Covenant Of The Flame

  'I'm not a process server.'

  'So you say.'

  'Look, I'm just worried about my friend. He's been missing since Friday, and.'

  'You say. Me? I have to protect my buns. If this gal I replaced gets sick enough to quit or die or something, maybe I can make this a permanent job. So why not get lost, huh? For all I know, you work for my boss and he sent you here to check out if I'm doing what he told me. So look for your friend somewhere else.'

  NINE

  In a taxi on the way back to work, Tess trembled, frustrated. She tried to assure herself that she'd done her best. If Joseph decided to quit his job and drop out of sight, that wasn't her concern, she told herself.

  But despite her insistence, she couldn't ignore the queasy churning in her stomach. Suppose Joseph's disappearance had something to do with her.

  Don't kid yourself, she thought. Nobody quits his job just to escape a woman who was too insistent about starting a relationship.

  Anyway, Joseph didn't quit his job. The receptionist at Truth Video said he never called in to explain why he wouldn't be at work.

  So what? That doesn't prove a thing. Lots of people quit their job without calling in to say they've quit. They just never show up again.

  But Joseph didn't seem that irresponsible, Tess thought.

  Sure, just like he didn't seem the type to stand you up? Stop being naive. You met him only three times. You really don't know anything about him. You admitted - in fact you told him - he's the strangest man you ever met. Even the receptionist at Truth Video called him strange. And maybe that's why you're attracted to him.

  Tess bit her lip. Admit something else. You're concerned because you think something might have happened to him. For all you know, he's sick at home, too weak to phone for help. That explanation would certainly soothe your wounded pride.

  Tess sagged in the back seat of the taxi.

  What's wrong with me? Do I actually hope he's too sick to make a phone call?

  On the taxi's radio, an announcer gave a tense update about the toxic-gas disaster in Tennessee. Three hundred dead. Eight hundred critically injured. Fields littered with thousands of dead animals and birds. Already the forests and crops were turning brown from the caustic effects of the poisonous cloud's searing nitrogen. The Environmental Protection Agency, among many other government agencies, had rushed investigators to the nightmarish scene with orders to search for the cause of the train's derailment. Their conclusions so far - according to an unnamed but highly placed informant - indicated that budget cuts at the financially troubled Tennessee railway had resulted in understaffed maintenance crews. The railway's owner could not be reached for comment, although rumors suggested that his recent divorce -costly and caused by an affair with one of his secretaries - had distracted him from crucial business decisions. As well, the foreman of the maintenance crew was reputed to have a cocaine addiction.

  Jesus, Tess thought. While I'm worrying about a possibly sick man who stood me up, the planet gets worse.

  A gruff voice intruded on her thoughts.

  'What?' Tess straightened. 'I'm sorry. I didn't.'

  'Lady.' The taxi driver scowled. 'I told you we're here. You owe me four bucks.'

  TEN

  Surprised to discover that she'd been gone from the office for almost two hours, Tess tried to concentrate on the revisions she'd made in her article, but as she jotted notes for a possibly stronger last paragraph, she found herself staring at her gold Cross pen. She remembered the day her father had given it to her and how dropping it had been the catalyst that brought Joseph and her together.

  Abruptly she stood, left her office, proceeded along a row of other offices, and stopped at the end of the corridor, at the open door of the final office. With equal suddenness, she felt her determination wither. Because what she saw was Walter Trask, the fiftyish, portly, avuncular editor of Earth Mother Magazine, hunched over his desk, rubbing his temples and shaking his head at what looked like financial statements.

  Tess turned to leave.

  But Trask must have felt her presence. Shifting his worried gaze toward the open door, he changed expressions and smiled. 'Hey, kid, how are you?'

  Tess didn't answer.

  'Come on, what's the matter?' Trask leaned back and raised his hands. 'You're always so cheery. It can't be that bad. Get in here. Sit. Stretch your legs. Talk to me.'

  Tess frowned and entered.

  'What is it?' Trask raised his eyebrows. Trouble with your article?'

  'Trouble? Yes.' She sank toward a chair. 'But not with the article.'

  'Which means it might be.?' Trask raised his eyebrows higher.

  'Personal.' Tess felt a greater hesitation. 'This is embarrassing. Maybe I shouldn't have.'

  'Nonsense. That's why my door is always open. Personal problems always result in professional problems. When my staffs unhappy, the magazine suffers. Talk to me, Tess. You know I'm fond of you. Think of me as a confessor. And I hope I don't need to add - anything said in this room, believe me, goes no farther.'

  Tess tried not to fidget. Given her late father's background, she knew she ought to be more sophisticated about certain matters. 'What I wanted to ask. You know these companies that hold mail for people.?'

  Trask narrowed his gaze, emphasizing the furrows around his eyes. 'Hold mail for people?'

  'Sort of like post-office boxes, except they're not in a post office.'

  'Ah, yes, now I. Mail services. Sure,' Trask said. 'What about them?'

  Tess's stomach hardened. 'Who uses them? Why?'

  Trask leaned forward, considered her, then ordered his thoughts. 'That all depends. Quick-buck mail-order outfits for one. The kind that advertise in the back of supermarket tabloids and sex magazines. You want a genuine World War Two Nazi bayonet or an inflatable, life-sized, anatomically correct female doll? What you do is send your check to such-and-such an address. The creep who placed the ad picks up his mail at one of those services, lets the scam last three or four months until he figures his customers are impatient enough to call the police, and then he skips town with all the cash. Of course, there were never any bayonets or inflatable dolls.'

  'But.' Tess gripped her thighs. 'Why make it so complicated? Why not just use an official post-office box?'

  'Because' - Trask raised his shoulders - 'I know this is hard to imagine, some people who read those ads in the tabloids and magazines are smart enough to smell a scam if the company they're tempted to send the check to doesn't have a permanent-looking address. Besides, those con artists risk being charged with mail fraud. The last thing they want is to go near a post office, where a clerk might wonder about hundreds of letters addressed to vaguely suggestive names. World War Two Collectibles and Home Anatomical Education.'

  'Okay.' Tess frowned. 'In a sick way, that makes sense. But surely there are other reasons to use these places.' She suddenly remembered what the frizzy-haired woman had told her. To stay away from process servers?'

  'You figured that out? You bet,' Trask said. 'A guy who's afraid of being served with a summons to testify in court, or who's running from a lawsuit, or who hasn't been paying his child support and doesn't want his wife to know where he lives.'

  Tess considered and shook her head. 'I still don't. Wouldn't a process server merely wait around until his target came in to get his mail?'

  'Process servers get paid for results,' Trask said. 'They know a mail drop's trouble. I mean, they could wait around for days, maybe weeks , and still not. If someone's really nervous about being found, all he has to do is pay to have the service forward his mail to another address. Mind you, there are legitimate reasons to use a mail service instead of a post-office box.'

  Tess waved her hands for Trask to continue.

  'Why is this so important to you?' Trask asked.

  'Please!'

  'Okay, so maybe your job takes you out of the country a lot, and you don't want to depend on the post office to forward your mail. Or maybe you live in an
other state, but for legal reasons, you need a corporate address in New York City. Or maybe you own a legitimate mail-order business, but you're well aware of the resistance that potential customers have to temporary-looking post-office-box numbers. There are many legitimate reasons. But basically, in my experience, seven times out of ten someone uses a mail service because."

  'They don't want anyone to know where they live.'

  'You got it,' Trask said.

  Tess stared at her gold Cross pen. 'Thanks.'

  'Whatever your problem is. Listen, kid, I don't want to pry, but I hate to see you looking so dejected. Since I've answered your question, return the favor and answer mine. I might be able to help. Why is this important to you?'

  Tess slumped, shaking her head. 'I. It's just that. Well, I found out a friend of mine. at least, sort of a friend. uses one of these services.'

  'A friend?' Trask assessed the word. 'Are you saying this friend's a man?'

  Tess nodded glumly.

  'Oh.' Trask's voice dropped.

  'I was supposed to meet him on Saturday, but he didn't show up, and he didn't report for work this week.'

  'Oh.' Trask's voice dropped lower.

  'And now I'm trying to find out why.'

  'Be careful, Tess.'

  'I can't help it. My pride's involved. I need to know what happened to him.'

  'Well, maybe.' Trask sighed.

  'What?'

  'This is just a guess. But it could be you don't want to hear.'

  'Tell me.'

  'Maybe, if he didn't want someone to find him, whoever he didn't want to find him - an ex-wife who hasn't been getting her alimony, for instance - might have gotten too close. It's possible your friend was forced to move on.'

  Tess shoved her pen in her purse. 'I'm sorry I interrupted you. Thanks, Walter. I've taken too much of your time. I'll let you get back to work.' She stood.

  'No, Tess, please, wait. I told you I might be able to help. Perhaps you didn't know, but before I founded Earth Mother Magazine, when I worked for the Times, I was their expert in tracking down reluctant sources.'

  'Then how do I find him?'

  'Top line first. Given the implications of the mail service your friend used, are you absolutely sure you want to find him? Think it over.'

  'Yes, I'm sure.'

  'Should I take it that means you're in love with him?'

  Tess hesitated. 'Yes. No. Maybe.' She swallowed, despite a constriction in her throat. 'I'm so confused. God help me, what I do know is I'm worried about him and I want to be with him.'

  'A clear enough answer. Okay, my friend, I could write down a list of people and places for you to check. But you'd find it exhausting and time- consuming, not to mention a pain in the ass, to go through them all. Besides, you're a good enough reporter that you've probably already thought of them. So I'll save you the hassle and cut to the bottom line. I'm going to let you in on a secret. Because you confided in me, I'll confide in you. But just as I'll keep your confession in confidence, I take for granted you'll keep mine. Word of honor?'

  'Yes.'

  'I know I can count on you. This is the reason I was so legendary at the Times for being able to track down reluctant sources.' Trask wrote two words on a piece of paper.

  tess frowned at them. '"Lieutenant Craig"?'

  'He works for Missing Persons. Central division. One Police Plaza. Just mention my name. If he doesn't cooperate, tell him I said to remind him of nineteen eighty-six.'

  'Nineteen eighty-?'

  'Six. I doubt you'll have to remind him, though. He owes me a favor he's well aware he can't ever completely repay, and unless he's had a lobotomy, he'll stop whatever he's doing and give your problem his full attention. But if he doesn't, let me know. Because in that case, I'll send him a copy of a letter - along with some audio tapes - that'll give his memory one hell of a jolt, I guarantee.'

  ELEVEN

  Lieutenant Craig was a tall beefy man, late thirties, with tousled hair, a ruggedly handsome face, and sharply creased cheeks that gave his mouth a pinched expression.

  When he heard Trask's name, his dour look intensified. 'Swell. Just swell. The finishing touch on a crummy day.' Craig wore a rumpled suit that matched his haggard features. That leech is a. Never mind. You don't want to know my opinion of him. My language would ruin your day. So what's that bloodsucker got in mind this time?' Squinting toward Tess, Craig gestured toward a stout wooden chair in front of his cluttered desk.

  Tess sat, trying to ignore the phones that rang constantly at desks behind her, detectives answering the calls while pecking at typewriters and computer keyboards. 'Well, actually' - she tasted bile, ill at ease - 'Walter, I mean Mr Trask, doesn't want anything.'

  Craig closed one eye and squinted more severely with the other. Then why did he tell you to mention his name?'

  'I guess because' - Tess clutched the arms of the chair, needing to steady her hands - 'he figured you'd give me extra help.'

  Craig laughed, a crusty outburst that sounded like a cough. 'Hey, I'm here to serve the public. No kidding. I'm really a devoted civil servant. Rich or poor, young or old, male or female, white, black, Chicano, Christian, Jewish, or Muslim - did I touch all the bases? - regardless of race or creed, etc., everyone who shows up in this office gets my full and complete attention. Unless of course they're relatives of politicians, and then I really snap to attention.' The lieutenant laughed again and abruptly did cough. 'Damned allergies. So, fine, you need my help and Walter sent you here. So what can I do for you?'

  Tess glanced toward the ceiling.

  'Look, whatever it is, don't let it embarrass you. I've heard it all before and then some, believe me.'

  'It's not that I'm embarrassed exactly,' Tess said.

  'Then.?'

  'It's just that. Now that I'm here, I'm not sure. I mean.'

  'Hey, it's almost six. I'm supposed to be off-duty. Why did you want to see me?'

  'It seemed awfully serious a couple of hours ago, but involving the police.'

  'Sure, I understand. There's serious, and then there's serious,' Craig said. The thing is - count on me - it's my job to tell the difference. So as long as you are here, you might as well explain why you're clutching the arms of your chair so tight. Hey, lady, take advantage of the taxes you pay. Unburden your soul. What's the worst that can happen?'

  'You can make me think I'm wasting your time.'

  'Not likely,' Craig said. The truth is, I love it when people waste my time. It gives me enormous satisfaction to tell the taxpayers they're worried for nothing. Think of it this way. After you talk to me, I could reassure you enough - it's possible - that you might even get a good night's sleep.'

  Tess felt her stomach harden. 'But suppose what I tell you gets a friend of mine in trouble with.'

  'The law? Look, the way we do this is, first we discuss your problem. Then we decide what's next. But if I understand the reason Walter sent you here, it's not to make waves but to smooth the waters. So if it's possible, let's keep the law out of this. That's not a guarantee. What I said was, if it's possible.'

  Tess nodded, surprised that she'd grown to like this man. 'All right, I'll give it a try.' Amazed, she released her hands from the arms of the chair. 'There's a man I know.'

  It took her a while.

  'Don't stop. Keep going,' Craig said.

  With delicate prompting and a welcome cup of coffee, Tess finally finished her story.

  'Good.' Craig set down his pen. 'Better than good. Impressive. An excellent description. But after all, you work for Walter, so I take for granted you're a skilled reporter with a wonderful memory.' The lieutenant studied his notes. 'Yes. Gray eyes. Extremely unusual. And the last time you saw him was Friday?. And he uses a mail service?. And his employer doesn't have his home phone number?. And he has a habit of glancing nervously around him?'

  'Yes.'

  'If you don't mind, I have one, no, two more questions.'

  Tess felt exhausted. 'What are th
ey?'

  'Your home and work addresses. And your telephone numbers, both places.'

  Tess wrote them down.

  'A day or two, and I'll be in touch.'

  That's it? You'll be in touch?'

  Craig coughed again. 'What do you think, I use a crystal ball or a ouija board? For starters, I've got to phone the hospitals, the morgue.'

  'Morgue?'

  'You mean you never.?'

  'I've been trying not to think about.'