indeed.
About five minutes into the “wait an hour for Agent Brady” plan, I began to have second thoughts. I
wasn’t good at waiting around. I wanted to be out doing. Possibly even running. Mexico sounded appealing, I could use a tan and a fruity alcoholic beverage, and that was an option I very specifically intended to discuss with the elusive Agent Brady. At the moment, getting the hell out of Dodge sounded like a mighty fine idea.
Since I still had fifty-one minutes to go, I busied myself by zipping my laptop in its Neoprene sleeve and shoving it down into my tote. Then I rummaged in my closet until I found my favorite light jacket, along with the pair of Nike Airs I’d bought during my brief fascination with jogging in Central Park. My enthusiasm had waned after, oh, about seven minutes, and I’d shoved my running shoes into the closet, vowing to devote myself to Pilates at a women-only center.
Now, I’d get my money’s worth out of the shoes. Running, I figured, was very likely in my future.
Other than that, I didn’t know what to take with me. My lovely Marc Jacobs tote was plenty big enough to double as an overnight bag, but I wasn’t heading out on a typical overnighter. I mean, I had a complete list of what to take on a first date—everything from makeup to emergency Page 29
tampons to emergency condoms—but what to take on a deadly scavenger hunt through the city?
That was a new one on me. I pondered for a while, then decided on a toothbrush, deodorant, a clean shirt, and fresh underwear. Then I checked the batteries on my iPod and tossed that in as well. I might be on the run, but
I didn’t intend to be without my show tunes.
All of that took about fifteen minutes, and I was just about to say fuck it and head out the door forty-five
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
minutes early, when the phone rang. I bolted across the room and snatched it up, my heart pounding so hard in my chest I thought it would explode. I’m good at shoving emotions down inside me, but poke even the tiniest crack in my armor, and it all explodes out of me in one big, gooey mess.
“Agent Brady!” I cried. “Thank you so much for calling me back. I’ve been—”
A long, sustained beeping noise interrupted me, and I realized that I wasn’t talking with Agent Brady at all. I didn’t have a clue who was on the other end of the line, in fact, but I did have a very bad feeling.
Paranoia? Maybe. But it turned out I was right. Like the saying goes: it’s not paranoia if they really are out to get you.
The beeping stopped and suddenly I was being serenaded. The music fromThe Rocky Horror Picture
Show’ s “Eddie” trickled across the phone line, and even though the situation was a bit odd, I couldn’t help but hum along. I’d seen the movie at midnight screenings an embarrassing number of times, and I’d played Janet in two productions and Magenta in another. The music was practically branded on my brain. And this particular song—about poor Eddie who didn’t love his teddy bear—was one of my favorites.
So there I was, filling in the words to the go with the tune, when all of a sudden, the lyrics kicked in, and there was Eddie telling me to “hurry oryou may be dead.”
What the fuck?
The voice had specifically said “you,” which undoubtedly referred to me, because that wasn’t in the song. Even more, that voice—the one who’d piped in for just that one word—wasn’t on the original recording.
I realized I was staring terrified at the phone. Then a voice came on, the sound far away since the handset was no longer pressed to my ear. With trepidation, I pulled it close and listened. One of those computerized voices. The kind that says “please press or say ‘one’ now.” Only this time she said: “Tick, tick, tick. The countdown has begun. Ten tomorrow morning, and your time is up.”
The line went dead, and my stomach clenched. Forget what
About five minutes into the “wait an hour for Agent Brady” plan, I began to have second thoughts. I
wasn’t good at waiting around. I wanted to be out doing. Possibly even running. Mexico sounded appealing, I could use a tan and a fruity alcoholic beverage, and that was an option I very specifically intended to discuss with the elusive Agent Brady. At the moment, getting the hell out of Dodge sounded like a mighty fine idea.
Since I still had fifty-one minutes to go, I busied myself by zipping my laptop in its Neoprene sleeve and shoving it down into my tote. Then I rummaged in my closet until I found my favorite light jacket, along with the pair of Nike Airs I’d bought during my brief fascination with jogging in Central Park. My enthusiasm had waned after, oh, about seven minutes, and I’d shoved my running shoes into the closet, vowing to devote myself to Pilates at a women-only center.
Now, I’d get my money’s worth out of the shoes. Running, I figured, was very likely in my future.
Other than that, I didn’t know what to take with me. My lovely Marc Jacobs tote was plenty big enough to double as an overnight bag, but I wasn’t heading out on a typical overnighter. I mean, I had a complete list of what to take on a first date—everything from makeup to emergency Page 29
tampons to emergency condoms—but what to take on a deadly scavenger hunt through the city?
That was a new one on me. I pondered for a while, then decided on a toothbrush, deodorant, a clean shirt, and fresh underwear. Then I checked the batteries on my iPod and tossed that in as well. I might be on the run, but
I didn’t intend to be without my show tunes.
All of that took about fifteen minutes, and I was just about to say fuck it and head out the door forty-five
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
minutes early, when the phone rang. I bolted across the room and snatched it up, my heart pounding so hard in my chest I thought it would explode. I’m good at shoving emotions down inside me, but poke even the tiniest crack in my armor, and it all explodes out of me in one big, gooey mess.
“Agent Brady!” I cried. “Thank you so much for calling me back. I’ve been—”
A long, sustained beeping noise interrupted me, and I realized that I wasn’t talking with Agent Brady at all. I didn’t have a clue who was on the other end of the line, in fact, but I did have a very bad feeling.
Paranoia? Maybe. But it turned out I was right. Like the saying goes: it’s not paranoia if they really are out to get you.
The beeping stopped and suddenly I was being serenaded. The music fromThe Rocky Horror Picture
Show’ s “Eddie” trickled across the phone line, and even though the situation was a bit odd, I couldn’t help but hum along. I’d seen the movie at midnight screenings an embarrassing number of times, and I’d played Janet in two productions and Magenta in another. The music was practically branded on my brain. And this particular song—about poor Eddie who didn’t love his teddy bear—was one of my favorites.
So there I was, filling in the words to the go with the tune, when all of a sudden, the lyrics kicked in, and there was Eddie telling me to “hurry oryou may be dead.”
What the fuck?
The voice had specifically said “you,” which undoubtedly referred to me, because that wasn’t in the song. Even more, that voice—the one who’d piped in for just that one word—wasn’t on the original recording.
I realized I was staring terrified at the phone. Then a voice came on, the sound far away since the handset was no longer pressed to my ear. With trepidation, I pulled it close and listened. One of those computerized voices. The kind that says “please press or say ‘one’ now.” Only this time she said: “Tick, tick, tick. The countdown has begun. Ten tomorrow morning, and your time is up.”
The line went dead, and my stomach clenched. Forget what
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