I was sitting on the overstuffed armchair in my living room, in front of the picture window at twilight, watching the flickering lights of the homes on the Freedom hillside, when the phone rang.
I answered it reluctantly.
“Please hold for Her Honor Mayor Goodnow,” a voice dripping with officiousness responded.
She came on almost immediately. “I’m being inundated here, Buddy. What in the hell is going on?”
“And a fine good evening to you, too, Regina.”
“Don’t fine good evening me. I’m being hounded by media outlets I’ve never even heard of. I’ve even been contacted by Sean Hannity’s people.”
“Wow. Lucky you.”
“Don’t make jokes, Buddy. People here are scared. They want information. I need to tell them something.”
“Tell them the investigation is ongoing.”
“They want more than that.”
“Look, Regina. We have a serial killer on the loose here. Off the record, we’ve drawn a bead on a person of interest. But there’s not enough evidence yet to make an arrest and bring charges. But again off the record, I’m encouraged.”
“Oh, swell. You do realize that this thing is threatening to envelop your father? He, as you well know, is in no position to face any kind of scrutiny. You have to conclude this investigation, Buddy. Or there will be serious consequences.”
“What is it you propose I do, Regina?”
“Just what I said. Speed things up. I can’t keep these hounds at bay for much longer.”
“You’re a media queen, Regina. Handle it.”
When she said nothing further, I ended the call.
It had gone dark since I first sat down and I was aware of the coastal cloud cover that now allowed only passing glimpses of the three-quarter moon.
Night sounds were insinuating themselves into the early evening din. Crickets. Snatches of windblown musical threads. The occasional helicopter. I could smell wood burning in a nearby fireplace.
Regina’s call raised my hackles. I was overrun with disquieting thoughts, many of them regarding Buzz Farmer.
The case tormented me. Although Marsha’s news was potentially damning, I still had insufficient proof that it was Buzz.
It also worried me that my father might be dragged into it. He had invested a great deal of optimism in the clinical testing of this as yet unproven chemical. His focus was by and large on the minute-by-minute evolution of his body’s response to it. He was constantly on guard for even the slightest change, his mood dependent on his findings.
Although he was present, he was emotionally absent, distracted, and fearful. He was a different person, self-absorbed in an uncharacteristic manner, drum-beating about the vast improvement of his condition, yet all the while emanating abject terror at the prospect of his inexorable decline.
Regina was right. He would be no match for the aggressive media.
This, coupled with the ongoing Petrov mishigas, dampened my spirit.
Let’s just say I’ve had better days.