Thomas Perry - Vanishing Act

Jane had not memorized the telephone number in Medford, Oregon, because having it in her mind would be an irritant, a constant, inescapable reminder that all she had to do was pick up a telephone. She looked in front of the phone book for the area code, then dialed information.

"What city, please?" said a young man’s voice.

"Medford."

"Go ahead."

"Do you have a listing for John D. Young? It’s a new number."

She heard keys clicking. "I’m sorry. We don’t have a John D. Young."

Jane closed her eyes and tried to keep calm. "I know the phone was ordered, and there was a number. He just got there a couple of days ago. Four at the outside."

"I’m sorry," he said. "Maybe he hasn’t activated his account yet."

"Is there a way to find out?"

"Not really. The business office puts the information in after the phone is in service."

"Look," she said. "This is really important. He lives at 4350 Islington, Apartment B. Can you ring Apartment A or Apartment C and let me talk to them? They can find out what’s wrong."

"I’m sorry. I can’t do that."

"I know you have these things on your computer. Can’t you just call up an address?"

"I’m not allowed to do that unless the police or fire department asks me to. Is there any other number, I can get for you?"

Jane thought for a second. "Yes. Western Union."

The operator went away, and the universal recording of a woman’s voice said, "The ... number ... is 555-6297. Once again ... 555-6297."

Jane dialed and a man answered, "Western Union."

Jane said, "Never mind." She controlled her frustration. "Thanks anyway." She hung up. Telegrams always had the name and address of the sender printed across the top automatically. If it didn’t get handed right to him, it would tell somebody the only place he had left to run to.

She leaned on the wall and thought. It had to be something that was open nights. She dialed the information number again. This time it was a woman’s voice. "What city, please?"

"Medford."

"Go ahead."

"I need the number of a message service. One that delivers messages in person."

"Any particular one?"

"No. If you know Medford, please pick one that’s close to Islington Street."

The operator went off, and the female computer came on and gave Jane another number. She dialed.

A woman answered. "Valentine Party Girls."

"Excuse me?" said Jane.

"Valentine Girls."

Jane’s head was pounding. "Can I order a message delivered and pay over the phone with a credit card?"

"Sure. Tell me what day you’d like it delivered."

"Today. As soon as I hang up."

"Tonight? That could be tough. We have to arrange for the right person, and ..."

"No you don’t," said Jane. "I don’t care who it is, just so it’s right away. It’s not a fun thing. It’s urgent."

"All right. Give me your credit card number."

Jane pulled out her Visa and read off the number.

"What’s the address for the message?"

"It’s for John Young, 4350 Islington, Apartment B as in boy."

"That in Medford?"

"Yes."

"Message?"

Jane hesitated. She hadn’t had time to think it through. "Say, ’Harry died. Come home. Mom.’ Make that, ’Love, Mom.’ " She listened while the woman repeated it in a monotone.

"That’s right."

"Okay, now we come to the tricky part."

"What’s that?"

"If you want this delivered tonight, the only person I have is a male stripper. He’s getting ready for a bachelorette party in an hour. I’m afraid he gets a hundred dollars. It’s not his fault that—"

"That’s okay," said Jane. "It’s important."

"Just so you understand."

"And, please, write it down. Make sure the stripper knows that if Mr. Young is not home he should slip it under the door. Not in the mailbox or something— under the door."

"We’ll do it."

Jane thought for a second. What else was there? "And if you don’t mind, could it be on a plain piece of paper? Not your regular stationery or something?"

"Don’t worry," the woman said. "I’ve already got it that way. Nobody wants this kind of message on a valentine."

"Great," said Jane. She leaned against the supermarket wall again. "Wonderful."

"And I’m sorry about Harry," said the woman.

"Thanks." She hung up and took three deep breaths. What now? Could she wait until she got home to call the airlines? Yes. She had to go home anyway, and it would be quicker because she could pack while she was talking. She hurried to her car, started it, and drove. The ripe cantaloupe in the back seat smelled like garbage, so strong it made her feel queasy. She rolled down her window and drove faster.

She pulled into her driveway too fast and heard a bag fall over and some cans rolling around on the floor. She ran into the house, took the steps three at a time to the second floor, and looked at the answering machine. The message light wasn’t blinking, and the counter still said zero.

Quickly, she looked up the airlines section of the Yellow Pages and started at the top, with American Airlines. "When is the first flight out of Buffalo that will get me to Medford, Oregon?" There was a flight to Chicago, then Portland, with a hop down to Medford/ Jackson County airport that would take until 7:00 A.M. Pacific time.

As she accepted her reservation, she heard the door-bell ringing downstairs. She nearly screamed in frustration, but clenched her teeth, read off her credit card number, and waited until she had heard the woman distinctly say, "You’re confirmed," before she relinquished the telephone.

She ran down the stairs and flung the door open. It was Jake. "Sorry, Jake, but I’ve got to leave in a minute."

"That’s why I’m here," he said. He stepped in, and she had to fight an impulse to give him a hard push in the chest and slam the door.

Instead, she pivoted and hurried up the stairs. "I’ve got to pack." She was already thinking about what to take. There was no good way to bring a firearm aboard an airplane. It would have to be the matching manicure kit and jewelry box and makeup kit. There was a thick, heavy gold chain in the jewelry box that clasped to two screw-on handles of the hairbrushes, and those screwed into two lead-filled lipstick tubes. When the parts were assembled that way she had two long, weighted handles connected by a chain, and that made a very ugly set of nunchaku. There was also a big nail file with an ivory handle and a blade that was stainless steel and sharpened like a razor.

She was vaguely aware that Jake was following her upstairs. "I saw you roar in, so I figured you planned to leave right away. He’s not safe after all, is he?"

"Right," she snapped, and wondered instantly why she had let that out. The frustration was driving her to madness.

"Have you warned him?"

"I tried, but I don’t know if he got the message or—" Saying it out loud was not what she wanted to do, so she didn’t. "I’ve got to go there."

"I’ll go with you," he said. "I’ll be ready before you are."

"No."

"I saw those men. Did you?"

"Yes." Then she admitted, "Not close."

"I did. I’d know them anywhere. And if they followed you to where he is, they must have seen you. They didn’t see me."

"Look," she said. "This is crazy. Why am I arguing with you? It’s none of your business. I’m going, you’re not."

He said, "I know you’re wishing I’d fall in a hole. But I can see them coming and you can’t. I can even report them to the police and you can’t, or you would have already. They don’t know me, but they know you, and no matter how good you are or how smart or how young, you can’t be in two places at the same time and watch your own back. If you’re going because you think you have to save that fellow’s life, then you ought to think in practical terms and take the help that’s available. You think about that, and I’ll be waiting for you."