The mail room was humming with conversation as letters were opened and consigned to baskets according to category: standard reply; non-standard reply; requiring Marla Strickland’s personal attention; requests for appearances; donations; financial records and accounts; hate mail.
“Hey, Esther, those are great stamps. Save them for my kid, will you?”
Esther Duncan sighed with irritation as she tried to open the heavily sealed padded envelope. Finally she grabbed a pair of scissors and cut across one end.
There was a flash of light and a flat clap of raw sound. Then the smell of smoke and burned flesh.
Marla Strickland came striding out of her office.
“What the hell…?” She stopped, appalled.
Somebody whimpered. The woman kneeling beside the sprawled body looked up, blanched with shock. “She’s dead. Esther’s dead.”
Marla had a confused thought that Esther Duncan was now better off dead than alive—the explosion had blown away most of her face.