KAT WAS SUFFERING from information overload. Her head was still swimming with all the facts and figures from the historian. She had wanted to get home and clear her head, but as soon as her house came into view, she realized that would be impossible. While they were gone, the house had again been attacked by the crazed swastika artist. On top of that, there was so much mail that it wouldn't even fit in the mailbox. Instead, the letter carrier had left the thick elastic-fastened bundle leaning against their front door. Too much information, Kat's mind screamed at her. She grabbed the mail bundle and walked around to the back door. On the summer kitchen table was more food — a casserole dish of cabbage rolls and perogies from the church women, a lemon cake from a neighbour, spring rolls from the Nguyens. Between the letter carrier and all these people dropping by and the police on top of it, Kat wondered how the graffiti artist ever found time to do his work.
She unlocked the door between the summer kitchen and the kitchen and carried the food and the mail inside. The first thing she wanted to do was to report the graffiti, so she walked to the phone. It was already blinking the number three. She pushed the "play" button on the answering machine. The first message was for her mother. It was from one of the women at the church, calling to let her know that a petition to the Minister of Justice was being circulated for signatures.
The second message was from her father in Oregon. It was short and sweet. "Dearest Orysia, I love you. I am thinking of you and the girls and your father."
The message comforted Kat. She missed her father terribly, and she knew her mother did too.
The third beep sounded, and a gruff voice said, "You're all a bunch of Nazi-pig-murderers."
The words hit Kat like a slap across the face. How did this nut get their unlisted number? She was about to hit delete, but then she remembered that by doing so, she would destroy evidence. She called the police instead.