The phone rang and Congressman Blaine jumped. But it wasn’t his cell phone. It was the front desk. Though Congressman Blaine’s primary residence was in his home state of Ohio, he kept an apartment in D.C. for when Congress was in session.
He scooped it up. “Yes?”
“You have a package.”
“Oh?”
“Just arrived by messenger. Do you want to come down and get it, or should I lock it up?”
“I’ll come down.”
It was a bubble-wrap envelope. He didn’t inquire who’d brought it, or whether the doorman had to sign for it, or any of the things he’d normally ask. He took it upstairs and fumbled in his pocket for his keys. He had a moment of panic that he’d forgotten them, that he’d left them in the apartment and he’d have to suffer the humiliation of having to get the super to let him in. But no, his keys were there. He opened the door and let himself into his apartment.
The bubble-wrap envelope was sealed tight. It was the self-sealing type, and they usually held pretty well. He was in no mood to deal with it. He found a pair of scissors in a kitchen drawer and snipped the end of the envelope off.
He shook the contents out on the kitchen table and recoiled in horror.
It was a bloody fingertip.