6"It probably would have been more interesting to take over the world," she mumbled through the fruit.
"And then, my dear, I'll tell you of my life," He had returned to his silky tones.
She ate the fruit sullenly, while staring at him. He appeared to her to be fully and completely insane.
"Oh, I'm sure I am, my dear. Don't looks so surprised. All the others came to that conclusion almost immediately."
"The others? You've done this before?"
"Don't ask stupid questions, my dear. One of my earlier guests-in Chicago, I believe, asked stupid questions. Her stay was, tragically, cut short."
"What do you mean?" A look of horror crossed her features, betraying the conclusion she had soon arrived at. "You're going to kill me, aren't you?"
"No, darling. When I tire of your company, you will kill yourself."
"What? How? Why? With what?"
"No more questions, dear. Now, go clean the bathroom-you wouldn't want to wear out your welcome, now would you?"
"Let me out of here! Help! Somebody help me!" she screamed.
"None of that! You are getting tiresome, darling. Run along and tidy up the bathroom. Go now!" A nasty edge was beginning to show in his voice.
"Yes, sir." She retreated, tears streaming down her face. God, Naomi, she thought, save me.
* * *
The Chief of Police was waking up to the bright sunshine and his morning coffee. His mind drifted back to Lester and Mel and the purple-suit conundrum. As if that woman was kidnapped, he thought. She was a friggin' writer, for God's sake. Probably saw some goddess or something out the window, climbed out, and ended up dead in a dumpster. At least the impossible assignment would get rid of Lester and Mel. I really hate those two, he realized. They're too busy worrying about whether their socks match their uniform to actually be any good on the force. Friggin' pussies. He stared out the window. And they think I'm so stupid. I can just image them, sitting in some coffee shop somewhere, drinking double-chocolate latte mochacinnos with low-fat whipped cream and LAUGHING AT HIM. Probably had their expensive loafers and their matching-sock ankles propped up on a chair, laughing at some joke in French with all the other intellectuals. Don't know why they became police officers. They should have been English professors or computer programmers. There's just no room for smart-ass matching-sock fringes-of-society men like them in the police station, he realized. I'll just have to solve this case by myself.
After another donut, he decided. He hefted his considerable bulk out of his chair and across the room to the donut box. He caught a glimpse of himself in the side of the toaster. I have got to start working out, he thought. He considered the idea momentarily, then reached for that other donut.
* * *
"Mel? I've traced that call the Chief got yesterday to a car phone… we have the license. Mel? Mel!" It was seven. Lester had been awake for two hours. Mel was still asleep.
He woke up to his answering machine screaming.
"Mel! MEL! Pick up, I know you're there! Mel!"
He reached out a hand for the phone. "Wassamattales?"
"Are you always this perky mornings? I suggest you get your fat ass down her and help me. I'll give you half an hour. Pick up Naomi." He hung up. Dial tone buzzed in the ear of a still-comatose Mel.
"Man, that was annoying," Mel said aloud as he meandered slowly in the general direction of the shower.
* * *
"Beautiful job on the bathroom, darling," Jonathan began. "Now sit down and talk to me. I'm bored." He tried to look pitiful, but his eyes never lost their manic glint. "Entertain me. Stimulate my mind."
"Um, okay… What do you want to hear?"
He sighed. "You have no imagination. I though writers were supposed to be creative. Tell me the story of your life."
"Well," she began, "I was born Jerelynn Margaret Jorgensen in 1974 in Miami. My parents were hippies."
"No, no," he interrupted, "tell me something interesting. What makes you unique?"
"I'll get to that. When I was two, my father died."
"Snore, snore. I DON'T CARE ABOUT YOUR FATHER! SAY SOMETHING INTERESTING!" His face was getting redder , a tic was beginning in his cheek, and his eyes glinted worse than usual.
"He was murdered by government agents working under the guise of gangster drug lords."
He released a long breath and seemed calmer, almost interested. "Much better. Continue."
"It was a cold, snowy morning in December, soon after we moved to Milwaukee. I remember it all very vividly. It was about eight, and he hadn't come home. I was inside eating dinner with my mother. The new heard gunshots. I ran outside as my father collapsed in the alleyway, shot twice in the chest and once in the stomach. I ran to him; on his last breath he whispered, 'I love you, Peach baby.' His body gave a mighty shudder and he died. By this time my mother had heard the noise and was standing in the doorway watching us. I ran to her, wrapped my arms around her leg, whispered, 'Daddy's killed,' and then fainted. I don't remember any more of my childhood until I was ten." She paused for emphasis.
"Go on."
"At ten, I was beginning to do what the psychiatrist called 'defining my personality.' I carved my name on every desk I sat in. It's probably still there. This I have been told; my only true memory of that time was being told I couldn't play dodge ball because I had cooties. After that, I miraculously became 'normal' again, or a normal as a child who watched her father die at two could be. Eventually I graduated, got into college, met Naomi my sophomore year, moved in with her my junior, and after we graduated there didn't seem to be any reason to move apart. We're still there, sharing the rent, me selling stories, she a newspaper journalist. Or," she amended, "we were, anyway. Now I suppose she'll find a new roommate." By the end of the last word her voice had become thick with tears. She tried to keep her smile on as they poured down her cheeks.
"Go. Clean the kitchen. Do the dishes. Come back when you can control yourself," Jonathan said roughly. "Don't cry in front of me again, ever. Do you hear me? Ever!" He stormed into his bedroom, leaving Jerelynn alone.
Jerelynn washed the dishes angrily, tears still coursing down her cheeks.
As if her mind had switched gears, she suddenly stopped. How was he going to force her to kill herself? Would it hurt? How quickly would she die? She began to sob again out of fear.
She stopped herself with effort. Must keep thinking positively. I'll bet Naomi has the entire police force down here searching, she thought forcedly. And they'll break in here, maybe even tonight, with drawn guns, and save me…
Or, she thought, I'll escape myself. One day he'll get careless… and I'll just open the door and be free. I'll call Naomi from a gas station somewhere and say 'Miss me?' Then I'll call the police and turn Jonathan in, and I can testify in court when he's about to be convicted of multiple murders…
She almost laughed, then stopped herself. No point in getting the Nut in here. Good nickname. The Nut. She giggled silently into her sleeve. I'll have to be careful, she thought. If he hears me calling him that… She finished the dishes and went back to sit in his living room.
He was there. "So continue," he prompted. "Tell me all about yourself."
She sighed and began where she had left off.
* * *
"So all we've got is the some moron's cell phone number?"
"But if it's the kidnapper's cell phone number, then we'll know who it was."
"But if it's just some crank call?"
"Then perhaps we have a clue."
"But perhaps we don't."
Lester laughed. "Perhaps not. But it's the best one we have."
"More like the only one we have."
"Which automatically makes it the best."
"And the worst."
Lester cleared his throat. "We're not getting anything done, are we?"