“No, there isn’t,” I told Van Allsburg.
“Good—,” he started in, but I cut him off.
“Because I’m turning off my pager right now.”
Chapter 22
I’LL ADMIT, when I hung up the phone, my pulse was racing a little, but I felt relieved as well. I thought that Ron Burns would probably back me up on this, but you know what? I didn’t even care.
An hour later I was dressed and ready to go be a tourist. “Who wants to have breakfast with Goofy?” I called out.
The hotel offered “character breakfasts,” and it seemed like a good way to channel our energies right back into vacation mode. A little corny for sure, but sometimes corny is good, real good, keeps everything in perspective.
Jannie and Damon came into the suite’s living room, both of them looking a little wary. I held out two fists, fingers up.
“Each of you pick a hand,” I said.
“Daddy, we’re not babies anymore,” Jannie said. “I’m eleven. Have you noticed?”
I put on a shocked expression. “You’re not?” It brought out the kind of laughter I was looking for.
“This is serious business,” I told them. “I’m not kidding. Now, pick a hand. Please.”
“What is it?” Damon asked.
But I kept mute.
Jannie finally tapped my left hand, and then Damon shrugged and pointed to the right.
“Good choice.” I turned it over and unclenched my fingers. Both kids leaned in for a closer look.
“Your pager?” Damon asked.
“I just turned it off. Now Nana and I are going to wait out in the hall, and I want you two to hide it some
where. Hide it good. I don’t want to see that thing again, not until we’re back in D.C.”
Both Jannie and Damon began to whistle and cheer. Even Nana let out a whoop. We were finally on vacation.
Chapter 23
MAYBE THERE WAS a silver lining in all of this misery and desolation. Not likely, but maybe. Arnold Griner knew he had exclusive rights to his own story when this terrible mess was all over. And you know what else? He wouldn’t settle for just a TV movie. He was going to try to serialize the whole thing in his column, and then sell it as a prestige project at one of the studios. Hollywood Under Siege? The War Against the Stars? Bad titles. That was the concept, anyway.
He shook his head and refocused on the San Diego Freeway. The Xanax he’d taken was making him a little loopy. He’d kept the caffeine going, too, just to maintain some kind of balance through the day. Actually, the morning commute was the hardest time of his day. It was a daily transition from not worrying as much to worrying a lot and feeling sick to his stomach. The closer he got to his office, his desk, his computer, the more anxious he felt.
If he knew for certain that another creepy e-mail was coming, it would almost be easier. It was the not-knowing part that made it hell.
Would Mary be back? Would it happen today? But, most important, why was she writing to him?
All too soon, he arrived at Times Mirror Square. Griner worked in the older part of the complex, a 1930s-era building that he had a certain affection for, under normal circumstances, anyway.
The main doors were large bronze affairs, flanked with imposing twin eagle sculptures. He walked right by them this morning, around to the back entrance, and took the stairs to the third floor. One couldn’t be too careful, could one?
A reporter named Jennie Bloom fell into step with him the second he hit the newsroom floor. Among all the staff who had shown a sudden interest in his well-being, she was by far the most obvious about it. Or was that odious?
“Hey, Arnold, how’s it going? You doing okay, man? What are you covering today?”
Griner didn’t miss a beat. “Jen, if that’s your idea of a pickup line, you must be the most unlaid woman in L.A.”