on after the fourth ring. Joanna hung up without leaving a message.
Back in her room, Joanna settled herself at the desk and tried to wade into the seventy-six pages of text Dave Thompson had assigned to be read prior to class the following day. It didn’t work. Chilling flashbacks from the shoot/don’t shoot scenario kept getting in the way of her concentration. Finally, exasperated, she tossed the book aside, picked up her notebook, and began scribbling a hasty letter:
Dear Jenny,
I’m supposed to be studying, but I can’t seem concentrate. Claustrophobia, I think. You do know what that is, don’t you? If not, ask Grandpa Brady to explain it.
The only windows in this place are right up almost at the ceiling. They’re called clerestory windows—the kind they have in church. They let light in, but they’re too high for someone inside to see out. It reminds me of a jail....
As soon as Joanna wrote the word “jail,” she remembered Jorge Grijalva. And his two children.
Turning away from the letter, Joanna paged back through her notebook beyond the day’s lecture notes until she found the page of notations she had written down based on the articles in Juanita Grijalva’s envelope. For several moments, she sat staring at the names that were written there. Then, making up her mind, she opened the nightstand drawer and pulled out the phone book. After all, since this was Peoria, a call to the Peoria Police Department ought to be a local call.
But when she dialed the number, Carol Strong wasn’t available, and Joanna didn’t have nerve enough to leave a message. Instead, she looked the other two businesses that were mentioned there. At the WE-DO-YU-DO Washateria, Anna-Ray Melton wasn’t expected in until seven the following morning, and none of the white page listings for Melton gave the name Anna-Ray. Next, Anna tried asking for Butch Dixon at the Roundhouse Bar and Grill. Raucous country/western music wailed in the background.
‘Who do you want? Butch?” the person who answered the phone shouted into the receiver. “Sure, he’s here, but he’s busy. It’s Happy Hour, you know. Can I take a message?”
“No, thanks,” Joanna said. “I’ll call back later.”
She put the phone down. Then, while she was still looking at it, it rang, startling her. “Joanna?” a man’s voice said. “I’ll bet you’re cracking the books, aren’t you.”
“Not exactly. Who is this?”
“Leann Jessup,” she said. “Your tablemate in class. And unless I’m mistaken, we’re next-door neighbors here in the dorm, too. Do you have plans for dinner? Most of the guys are going out for Italian but I’m not wild about pasta. Or the men in the class, either, for that matter. How about you?”
The unexpected invitation of going off to dinner with Leann Jessup was tempting. Maybe Joanna should take the call as a hint and drop the whole idea of stopping by the Roundhouse. Maybe Joanna’s tentative plan of questioning Butch Dixon, the bartender there, was a fruitcake notion that ought to be dropped like a hot potato.
For only a moment Joanna considered inviting Leann to come along with her, but the words never made it out of her mouth. If she went to the bar, talked to Butch, and ended up making a botch of things, why bring along a relative stranger to witness her falling flat on her face?
“Sorry,” Joanna said. “I wish you had called ten minutes ago.”
Leann seemed to take the rejection in stride. “No problem,” she said. “I’ll figure out some alternative. See you tomorrow.”
Joanna put down the phone and pulled on jeans and a sweater. Armed with an address from the phone book and her notes, she headed for downtown Peoria and the Roundhouse Bar and Grill. Based on the name, she expected the address would take her somewhere close to the railroad track. Instead, Roundhouse derived from the shape of the building itself, which was, in fact, round. The railroad part had been grafted on as an
Back in her room, Joanna settled herself at the desk and tried to wade into the seventy-six pages of text Dave Thompson had assigned to be read prior to class the following day. It didn’t work. Chilling flashbacks from the shoot/don’t shoot scenario kept getting in the way of her concentration. Finally, exasperated, she tossed the book aside, picked up her notebook, and began scribbling a hasty letter:
Dear Jenny,
I’m supposed to be studying, but I can’t seem concentrate. Claustrophobia, I think. You do know what that is, don’t you? If not, ask Grandpa Brady to explain it.
The only windows in this place are right up almost at the ceiling. They’re called clerestory windows—the kind they have in church. They let light in, but they’re too high for someone inside to see out. It reminds me of a jail....
As soon as Joanna wrote the word “jail,” she remembered Jorge Grijalva. And his two children.
Turning away from the letter, Joanna paged back through her notebook beyond the day’s lecture notes until she found the page of notations she had written down based on the articles in Juanita Grijalva’s envelope. For several moments, she sat staring at the names that were written there. Then, making up her mind, she opened the nightstand drawer and pulled out the phone book. After all, since this was Peoria, a call to the Peoria Police Department ought to be a local call.
But when she dialed the number, Carol Strong wasn’t available, and Joanna didn’t have nerve enough to leave a message. Instead, she looked the other two businesses that were mentioned there. At the WE-DO-YU-DO Washateria, Anna-Ray Melton wasn’t expected in until seven the following morning, and none of the white page listings for Melton gave the name Anna-Ray. Next, Anna tried asking for Butch Dixon at the Roundhouse Bar and Grill. Raucous country/western music wailed in the background.
‘Who do you want? Butch?” the person who answered the phone shouted into the receiver. “Sure, he’s here, but he’s busy. It’s Happy Hour, you know. Can I take a message?”
“No, thanks,” Joanna said. “I’ll call back later.”
She put the phone down. Then, while she was still looking at it, it rang, startling her. “Joanna?” a man’s voice said. “I’ll bet you’re cracking the books, aren’t you.”
“Not exactly. Who is this?”
“Leann Jessup,” she said. “Your tablemate in class. And unless I’m mistaken, we’re next-door neighbors here in the dorm, too. Do you have plans for dinner? Most of the guys are going out for Italian but I’m not wild about pasta. Or the men in the class, either, for that matter. How about you?”
The unexpected invitation of going off to dinner with Leann Jessup was tempting. Maybe Joanna should take the call as a hint and drop the whole idea of stopping by the Roundhouse. Maybe Joanna’s tentative plan of questioning Butch Dixon, the bartender there, was a fruitcake notion that ought to be dropped like a hot potato.
For only a moment Joanna considered inviting Leann to come along with her, but the words never made it out of her mouth. If she went to the bar, talked to Butch, and ended up making a botch of things, why bring along a relative stranger to witness her falling flat on her face?
“Sorry,” Joanna said. “I wish you had called ten minutes ago.”
Leann seemed to take the rejection in stride. “No problem,” she said. “I’ll figure out some alternative. See you tomorrow.”
Joanna put down the phone and pulled on jeans and a sweater. Armed with an address from the phone book and her notes, she headed for downtown Peoria and the Roundhouse Bar and Grill. Based on the name, she expected the address would take her somewhere close to the railroad track. Instead, Roundhouse derived from the shape of the building itself, which was, in fact, round. The railroad part had been grafted on as an
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