Ginny Aiken: Mistaken for the Mob

“What do you want me to say? That a tech from Uni-Comp gave me a weird look? Sure, and then he can call the guys in the white suits to come get me.”

Trudy bit her lower lip. “You’re probably right. All you have is a funny feeling, and that’s nothing to go on. Just be careful. Don’t let the guy catch you alone in your office or anything, okay?”

“That won’t happen. Not even if I have to spend the rest of the day in the bathroom downstairs. If worse comes to worst, I’ll grab what little paperwork I have left and do just that.”

“That’s nuts. You don’t have to go to extremes, you know. You can always head over to the staff lounge or hang out with me and my munchkins.”

“Oh, right. I’ll get a whole lot of work done then.”

“Make up your mind, will you? You said you were bored earlier and didn’t have much to do while the system was down. I can always use a hand with the incoming zoo inmates.”

“Ha! Your Mark is in that crowd, isn’t he?”

When Trudy blushed, Maryanne went on. “Figures. You just want me to watch your son so that you can be the serious librarian.”

Trudy raised her hands in surrender. “Okay. You outed me. But do you blame me?”

“Who can forget his first story hour? You reminded me of Make Way For Ducklings. The seventeen of them looked awfully cute following you around and calling you Mrs. Mommy.”

They chuckled, but then Maryanne squared her shoulders and smoothed a hand over the waist of her shin-length beige skirt. “I really do have to get back to my office—if for no other reason than to see if the Uni-Comps finished their shtick, and my computer’s up again.”

“I still think your imagination ran away with you, but please be careful. You never know what kind of kooks are on the loose.”

“If you get a chance, keep me in your prayers.”

“You know I’ll do that.”

Maryanne approached her glorified cubicle at the rear of the Research Department with apprehension. Were the two men still there?

At her office door, she paused and studied her name in gold letters on the black plaque. If that Prophet man wanted to hurt her he not only knew where she worked, but he also knew her name. With so many search sites on the Web, he’d have her address in no time. Then again, maybe he and his wife had argued earlier in the day. But Maryanne couldn’t imagine a woman who’d put up with him.

“Oh, Lord, help me, please,” she prayed then turned the knob.

The room was empty. A couple of pages covered with computer test gobbledygook in her trash can gave the only testimony of the men’s earlier presence. Maryanne experienced a momentary letdown.

Weird, since she hadn’t wanted to face his—was it anger?—again.

To be honest, she had to admit that the puzzling J.Z. Prophet had sparked her interest—in a crazy, scary sort of way. He’d kicked up her curiosity, and he’d even revved something inside her. Excitement? Maybe. Inquisitiveness? Definitely.

Maryanne sat behind her desk and braced her forehead on the heels of her hands. “Argh!”

She had to be partway to certifiable. No sane woman would be interested in some stranger who’d looked at her funny. A sane woman wouldn’t try to figure out why he’d done it.

It didn’t make sense—she didn’t make sense.

So was Trudy right? Had she imagined J.Z.’s instant dislike?

Now that the Uni-Comp men had left and she was alone, Maryanne began to question her earlier take on the incident. A stranger would have no reason for anger, not toward her.

Oh, well. Trudy probably was right. It wouldn’t be the first time Maryanne let her imagination run wild.

After all, J.Z. Prophet was an attractive man, of the rugged, dark and brooding sort. He would catch her eye, no matter what—any woman’s at that. But of course he wasn’t the kind of man she’d want to get to know. He was not her type at all. Still, no seeing woman would call him nondescript.

Steel-colored eyes above angular cheekbones pierced deep. And the dark hair that tumbled over his forehead revealed a lack of self-absorption. Although J.Z. Prophet’s hair shone with health and cleanliness, as did his pristine white shirt and faded jeans, he wasn’t the blow-dried, manicured, crease-pressed new-jean type, a trend she found disconcerting.

If he hadn’t fixed those stormy eyes on her, she might have been attracted to him.

“Good grief, Maryanne,” she muttered as her computer booted up. “There you go again. No sooner do you decide the guy couldn’t possibly have given you an angry look, than you make a U-turn and think the opposite one more time.”

She sighed. It was time to get back to work. Time to put the enigmatic J.Z. Prophet out of her mind.

The next two hours proved productive. At around three o’clock, when Maryanne felt the urge for her usual cup of tea, she stood, walked around her desk and crossed the room.

At the doorway, she stopped.

A weird feeling crept up her back—hair-raising was the only way to describe it. Someone was watching her.

Maryanne looked up and down the hall, but saw no one, found nothing unusual. Then the door across the hall came to a complete close with a soft, automatic swish.

She stared. The men’s room. Had someone been watching her?

Had that someone—the one she was sure had watched her—just gone in there?

Had J.Z. Prophet spooked her so much that she saw boogeymen all around? Had some innocent guy done nothing more than walk by her office door to use the restroom instead? And she’d let herself freak out.

Or had he been watching her? J.Z’s face materialized in her mind. Why? Why would he want to watch her?

Maryanne’s knees gave. She fell back against her office door. She began to shiver, but refused to give in to fear. She closed her eyes and turned to God.

Why, why, why was she so shaken?

“Your strength is sufficient for me,” she prayed. Over and over again, she whispered the words until the tremors subsided.

But no matter how long she prayed, and no matter how hard she worked, Maryanne failed to erase the memory of J.Z.’s stare.

Trudy was right about at least one thing. Should Maryanne ever see him again, she wouldn’t hesitate to call the cops. Although she preferred to avoid clichés, she felt she was living one right then.

If looks could kill….

The rest of the afternoon crawled by in a blur of stress. By the time five o’clock rolled around, Maryanne’s shoulders had frozen rigid and her temples pounded a vicious beat. She’d accomplished precious little in that time, since no matter how hard she tried, the image of J.Z. Prophet slammed into her thoughts every few minutes.

She couldn’t concentrate on anything she read, and hadn’t been able to type up her notes for the report due next Tuesday. Her fingers shook like leaves in a gale. Even simple filing became a challenge of inordinate proportion.

Ibuprofen did nothing to alleviate her headache—she doubted anything would until the memory of J.Z. Prophet’s intensity melted away on its own. She hoped she never had to set eyes on him again.

In the library parking lot, she waved goodbye to Trudy and Sarah Myers, who worked with the rare collections. Then, because she’d fed Shakespeare the last of his food and the kitty litter was also running low, she drove straight to the grocery store. The ride served to soothe her raw nerves. Her favorite radio station had on a Darlene Zschech special. Maryanne liked the Aussie’s contemporary style of worship music.

At the store, she grabbed feline supplies, romaine lettuce, fresh chicken breasts and an Idaho potato the size of the state where it grew. Dinner would be a simple matter of shredding greens and nuking stuff—about all she could face today.