From the phone bank in the lobby of Shauna’s office building I dialed Surrey Polytech, looking for word of my client. The head of administration knew nothing, and suggested I call the Arts and Social Sciences director tomorrow at nine. I thanked her and said, “Sorry to be a bother, but could you tell me please what times Ms. Essex’s classes run?”
“This semester?”
“Yes ma’am.”
“All our class schedules are available on our web site.”
“Yes ma’am. Next time I’ll check there, and thanks for looking it up.”
As I cradled the phone, out on the street, the Gastown steam clock tolled. Usually there would be tourists to capture it on video, but today there was no one. Thunderstorms were forecast for tonight, though so far the day was dry.
The receptionist came back on the line. “You did say this semester.”
“Yep.”
“Because Dana Essex has no scheduled classes this fall.”
The gears of invisible machinery started to uncouple, derail, spill onto some nonexistent engine room floor.
“She’s contracted for two sections of One Oh Three in the spring,” the receptionist added.
There was a bench along the wall by the door. I sank down onto it, but immediately stood up. I needed air and solitude. My office on Pender Street was eight blocks east.
I made it without incident. Once inside the stairwell, though, I felt it all coming apart.
Caught in the flap of the mail slot, along with the usual flyers for Safeway and the Army & Navy, was a plastic parcel envelope with no address. I took it and the flyers upstairs to my office.
I put the envelope down on a chair. Judging from its heft and the deck-of-cards shape of its contents, it held some sort of electronic device. A bomb wasn’t a far-fetched possibility. Whatever it was, I knew I wouldn’t like it.
I punctured the envelope with my car key, tore it open, and dumped a cell phone into my palm. A cheap burner, the kind we used at the office. I fired it up and listened to its tinny jingle.
A dozen numbers saved in the contacts, including my own, Kay’s, the office line, Jeff’s. Photos were stored on the phone, candids of Jeff and Marie outside the office, Kay and Greg in the van, Kay standing in front of my apartment.
The message had to be that whoever took it could get to us. Message conveyed. I wondered if Tabitha Sorenson knew exactly who she’d been running away from, what kind of people. And Essex: if she wasn’t who she said she was, how far had she been pulled into this?
Penned on the inside flap of the envelope was an eleven-digit number. I punched it in and heard it ring. No one picked up.
I thought of calling Sonia and trying to unburn that bridge. I touched my bruised and swollen eyelid, winced. As I tried to think of someone else to call, the phone jumped. A different out-of-town number appeared on the display.
I opened the phone and said, “Hello, Dana.”