Contents
Book 1: Before Anne After
Book 2: Time Will Tell
Deserving of Death - 1st two chapters
All novels by James Paddock
Time-Travel Duo Page 114
