sudden sound at the front door. She first lurched away, as if she could hide, then she stumbled forward, gun outstretched, ready to shoot.
76
RED 1–2–3
She thought she was shouting aloud incomprehensibly, but then realized that all those noises existed only in her head.
There is nothing worse, Karen Jayson thought, than the racket caused by silence.
This held true, she insisted to herself, whether she was on stage, in her office surrounded by work, or alone in her home.
She was driving home after the day’s work. She had quickly adopted a habit that cost her time: After pulling off the main highway onto the quieter rural roads leading to her isolated house, if she spotted someone behind her in the rearview mirror, she would pull to the side and patiently wait for the car or truck or whatever to sweep past her before resuming her drive. No one was going to tail her. This constant stop, go, find another pullover, stop, wait, then resume made the trip tediously slow, but gave her a sense of satisfaction. She was not in any rush to return home. It no longer seemed safe.
The trouble was, at the same time that she felt unsettled about returning, she kept insisting to herself that there was no reason to feel that way.
She approached the turnoff for her gravel driveway. She could just make out the outlines of her house, partially obscured by the foliage even with the leaves all down for winter. Dark pines and deep brown oak trees, lined up like sentinels, were barriers to her sight. She took a quick glance behind her, just to make sure no one was there, and pulled into the driveway. Just as she always did, she stopped at the mailbox.
But now she hesitated. Crazy thinking, she told herself. Get the mail.
She did not want to get out of the car. She did not want to open the mail container. It was almost like she expected a bomb to explode if she did.
There was no reason for her to believe that the Big Bad Wolf would use the mail to contact her a second time. And no reason to believe he wouldn’t.
She tried to impose rationality on her heart. Medical school discipline, she recalled, summoning up memories of long shifts and soul-deadening exhaustion that she had managed to overcome. Get out. Get the mail. Screw him. You can’t let some anonymous joker disrupt your life.
Then she wondered whether this made sense. Maybe what made sense was to let him disrupt her life.
77
JOHN KATZENBACH
Karen remained frozen behind the wheel. She watched shadows slice through the trees like sword strokes of darkness.
She felt trapped between the ordinary—the mundane task of getting the daily collection of bills, catalogues, and flyers—and the unreasonable.
Maybe a second letter.
Karen took her car out of gear and waited. She insisted to herself that she was being silly. If someone were to see her hesitate before doing something as routine as collecting the mail she would be embarrassed.
This did not reassure her.
She very much wanted to talk to someone right at that moment. She suddenly hated being alone, when for so many years that was all she wanted to be.
With a final glance up and down the road, she got out of her car, mumbling to herself that she was being paranoid and stupid and there was nothing to be afraid of. But still, she cautiously opened the box as if she were afraid there was a poisonous snake coiled inside.
The first thing she saw was the white envelope resting on top of a bright J.Crew catalogue.
She pulled her hand back sharply, as if it was indeed a snake. Fangs bared and ready to strike.
“Jordan, I am so very concerned,” the dean said with appropriate sonorous, serious tones. “Every one of your teachers is surprised by the precipitous drop-off in the quality of your work. We all understand the pressure that your home situation creates. But you need to recognize how important this year is for your future. College awaits, and we fear you will cripple your chances at the better universities unless
76
RED 1–2–3
She thought she was shouting aloud incomprehensibly, but then realized that all those noises existed only in her head.
There is nothing worse, Karen Jayson thought, than the racket caused by silence.
This held true, she insisted to herself, whether she was on stage, in her office surrounded by work, or alone in her home.
She was driving home after the day’s work. She had quickly adopted a habit that cost her time: After pulling off the main highway onto the quieter rural roads leading to her isolated house, if she spotted someone behind her in the rearview mirror, she would pull to the side and patiently wait for the car or truck or whatever to sweep past her before resuming her drive. No one was going to tail her. This constant stop, go, find another pullover, stop, wait, then resume made the trip tediously slow, but gave her a sense of satisfaction. She was not in any rush to return home. It no longer seemed safe.
The trouble was, at the same time that she felt unsettled about returning, she kept insisting to herself that there was no reason to feel that way.
She approached the turnoff for her gravel driveway. She could just make out the outlines of her house, partially obscured by the foliage even with the leaves all down for winter. Dark pines and deep brown oak trees, lined up like sentinels, were barriers to her sight. She took a quick glance behind her, just to make sure no one was there, and pulled into the driveway. Just as she always did, she stopped at the mailbox.
But now she hesitated. Crazy thinking, she told herself. Get the mail.
She did not want to get out of the car. She did not want to open the mail container. It was almost like she expected a bomb to explode if she did.
There was no reason for her to believe that the Big Bad Wolf would use the mail to contact her a second time. And no reason to believe he wouldn’t.
She tried to impose rationality on her heart. Medical school discipline, she recalled, summoning up memories of long shifts and soul-deadening exhaustion that she had managed to overcome. Get out. Get the mail. Screw him. You can’t let some anonymous joker disrupt your life.
Then she wondered whether this made sense. Maybe what made sense was to let him disrupt her life.
77
JOHN KATZENBACH
Karen remained frozen behind the wheel. She watched shadows slice through the trees like sword strokes of darkness.
She felt trapped between the ordinary—the mundane task of getting the daily collection of bills, catalogues, and flyers—and the unreasonable.
Maybe a second letter.
Karen took her car out of gear and waited. She insisted to herself that she was being silly. If someone were to see her hesitate before doing something as routine as collecting the mail she would be embarrassed.
This did not reassure her.
She very much wanted to talk to someone right at that moment. She suddenly hated being alone, when for so many years that was all she wanted to be.
With a final glance up and down the road, she got out of her car, mumbling to herself that she was being paranoid and stupid and there was nothing to be afraid of. But still, she cautiously opened the box as if she were afraid there was a poisonous snake coiled inside.
The first thing she saw was the white envelope resting on top of a bright J.Crew catalogue.
She pulled her hand back sharply, as if it was indeed a snake. Fangs bared and ready to strike.
“Jordan, I am so very concerned,” the dean said with appropriate sonorous, serious tones. “Every one of your teachers is surprised by the precipitous drop-off in the quality of your work. We all understand the pressure that your home situation creates. But you need to recognize how important this year is for your future. College awaits, and we fear you will cripple your chances at the better universities unless
Similar Books
