Low Pressure

“I think so.”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“The day—” She stopped suddenly.

He cupped his ear with his hand. “The day… what?”

“I left the city.”

“Same day the rat was delivered. Where’d you see Jerry that day?”

“Outside the network studio. But I’m positive that one has nothing to do with the other.”

“Well, I’m not. Positive, that is. Maybe Jerry’s stalking you.”

“With evil intent? Absolutely not. He’s harmless.”

Dent raised an eyebrow as though questioning that assertion.

“I swear to you, Dent, he’s about as sinister as a glass of milk. Bookish. Mild-mannered. Ordinary looking. He blends into the woodwork.”

“I’m scared already. Just the type you gotta watch out for. A creep.”

She looked at him with asperity. “You’ve never seen him. How do you know?”

“How do you know he isn’t? How do you know he hasn’t got the bodies of authors past buried in his basement?”

“Please.”

“Okay, then explain why he followed you to Texas.”

“Who said he followed me? I’m sure yesterday was a coincidence.”

“He’s your number-one fan. He sees you coincidentally in an airport like fifteen, twenty states away from where you’re both supposed to be, and he doesn’t come rushing over to speak to you, make his presence known? He doesn’t say, ‘Oh my God! I can’t believe this! My favorite author out here on the frontier!’”

“Put that way…”

“Right.” He took the photograph from her and carried it over to the window, where the light was better. He studied it for several long moments, then his chin went up suddenly and he looked over at her.

“Yesterday. In the park. Two lovers lying on a blanket, getting it on. A pair of grandparents playing ball with their grandson. A group of cheerleaders practicing. And a late arrival. An ordinary-looking guy. Kept his back to us while he appeared to be talking into his cell phone.” He tapped the photograph. “It was your Jerry.”

Rupe had been in the dental chair until midnight last night. He’d called his dentist even before driving himself to the hospital following his violent encounter with Dale Moody.

Fortunately he and the dentist played golf together, so Rupe had his cell-phone number. “No, it can’t wait till regular business hours tomorrow,” he’d said when the dentist balked. “It’s an emergency. I’ll be there by eight.”

At the hospital, the ER doctor recognized him despite the damage done to his face. “Say, aren’t you the King of Cars? What happened? You sell somebody a lemon?”

“I ran into a door.” He’d had to speak carefully to prevent his loosened caps from falling off. He’d already lost one, creating a significant gap in his top row of pearly whites.

“Yeah, that happened to me once,” the doctor said, adding archly, “When I owed a guy money.”

Ha-ha. I get it. The doctor turned out to be an intern, and once he’d stopped with the wisecracks, which Rupe had borne with false good humor, he confirmed that Rupe’s nose had indeed been “busted all to hell and back.”

With Rupe gnashing his teeth despite the loose caps, the doctor had repositioned his nose the best he could, taped it, and then told Rupe that plastic surgery would probably be required to make it cosmetically pleasing again.

“But nothing can be done until the swelling goes down.”

“How long with that take?”