Low Pressure

It had looked innocent enough when she’d set it on her dining table along with a stack of mail. The box had been sealed with clear packing tape. She’d noted that the label was printed with her name and address, but not the sender’s information. That was curious, but she didn’t think too much of it as she split the tape, folded back the flaps, and lifted out the gift-wrapped box inside.

She never could have prepared herself for the hideous surprise it contained.

Now, sitting on the floor with her back against the wall, she lowered her hands from her eyes and looked at the box with tissue paper blossoming out the top of it. That festive touch was so incongruous with the contents it had to have been planned that way as part of the joke.

Joke? No. This wasn’t funny.

It was malicious.

But she couldn’t think of anyone whom she had offended, nor of anyone who would hold her in such contempt. Would Rocky Van Durbin, even having Sleazy as a middle name, do something so low-down and dirty as to send her a dead rat?

Slowly she worked her way up the wall, sliding her spine along it for support as she unsteadily came to her feet. Standing, she was able to see the rat nestled in the shiny paper. She tried desensitizing herself so she could look at it. She tried to objectify the corpse, but because each of its features was so grotesque, they seemed extraordinarily detailed.

She swallowed bile, chafed the goose bumps on her arms, and by force of will pulled herself together. It was only a dead rodent, after all. Rats were a common sight in the subway stations. Seeing one scuttling along the tracks had never caused her to have this kind of violent reaction.

She would replace the lid on the box and carry it to the garbage chute at the end of the hall. Then she’d be rid of it; she could forget about it and go on about her business, having refused to let the prankster get the best of her.

Steeling herself, she took a step forward, and another, and another, until she was almost upon it.

And then the rat’s tail flicked.

Chapter 1

Dent answered the phone with a grumble. “What?”

“You’re still in the sack?”

“What time is it?”

“You sound drunk.”

“Do I need to be sober?”

“If you want the job.”

“Today?”

“Soon as you can get here.”

“I was afraid you were going to say that. Is it worth my trouble?”

“Since when can you afford to turn down a charter?”

“Okay, okay. How much?”

“Two thousand, down and back.”

“To?”

“Houston Hobby.”

“Overnight stay?”

“No.”

Dent sat up and placed his feet on the floor, testing his level of sobriety. He raked his fingers through his hair then left his hand there, palming his muzzy head. “Twenty-five hundred plus fuel costs.”

“The guy’s sick. He’s going to MD Anderson for chemo.”