The Covenant Of The Flame

by David Morrell

  Seething, Tess joined the stream of joggers, too distraught to bother with the preliminary ritual of stretch-and-warm-up exercises, her anger so fueling her long urgent stride that she outdistanced the fastest runners.

  Bastard.

  FIVE

  Sunday was dreary. A dismal rain reinforced Tess's depression. Bare-footed, wearing the shorts and rumpled T-shirt that she'd slept in, she sipped from a steaming cup of strong black coffee and scowled from a window of her loft in SoHo. Three floors down, across the street, a drenched pathetic cat found shelter under a seesaw in a small playground.

  Behind her, the TV was on, a Cable News Network anchor-woman somberly reporting the latest environmental disaster. In Tennessee, a train pulling twenty cars of anhydrous ammonia, a toxic gas shipped in the form of pressurized liquid and used in the manufacture of fertilizer, had reached a rural section of ill-maintained tracks and toppled down an embankment. The tanks had burst, and the cargo had vaporized, spewing a massive poisonous cloud that so far had killed the entire train crew, sixteen members of families on local farms, dozens of livestock, hundreds of wild animals, and thousands of birds. A northeastern wind was directing the dense white cloud toward a nearby town of fifteen thousand people, all of whom were fleeing in panic. Emergency workers were powerless to stop the cloud and unprepared to organize so huge an evacuation. At last count, eight motorists had been killed and another sixteen critically injured in car accidents due to the chaos of the town's frantic attempt to escape. Eventually, the anchorwoman reported, the heavy gas would settle to the ground, but paradoxically, although anhydrous ammonia was used to make fertilizer, it wouldn't benefit the land. Not unless diluted. Instead its present, extremely concentrated nitrogen level (eighty-two percent) would sear hundreds of acres of woodland as well as destroy crops and become absorbed into streams, wells, ponds, and reservoirs, poisoning the town's water supply.

  Tess drooped her shoulders, turned off the TV, and frowned up toward the monotonous unnerving gusts of rain on her skylight. She shuddered with the realization of how even more disastrous, almost unimaginably so, the accident would have been if it had happened near a major urban area. One day, though, that's exactly where it will happen, she knew. Because of carelessness, poor planning, badly maintained equipment, government lethargy, greed, stupidity, overpopulation, and… Tess shook her head. So many reasons. Too many. Piece by piece, the earth was dying, and there didn't seem any way to stop it.

  A line from one of Yeats's poems occurred to her.

  Things fall apart; the center cannot hold.

  She felt exhausted. Abandoning her plan to go to her health club this morning, she decided she needed a long hot bath. I've been pushing myself too hard. What I ought to do is curl up in bed and read the Sunday Times.

  But the news would only depress her further, she knew.

  Then watch some old movies, she told herself. Rent some Cary Grant screwball comedies.

  But she doubted that she'd do much laughing. How could she laugh when…? Without minimizing the gravity of what had happened in Tennessee, she admitted, reluctantly, that part of her depression was the consequence of her bitterness that Joseph had failed to meet her yesterday.

  Her anger still smoldered. Why would he-?

  Joseph hadn't seemed the type to be rude. Okay, I admit, I came on awfully strong. I kept trying to get him to say that we could be more than friends. I overreacted. I probably scared him away.

  In that case – her indignation flared – the least Joseph could have done was phone and explain that he had second thoughts and didn't plan to show up. He didn't need to keep me waiting.

  Phone you? Tess suddenly thought. Your number isn't listed! And even if it were, you never told him your last name! For all you know, he had a legitimate reason not to meet you, but he didn't have a way to get in touch and let you know.

  Should I swallow my pride and call him?

  Dummy, you don't know his last name any more than he knows yours.

  SIX

  Monday, self-conscious, Tess almost expected to see Joseph enter the lobby while she waited for the elevator, but this time, a coincidence didn't happen. In her office, she tried to concentrate on her article, glancing frequently from her computer toward the telephone.

  Whenever it rang, she tensed, hoping it would be Joseph, disappointed when it wasn't. By eleven-thirty, frustration made her check the Yellow Pages for Truth Video's number. She picked up the phone, only to slam it down.

  What's wrong with me? I'm the one who got stood up. Why should I call him! Have I lost my pride? Do I need to beg for an apology?

  At two, when she went for lunch, she again wondered if she'd see him in the elevator, but the car passed Truth Video's floor without stopping. On impulse, she decided to eat at the deli across the street. No sign of Joseph.

  Thinking of him, she ordered what both of them had eaten on Friday: a tomato, sprouts, and cucumber sandwich.

  She didn't see him waiting back at the elevator, didn't receive a call from him in her office, and didn't cross paths with him when she left the building just after seven.

  Screw him! He had his chance!

  But Tuesday, when she still didn't see him and he still didn't phone, she banged down the gold Cross pen she'd been using to edit the printout of her manuscript and decided that an apology was exactly what she wanted.

  In fact, she demanded it!

  Not on the phone, though. No, by God. She wanted to see him squirm.

  She wanted him to-

  The son of a bitch had to apologize in person.

  SEVEN

  Truth Video had a narrow reception area separated from its offices by a thick glass wall and door. A secretary peered up from a desk and spoke to Tess through a slot in a window, her hand poised to press a button that would free the electronically controlled lock on the door. 'May I help you?'

  Tess's determination wavered.

  Don't be a fool! He'll think you're-!

  Think I'm what?

  Chasing him? He should be so damned lucky!

  Taking a breath, Tess forced herself to look businesslike, not at all angry.

  Inwardly, though, she smiled. When I see the creep, when the secretary hears what I tell him and the gossip gets around…

  'By all means, yes. I'm looking for a man who works here. I don't know his last name, but his first name's Joseph.'

  The receptionist nodded, although her eyes looked puzzled. There's only one Joseph who works here. You must mean Joseph Martin.'

  'Martin?' Tess mentally repeated the name. 'Early thirties? Tall? Trim? Dark hair? Gray eyes?'

  'Yeah, that's him, all right.'

  'Well, if he hasn't gone to lunch, would you kindly tell him I'd like to speak with him?'

  'Sorry.' The receptionist frowned. 'I don't know if he's having lunch, but he certainly isn't here.'

  'Great. Then I'll try again later. Any idea when he'll be back?'

  'Well, that's the question, isn't it?'

  'I don't understand.'

  'Joseph hasn't reported for work since he left the office on Friday.'

  'What?'

  'We haven't seen him yesterday or today,' the receptionist said. 'He didn't call in to tell us he was sick or had a family emergency or… He just never showed.'

  Tess felt off-balance.

  'The editing department's been frantic to meet a deadline without his help, and…'

  Tess's anger no longer mattered. She pressed her fingertips against the window. 'Why didn't you phone him?'

  That's another problem. If he's got a phone, he never put its number on his employment sheet.' The receptionist studied her. 'Are you a friend of his?'

  'In a strange sort of…'

  The receptionist shrugged. 'It figures. Joseph's strange enough. Look, if you run into him, why not give us a break and tell him to call? We can't find his notes for the project we're working on. The editing department's climbing the walls to find those notes and meet their dea
dline.'

  'But didn't anyone go to Joseph's home?'

  The receptionist strained to look patient. 'I told you we can't find his notes. But the messenger we sent over says that no one lives at the address Joseph gave us.'

  'What's the address?'

  'It doesn't matter,' the receptionist said. 'Believe me, it won't help.'

  Tess again raised her voice. 'I asked you, what's the address?'

  The receptionist tapped her pen against her chin. 'You're wasting your time, but if it means that much to you…'

  'It does mean that much to me.'

  'You sure must be a friend of his.' The receptionist exhaled, flipped through a Rolodex, and gave an address on Broadway.

  Tess scribbled it down.

  'I'm telling you, though,' the receptionist said. 'It's…'

  'I know. A waste of time.'

  EIGHT

  But when Tess got out of the taxi to confront the blaring horns and noxious fumes of congested traffic on Broadway near Fiftieth Street, she began to wonder. Comparing the address on the dismal building before her to the numbers she'd written on her notepad, she understood – with belated apologies to the receptionist – why she'd been told she'd be wasting her time.

  The building had a tourist-trap, overpriced-camera-and-electronics shop on the bottom floor. The second floor had a dusty window with a sign: SEXUAL EDUCATORS. The third-floor windows were all painted black. God alone knew what they hid, but Tess braced her shoulders, determined to find out. Because the address she'd been given had specified a number on the third floor.

  She stepped around a drunk or more likely a junkie passed out on the sidewalk, entered a hallway that stank of urine, climbed equally foul-smelling stairs, mustered the confidence to ignore the oppressive absence of lights, and reached the gloomy third floor. The names of businesses on various doors reinforced her increasingly despondent certainty that this building was strictly commercial, that neither Joseph nor anyone else would have an apartment here.

  But then why, she brooded, convinced that something was wrong, had Joseph told his employer that this was his address?

  She found an open door with a number on its grimy frosted glass that matched the third-floor number on her notepad.

  Inside, she studied a frizzy-haired woman with too much lipstick who sat behind a desk. The woman chewed gum while reading a paperback. On every wall, from floor to ceiling, there were eight-inch-square cubicles with closed metal hatches that had numbers and locks.

  Tess haltingly approached the desk.

  The woman kept reading.

  'Excuse me,' Tess said.

  The woman turned a page.

  Tess cleared her throat. 'If you don't mind.'

  The woman splayed her book on the desk and frowned upward.

  'I'm looking for…' Tess shook her head. There isn't a sign on the door. What kind of business is this?'

  The woman gnawed her gum. 'A mail service.'

  'I don't…'

  'Like a post-office box? The mailman brings it. I sort it. I put it in those slots. The customers pick it up.'

  'Have you ever heard of…? I'm looking for a man named Joseph Martin.' •

  'Sorry. It doesn't ring any bells.'

  'Maybe if I described him.'

  'Honey' – the woman raised a chubby hand – 'before you get started, I'm just a temp. The regular gal got sick. Appendix or something. I don't know any Joseph Martin.'

  'But he told his employer that this is where he lives.'

  The woman chortled. 'Sure. Maybe he sneaks in at night and sets up a cot. Come on, I told you this is a mail service. What this Martin guy probably meant was this is where he wanted his check sent.'

  Tess's pulse quickened. 'If he's one of your customers…'

  'Maybe yes. Maybe no. I just started this morning. No one named Joseph Martin came in.'

  'But if he is a customer, could you find out if he picked up his mail on Saturday or Monday?'

  The woman squinted. 'Nope.'

  'Why not?'

  'Because that information's confidential, honey. When I started this morning, the guy who hired me made sure I got two points. First, I have to get ID from customers before I let them unlock their box. And second, I'm not allowed to give out information about the clients. There's too many process servers.' The woman eyed Tess with suspicion.

  'I'm not a process server.'

  'So you say.'

  'Look, I'm just worried about my friend. He's been missing since Friday, and…'

  'You say. Me? I have to protect my buns. If this gal I replaced gets sick enough to quit or die or something, maybe I can make this a permanent job. So why not get lost, huh? For all I know, you work for my boss and he sent you here to check out if I'm doing what he told me. So look for your friend somewhere else.'

  NINE

  In a taxi on the way back to work, Tess trembled, frustrated. She tried to assure herself that she'd done her best. If Joseph decided to quit his job and drop out of sight, that wasn't her concern, she told herself.

  But despite her insistence, she couldn't ignore the queasy churning in her stomach. Suppose Joseph's disappearance had something to do with her.

  Don't kid yourself, she thought. Nobody quits his job just to escape a woman who was too insistent about starting a relationship.

  Anyway, Joseph didn't quit his job. The receptionist at Truth Video said he never called in to explain why he wouldn't be at work.

  So what? That doesn't prove a thing. Lots of people quit their job without calling in to say they've quit. They just never show up again.

  But Joseph didn't seem that irresponsible, Tess thought.

  Sure, just like he didn't seem the type to stand you up? Stop being naive. You met him only three times. You really don't know anything about him. You admitted – in fact you told him – he's the strangest man you ever met. Even the receptionist at Truth Video called him strange. And maybe that's why you're attracted to him.

  Tess bit her lip. Admit something else. You're concerned because you think something might have happened to him. For all you know, he's sick at home, too weak to phone for help. That explanation would certainly soothe your wounded pride.

  Tess sagged in the back seat of the taxi.

  What's wrong with me? Do I actually hope he's too sick to make a phone call?

  On the taxi's radio, an announcer gave a tense update about the toxic-gas disaster in Tennessee. Three hundred dead. Eight hundred critically injured. Fields littered with thousands of dead animals and birds. Already the forests and crops were turning brown from the caustic effects of the poisonous cloud's searing nitrogen. The Environmental Protection Agency, among many other government agencies, had rushed investigators to the nightmarish scene with orders to search for the cause of the train's derailment. Their conclusions so far – according to an unnamed but highly placed informant – indicated that budget cuts at the financially troubled Tennessee railway had resulted in understaffed maintenance crews. The railway's owner could not be reached for comment, although rumors suggested that his recent divorce -costly and caused by an affair with one of his secretaries – had distracted him from crucial business decisions. As well, the foreman of the maintenance crew was reputed to have a cocaine addiction.

  Jesus, Tess thought. While I'm worrying about a possibly sick man who stood me up, the planet gets worse.

  A gruff voice intruded on her thoughts.

  'What?' Tess straightened. 'I'm sorry. I didn't…'

  'Lady.' The taxi driver scowled. 'I told you we're here. You owe me four bucks.'

  TEN

  Surprised to discover that she'd been gone from the office for almost two hours, Tess tried to concentrate on the revisions she'd made in her article, but as she jotted notes for a possibly stronger last paragraph, she found herself staring at her gold Cross pen. She remembered the day her father had given it to her and how dropping it had been the catalyst that brought Joseph and her together.

  Abrup
tly she stood, left her office, proceeded along a row of other offices, and stopped at the end of the corridor, at the open door of the final office. With equal suddenness, she felt her determination wither. Because what she saw was Walter Trask, the fiftyish, portly, avuncular editor of Earth Mother Magazine, hunched over his desk, rubbing his temples and shaking his head at what looked like financial statements.

  Tess turned to leave.

  But Trask must have felt her presence. Shifting his worried gaze toward the open door, he changed expressions and smiled. 'Hey, kid, how are you?'

  Tess didn't answer.

  'Come on, what's the matter?' Trask leaned back and raised his hands. 'You're always so cheery. It can't be that bad. Get in here. Sit. Stretch your legs. Talk to me.'

  Tess frowned and entered.

  'What is it?' Trask raised his eyebrows. Trouble with your article?'

  'Trouble? Yes.' She sank toward a chair. 'But not with the article.'

  'Which means it might be…?' Trask raised his eyebrows higher.

  'Personal.' Tess felt a greater hesitation. 'This is embarrassing. Maybe I shouldn't have…'

  'Nonsense. That's why my door is always open. Personal problems always result in professional problems. When my staffs unhappy, the magazine suffers. Talk to me, Tess. You know I'm fond of you. Think of me as a confessor. And I hope I don't need to add – anything said in this room, believe me, goes no farther.'

  Tess tried not to fidget. Given her late father's background, she knew she ought to be more sophisticated about certain matters. 'What I wanted to ask… You know these companies that hold mail for people…?'

  Trask narrowed his gaze, emphasizing the furrows around his eyes. 'Hold mail for people?'

  'Sort of like post-office boxes, except they're not in a post office.'

  'Ah, yes, now I… Mail services. Sure,' Trask said. 'What about them?'

  Tess's stomach hardened. 'Who uses them? Why?'