A Necessary Evil

CHAPTER 37

Washington, D.C.

Gwen finally conceded defeat, allowing the voice-messaging service to start answering the phone and collecting the messages. Besides, after Benny Hassert's call, telling her that he couldn't match the fingerprints from the manila envelope to those on the water glass, she didn't want to talk to anyone else. Had she been wrong about Rubin Nash? Or had he simply been more careful than she anticipated? He could have delivered the envelope without getting his fingerprints on it, but it would be tricky. She was too exhausted to think about it.

Even letting the voice-messaging service answer the calls still meant the phone had to ring. It was beginning to wear on her nerves. It didn't help matters that each ring startled Harvey from his sleep. He'd get up and pace, following her even after she commanded him to stay. Well, that wasn't exactly true. He did stay once or twice, but looked absolutely miserable doing so, as if she was asking him to do something totally contrary to his nature. At the rate she was going she'd never get any of her work done, and Harvey would never get any of his required naps. It was a good thing she didn't have appointments on Mondays.

She had called and left several messages for Dena at her apartment and on her cell phone. Gwen's first thought was that she had decided to take off with her new beau. She had been irritated, but more with herself than with Dena. After all, why did she seem to have such a knack for hiring irresponsible young women? No that wasn't fair. Their chance meeting at Mr. Lee's World Market Saturday evening had been awkward. Dena had appeared… flustered, anxious, but what young woman wouldn't, running into her boss when she was in the middle of preparing for a romantic evening? And despite Dena's occasional faux pas at work, Gwen could hardly call her irresponsible.

That's why she had started to get concerned. Was the girl hurt? Had there been a family emergency? Gwen was beginning to regret not even knowing if Dena had a roommate or any family close by. If something had happened, who would she contact?

It was a recent necessity, the vow to adopt a policy of not getting involved with her hired staff. Past assistants had milked her for advice and free diagnosis as if both should be a part of every psychologist's employee benefits plan. It wasn't doling out free advice that bothered Gwen. It was, instead, the emotional drain of being dragged into the chaos of their lives.

One assistant had gotten Gwen to act as a mediator between her and her ex-husband during their custody battle, then to evaluate the children's mental and emotional capacity to testify at the trial that followed. Another had Gwen appealing to the state's parole board on her brother's behalf. Still another pleaded with Gwen to convince her elderly mother that it was time to give up her home and independence for the security of an assisted-living facility. That was the one that broke the camel's back, when Gwen discovered her assistant and the man she was living with had moved into the mother's home, instead of selling it _ as they had agreed __ to pay for her mother's care. It was one thing to be taken advantage of, quite another thing to be taken for a fool.

Sometimes Gwen wondered if it wasn't one of the hazards of not having a family of her own, to constantly be drawn into the lives of the people around her. She had purposely never returned to Manhattan to establish a practice, lest she forever be destined to follow in her father's footsteps and live in his shadow, as well as be judged by their professional peers under a much different standard __ the standard of being John Patterson's daughter. Even at Christmas parties she was still introduced as John's little girl. She was almost fifty years old and definitely not anyone's little girl.

She saw her parents maybe a half-dozen times a year. Every Christmas she made her annual pilgrimage to New York, accepting her parents' traditions as her own. She went through the motions, never really considering if there might be an alternative. It wasn't until last Christmas when R. J. Tully had asked her to join him and his daughter for Christmas Eve that she realized she had no traditions of her own.

She missed Tully, and she didn't particularly like admitting that even to herself. She had gone for over a decade without missing anyone. She considered calling him. Just to talk. Before he and Emma left on vacation he had made sure she had his cell-phone number along with the number for their hotel and another for a friend they would be visiting. Yet he had been careful in telling her that it was no big deal if she called and no big deal if she didn't. But she had been able to read his tight smile as an indication that he really would like it if she did call. And so of course she didn't. Which was silly. That at their age they still played games like they were a couple of teenagers, not wanting to let the other know just how much they might care. When in reality they were two very independent adults, comfortable and complacent in the lives they had carved out for themselves and a bit reluctant to relinquish some of that independence. Perhaps she was also a bit reluctant to take a chance at having her heart broken again. She had gotten to a point in her life where she was happy, content with being alone. But somehow, despite how careful and calculated she had tried to be, she ended up caring for R. J. Tully. And… she missed him.

She heard the door to the reception area open and Harvey stood up again, looking at her, waiting for her direction. With no appointments scheduled, Gwen thought it would be quiet most of the day, but Dena evidently had decided Mondays would be delivery day. Gwen had already signed for a case of her beloved gourmet coffee, three boxes of supplies from Office Depot and a new patient's medical report sent via messenger service from a Dr. Kalb.

"Package for Dr. G. Patterson?" The messenger didn't look up from his electronic pad, punching in numbers. He had already set the box on the reception desk. "Just need a quick signature."

When he looked up, he jumped at the sight of Harvey. He had been so focused he hadn't noticed that the big dog had managed to sit down on the floor beside him.

"He's* harmless," Gwen assured him and signed the electronic pad he held out for her.

"Not a bad idea to have extra security." He gave Harvey a pat on the head before he left.

She shoved the box aside on the reception counter, glancing for the sender's address, but not concerned when she didn't find one. She picked up the phone, tucking it under her chin, checking voice messages while she slit open the envelope that accompanied the box. But there wasn't a note inside. Instead, a single gold earring slipped out of the envelope, falling onto the counter. Gwen. watched it spin like a coin on one end. For a second everything stopped, all sound, all movement other than the earring that now spun in slow motion. Even her heart seemed to stop. She didn't need to examine it closely. She knew this was the match to the one left on Saturday.

Gwen slowly put the phone back in its cradle, her eyes never leaving the earring. The dread immediately gripped her stomach. She forced herself to look at the box. It was about a one-foot cube. Much bigger than any of his other packages. More instructions? Another map? Could it be another cell phone? What would he have sent her this time to direct her to his victim? And why the box? Certainly he wouldn't… no, he wouldn't dare. Or would he? She couldn't help thinking it was probably the right size, just big enough for a human head to fit into.

She glanced down at Harvey who sat at her feet, staring up at her. He'd be able to sense, to smell, to know if it was something… dead. Wouldn't he? There'd be blood, even dried blood. Yes, of course, he would.

She used the letter opener to carefully slit the packing tape on the sides of the box. Using the palms of her hands rather than her fingers, she lifted the flaps, trying to avoid adding her fingerprints to the many that may already be on the outside. Once the flaps were pressed back she still couldn't see beyond the white packing material. She poked at it with the letter opener and made no contact. There seemed to be nothing of substance under the crinkled white paper. Did she dare peel it back?

She stood paralyzed, staring at it. Finally she set the letter opener aside and commanded her fingers to touch, then grip a corner, to lift, to pull it back. She found herself squinting and cringing as if preparing for something to jump out at her. When had she started holding her breath? Her chest already ached. But her fingers were steady. Thank goodness, since nothing else seemed to be.

Her ringers peeled and pulled and tugged until all the white packing paper had been removed, a pile of it now on the counter. At the bottom of the box remained only a single key on top of an index card. Without removing either, she recognized his familiar block-style handwriting. And what was worse, she recognized the address he had scrawled on the card.