Lee arrived at his apartment a little after noon to find three messages on his answering machine. Unlike some of his friends, who were discarding their landlines, he kept his. He'd had the same number ever since he moved to the East Village, and he held on to it partly out of sentiment-but also because it was the coveted 212 area code, no longer available to newer residents of Manhattan. He was a little embarrassed that this meant something to him, but it did.
He pressed the button and listened to the first message. It was from Kathy, telling him she missed him. He missed her too, all the more so because he had been so preoccupied all weekend with Ana's plight. He felt he hadn't been truly present with Kathy. He was sure she noticed-but, true to form, she didn't reproach him with it.
He put the kettle on while listening to the second message. Fiona Campbell's voice was clear and cool as ever.
"Lee, it's your mother. Don't forget you're expected for dinner to celebrate Kylie's birthday on the weekend. She's really looking forward to seeing you. See you then-bye."
His niece Kylie would be turning seven in a week. She had lived with her father, George Callahan, ever since Laura's disappearance, but spent weekends with her grandmother. There was the usual subtle playing of the guilt card in his mother's message. If you don't come, you'll disappoint your niece. Not her, Fiona; no, never her. She had renounced her own claim on personal emotions the day his father walked out.
It was also typical of her to remind him of social engagements, as if he were incapable of remembering them himself. His father's desertion left her with the overwhelming opinion that men were erratic, unreliable creatures who could not be counted on. And, of course, his father's abandonment had left its mark on Lee, and was probably the reason for his decision to become a therapist. If he couldn't mend his own family, at least he could help other people come to terms with theirs.
But when his sister disappeared, his need to help people traveled a darker road, driven by his need to know. And if he couldn't know who had killed his sister (unlike his mother, he was certain Laura was dead), then he would help other people find out who had killed their loved ones.
The kettle began its long, slow climb to a piercing whistle, and he ducked into the kitchen just as the third message began to play. He heard it as he was pouring the tea water into the cup, and what he heard stopped him cold, so that the hot water splashed all over the countertop.
The voice was cold, hard, and flat, almost reptilian.
"What about the red dress? You think no one knows anything, but I do. I know about the red dress."
There was a click as the line went dead, then a whirring sound as the answering machine began to automatically rewind. But Lee didn't hear any of that-all he heard, over and over in his head, was that reptilian monotone: "I know about the red dress." His sister Laura had been wearing a red dress the day she disappeared-a detail that had not been released to the press or the public. Stunned, he ignored the spilled water dripping from the counter onto the kitchen floor, and stumbled into the living room to look at the caller ID on his phone. He knew it was useless, but he had to look. To his surprise, there was a number there with a 212 area code-Manhattan! And the first three numbers were 533-which he recognized as an East Village exchange. His hand trembled as he picked up the receiver and dialed the number. It rang four times, then a man answered.
"Hello?" The voice was nothing like the one on his machine. This one had a thick Brooklyn accent, and was an octave lower.
"Hi-excuse me, but can you tell me what number I just dialed?"
"Well, there's no number on it, but you reached a pay phone on Third Avenue and Fifth Street. Who are you lookin' for, buddy?" The man sounded happily inebriated, eager to help.
"I'm sorry-I must have dialed wrong," Lee said, certain that he had dialed correctly.
"Hey, no problem, buddy-take it easy."
Lee hung up and sat down in the overstuffed armchair next to the phone. So the man had called from around the corner-from a pay phone, no less. Who uses pay phones anymore, except to avoid being identified? The questions swirled around his head. Did the caller pick a booth nearby on purpose, or does he live in the neighborhood? Or was it purely coincidence? Or was there an even darker explanation-what if he was stalking Lee, watching him? His number was unlisted-how did the man manage to get it? Would there be any point in dusting for prints? No crime had been committed-would Lee be able to convince anyone that it was even necessary?
Good Lord, Campbell, get a grip. His sister's disappearance was continual torture, a piece of unfinished business that would haunt him until the day he solved it-if he ever did. Maybe his mother was right about men after all…
The swirling sensation began to transform into something darkly familiar and sinister, as he felt the evil fog of depression envelop him. The walls of the room seemed to close in around him, and his thoughts swarmed like angry bees in his head. He was losing focus, and knew he had to stop the fog before it could take hold. He had told Kathy and everyone else that he was feeling much better lately, and to an extent that was true. But depression was its own kind of minefield. Sometimes, if he stepped carefully enough, he could stay aboveground and keep from landing on the hidden entrances, secret traps covering gaping holes in the ground. But other times the ground gave way when he least expected it, and he sank down and was swallowed up before he knew it.
"No, goddamn it," he muttered. Staggering up from the chair, he reached for the phone again. Kathy was in Philadelphia, Chuck was still on duty, and his mother was useless, but there was one person he could turn to now-he just hoped she was available. He dialed the number and got a recording.
"You've reached the voice mail of Dr. Georgina Williams. Please leave a message and I'll get back to you as soon as possible. If this is an emergency, please call my beeper at 917-555-4368. Thank you."
Lee hesitated. Was this an emergency? He wasn't feeling suicidal-not yet, anyway. He decided to leave a message on her voice mail. If she was in the office, she would call him back soon.
"Hi, Dr. Williams, this is Lee Campbell. I wonder if you have any time at all today? I-I'm having sort of a bad day, so if you could give me a call I'd appreciate it-thanks."
He hung up the phone and looked around the apartment. This place, which he had worked so hard to make cozy and inviting, suddenly felt like a prison cell from which there was no escape. The familiar objects around him held no comfort-the carefully arranged bouquet of flowers on the piano might have been shards of straw stuck in a vase. He looked at the green Persian rug he loved so much, with the swirling patterns of light and dark that always reminded him of a forest at sunset. It might just as well have been cracked and dirty linoleum. He sat on the couch and put his head in his hands. No, he thought, not today-please not now.
The phone rang, and he jumped, his overstrung nerves rattled by the sound. He picked up the receiver.
"Hello?"
"Lee, it's Chuck."
He hesitated-should he tell his friend that this was not a good time, that he was having an episode? Or should he just tough out the phone call, jot down what Chuck said, and deal with it later? He could barely focus-his mind was being rapidly overtaken by the swiftly descending fog. He decided to tough it out.
"Hi, Chuck," he said, wondering if his voice sounded odd. "What's up?"
"There's been a development." "What do you mean?"
"Looks like we have another victim. Can you come back up here?"
No, Lee wanted to scream, no, I can't. Instead he said, "Sure. Can you give me a little time?" "As soon as you can make it, okay?"
"Okay."
"Thanks."
Lee hung up, his hand now shaking so hard that the receiver rattled as he replaced it. He headed for the bathroom and fumbled in the cupboard for the bottle of Xanax. It was going to be a long day.