Rene Gutteridge - Listen

“Look at this!” Reginald said. “Can you believe it?”

Damien made himself look. “This is Caydance?” She was trying to cover her face with a jacket as she left her house in an SUV.

“Yes. Caydance is the blonde. Zoey is the brunette.” He pushed a key. The brunette was on the screen, with a hand extended as she faced what was sure to be a lawn full of people with cameras. Both men stared for a moment. “They look so normal, don’t they?”

“They’re friends of my daughter’s,” Damien said, then punched off the computer screen. “How am I going to tell her this?”

Reginald unplugged his camera and leaned against the edge of the desk. “Yeah. This is whacked-out. I’ll let you know when I’ve got them downloaded.”

Damien nodded and Reginald left. Damien reached to turn on his computer screen again, but someone else was already standing over him.

The mail clerk greeted Damien and tossed a bundled stack of letters on his desk.

“Thanks,” Damien said.

Then he handed Damien another stack. “And give this to Sheryl. We’re not speaking.”

Damien didn’t stop him. It was just another day in the office these days… a night of reading on the Internet, a day of cold silence toward former friends.

He pushed both stacks aside, determined to get this article written. How could he even start? What could he possibly say to make sense out of any of this?

Cold. Hard. Facts.

Yeah, this was as cold and hard as it came.

Something caught Damien’s eye from the stack of mail. It was the letter on top. In bright red ink next to his address were the words Open immediately underlined twice. There was no return address. A small, greasy stain bled into the corner of the envelope.

Damien lifted the rubber band and pulled it out of the pile. He slid his letter opener underneath the flap, tearing it neatly. He held his breath, not in anticipation but rather from fear the thing was laced with anthrax. Was it so far-fetched these days?

He carefully pulled out the folded piece of paper. Didn’t seem to be any powdery substance involved. He let out the air he was holding in and opened the paper.

A crossword puzzle.

And an amateur one at that. Just a handful of words to solve? Please.

He threw it down and stared at his screen. He had to get comments from the police department. Or at least call Frank, who’d be willing to be an unnamed source for a good friend. He needed to try to get quotes from the families, knowing full well they would have nothing to say.

Leaning back in his chair, he grabbed his favorite crossword pen and decided to do the little crossword puzzle. Puzzles always relieved stress. Besides, this one was curious. Simple. And with no key, which always accompanied a submission. The theme read Listen.

One down. Guaranteed, like taxes.

Easy. Death. He jotted it down, but the word felt heavy, morbid.

Five across. Also, always spelled wrong.

Too.

Four down. Steering, made easy.

Power.

Damien hurried through the puzzle.

Life. And. Of. Now. Stop. Tongue. Can’t. Stake. Much. Are. In. Is. At.

What was this? Tiny words?

And then he saw it. He held the paper up to read so his eyes would adjust properly. The words popped as he followed the first line from top to bottom: I can’t stop now.

The second line, from left to right, jagging toward the bottom, read Too much is at stake.

The last one caused his breath to catch: Life and death are in the power of the tongue. Someone was sending him a message? Why him? He put the paper down, looked hard at it, tried to calm himself.

Whoever was behind this Web site knew him? knew he worked at the newspaper?

Damien grabbed the paper and barreled down the hallway toward Edgar’s office. He paused outside. Was Edgar the right person to talk to? With this sudden influx of paranoia and flat-out anger? The door was shut, but he could hear Edgar on the phone. He peeked in the window. Whatever Edgar was discussing, it seemed important, judging by the deep line down the middle of his forehead.

He barely heard a few words. Something about the newspaper lifting out of despair.

Damien backed away from the door and studied the puzzle. I can’t stop now. Too much is at stake. Life and death are in the power of the tongue.

What did this mean?

Suddenly Edgar’s door flew open, and he almost knocked Damien over. Damien stumbled backward.

“You need something?” Edgar asked, pausing his swift step.

“Um…”

“What?”

“No, nothing. It can wait.”

“Fine. Get me that article!”

Damien returned to his desk, where he laid open the letter. He could not stop staring at the words. His mind raced through the million possibilities linked to this.

His fingers brushed the tops of the keys on his keyboard. He should write the investigative piece.

But his heart said there was more to say than facts. The facts didn’t do justice to what Marlo had become, at its own hand, no less.

He glanced back at the paper. Disclosing this to Edgar was the obvious and only choice.

Except…

The author had reached out to him. Had sent him the message. Was communicating this to him. If he kept it private, he might have more of a chance of discovering who was behind all of this. Did anyone else receive a letter?

He grabbed the paper, carefully slid it into his briefcase, and hurried down the flights of concrete stairs. At ground level, he burst through the door, gasping for breath. He leaned against the brick in the alleyway, breathing. Thinking. Worrying.

This was too much.

His daughter had been friends with girls like this.

His son and the things he’d chosen to do behind closed doors. The way he couldn’t talk to him anymore.

His town, rotting from the inside out.

Damien closed his eyes, willing himself not to break down. The world felt heavy now, but there had to be a solution. Some way to stop this madness.

He took in the cold air, hardly fresh thanks to nearby smokers. He fingered the loose threads of his sleeve.

He should tell.

But he wouldn’t. He’d wait and see.

And maybe send a message of his own.

“Mr. Underwood?”

Damien looked up to find Reverend Caldwell approaching him, his hand outstretched just like on Sunday morning.

“Reverend,” he said, shaking it. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to see you, actually.”

“How is Gabby?”

Pain flashed across the reverend’s eyes. “She’s hanging in there. I don’t know if she’ll ever be the same.”

“I am so sorry this has happened to your family.”

“I wanted to tell you that Gabby is starting to talk a little about what’s going on.”

Damien wished he had a pen and a pad of paper.

“She mentioned your daughter.”

“What?”

“Jenna apparently hit a girl recently? Gabby said that Jenna was defending her.” The reverend’s eyes filled with tears. “I can’t tell you what it means to us, to our family, that someone would stand up for her. I wanted to personally thank you and ask that you would thank Jenna on our behalf.”

Damien felt himself choking up. Pride swelled through his whole body. “I will. Thank you for letting us know.”

The reverend started to walk off, then turned back to Damien. “You have a chance.”

“A chance?”

“I’ve always enjoyed all the columns you’ve written over the years. There’s a war raging now, and you have the right weapon.”

Frank got out of his cruiser, shut the door, and stretched and groaned, trying to shake the achy feeling in his muscles.

On the other side, Gavin did the same. “This must be how cops feel in Los Angeles.”