Sandra Brown: Low Pressure

When the so-called journalist came face-to-face with her, making it impossible for her to ignore him, he smiled, revealing two rows of crooked yellow teeth, which she imagined him filing in order to achieve that carnivorous grin.

Looking her up and down, he asked, “Have you lost weight, Ms. Price? I can’t help but notice that you’re looking thinner.”

A few weeks ago she’d been voluptuous. Tomorrow she would be suffering from an eating disorder.

Without even acknowledging his sly question, Bellamy engaged in conversation with a woman wearing an Ohio State sweatshirt and a Statue of Liberty spiked crown made of green rubber foam. “My book club is reading your book now,” the woman told her as they posed together for a snapshot taken by her equally enthusiastic husband.

“I appreciate that very much.”

“The rest of them won’t believe I met you!”

Bellamy thanked her again and moved along. Undaunted, Van Durbin kept pace, furiously scribbling in a small spiral notebook. Then, stepping between her and the next person waiting for her attention, he asked, “Who do you see playing the lead roles in the movie, Ms. Price?”

“I don’t see anyone. I’m not in the movie business.”

“But you will be before long. Everybody knows producers are lined up to throw money at you for the option on Low Pressure . It’s rumored that several A-list actors and actresses are campaigning for the parts. The casting couches have never had turnover this brisk.”

She shot him a look of pure disgust.

“No opinion on the subject?”

“ None ,” she said, stressing the word in such a way as to discourage any more questions. Just then a man wedged himself between two young women and thrust a copy of her book at her. Bellamy recognized him immediately. “Well, hello again. Hmm…”

“Jerry,” he said, smiling broadly.

“Jerry, yes.” He had an open, friendly face and thinning hair. He’d come to several book signings, and she’d spotted him in the audience when she lectured at a bookstore on the NYU campus. “Thank you for coming out this morning.”

“I never pass up an occasion to see you.”

She signed her name on the title page, which he held open for her. “How many copies does this make that you’ve bought, Jerry?”

He laughed. “I’m buying birthday and Christmas presents.”

She suspected he was also starstruck. “Well, I and my publisher thank you.”

She moved on and, while Jerry fell back into the crush, Van Durbin boldly nudged people out of his way so he could stay even with her. He persisted with the question about a possible movie based on her book.

“Come on, Ms. Price. Give my readers a hint of who you see playing the key characters. Who would you cast as your family members?” He winked and leaned in, asking in a low voice, “Who do you see playing the killer?”

She gave him a sharp look.

He grinned and said to the photographer, “I hope you captured that.”

The rest of the day was no less hectic.

She and Dexter had attended a meeting at the publishing house to discuss the timing of the release of the trade paperback edition of Low Pressure . After a lengthy exchange of opinions, it was decided that the book was selling so well in the hardcover and e-book formats that an alternate edition wouldn’t be practical for at least another six months.

They’d gone from that meeting to a luncheon appointment with a movie producer. After they dined on lobster salad and chilled asparagus in the privacy of his hotel suite, he’d made an earnest pitch about the film he wanted to make, guaranteeing that if they sold him the rights, he would do justice to the book.

As they’d left the meeting, Dexter joked, “Wouldn’t your friend Van Durbin love to know about that meeting?”

“He’s no friend. T. J. David’s true identity was supposed to be a carefully guarded secret. Who did Van Durbin bribe to get my name?”

“A publishing house intern, an assistant to someone in the contracts department. It could have been anybody.”

“Someone in your agency?”

He patted her hand. “We’ll probably never know. What does it matter now who it was?”

She sighed with resignation. “It doesn’t. The damage has been done.”

He laughed. “ ‘Damage’ being a matter of opinion.”

Dexter had dropped her off at her apartment building with a warning: “Tomorrow’s going to be another whirlwind day. Get some rest tonight. I’ll be here at seven a.m. to pick you up.”

She’d waved him off with a promise that she wouldn’t be late, then entered the lobby of her building. The concierge had called to her from behind his desk. “A package for you was delivered just a little while ago.”

It had looked innocent enough when she’d set it on her dining table along with a stack of mail. The box had been sealed with clear packing tape. She’d noted that the label was printed with her name and address, but not the sender’s information. That was curious, but she didn’t think too much of it as she split the tape, folded back the flaps, and lifted out the gift-wrapped box inside.

She never could have prepared herself for the hideous surprise it contained.

Now, sitting on the floor with her back against the wall, she lowered her hands from her eyes and looked at the box with tissue paper blossoming out the top of it. That festive touch was so incongruous with the contents it had to have been planned that way as part of the joke.

Joke? No. This wasn’t funny. It was malicious.

But she couldn’t think of anyone whom she had offended, nor of anyone who would hold her in such contempt. Would Rocky Van Durbin, even having Sleazy as a middle name, do something so low-down and dirty as to send her a dead rat?

Slowly she worked her way up the wall, sliding her spine along it for support as she unsteadily came to her feet. Standing, she was able to see the rat nestled in the shiny paper. She tried desensitizing herself so she could look at it. She tried to objectify the corpse, but because each of its features was so grotesque, they seemed extraordinarily detailed.

She swallowed bile, chafed the goose bumps on her arms, and by force of will pulled herself together. It was only a dead rodent, after all. Rats were a common sight in the subway stations. Seeing one scuttling along the tracks had never caused her to have this kind of violent reaction.

She would replace the lid on the box and carry it to the garbage chute at the end of the hall. Then she’d be rid of it; she could forget about it and go on about her business, having refused to let the prankster get the best of her.

Steeling herself, she took a step forward, and another, and another, until she was almost upon it.

And then the rat’s tail flicked.

Dent answered the phone with a grumble. “What?”

“You’re still in the sack?”

“What time is it?”

“You sound drunk.”

“Do I need to be sober?”

“If you want the job.”

“Today?”

“Soon as you can get here.”

“I was afraid you were going to say that. Is it worth my trouble?”

“Since when can you afford to turn down a charter?”

“Okay, okay. How much?”

“Two thousand, down and back.”

“To?”

“Houston Hobby.”

“Overnight stay?”

“No.”

Dent sat up and placed his feet on the floor, testing his level of sobriety. He raked his fingers through his hair then left his hand there, palming his muzzy head. “Twenty-five hundred plus fuel costs.”

“The guy’s sick. He’s going to MD Anderson for chemo.”