“What are you doing?” Lydia asked.

“Trying to find the envelope my love letter arrived in yesterday.”

“Let me help.” She made sure the City Editor could handle the desk alone for a while, then started lifting papers out by the stackful. “What does it look like?”

I described it. It took some rummaging, but eventually we found it. We were able to make out the zip code on its blurred Las Piernas postmark. Lydia looked it up. It was the zip code for the college post office.

The phone on my desk rang. I limped over and sat down as I picked it up left-handed.

“Kelly.”

“Good morning, Cassandra.”

I froze. The voice was not human. The caller was using some sort of device that masked or synthesized his own voice into an unearthly, low-pitched sound. Clearly understandable, totally unrecognizable.

“Thanatos?” I asked it as calmly as I could. I stood up and tried waving my right arm in an attempt to get Lydia’s attention. It hurt like hell.

“You will believe me next time, won’t you?” he said. His voice was almost whisper-soft, mechanical.

“I believed you this time,” I fibbed, stalling, trying now to get anyone to look at me. For once, everyone in the newsroom was minding his or her own business.

“You failed me. There wasn’t anything in the newspaper about it.”

“I’ve been away from work for a while.”

“Yes. You were hurt. Your foot is in a new cast. And although you’re out of the sling, there’s something wrong with your arm.”

“Sweet Jesus,” I whispered. I tried tapping the splint on the top of my computer monitor to try to get someone to look my way.

“What?” he asked.

“I didn’t have time to get anything written up,” I said, hoping he wouldn’t figure out what I was trying to do.

“Well, you’ll know better next time.”

He hung up. Just then, three different people took notice, Lydia among them. Their expressions plainly said they thought I was having some kind of fit.

I swore as I hung up the phone.

“What’s wrong?” Lydia asked.

“That was him!”

“Who?”

“Thanatos. The letter writer.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” I sat down and shook my head. Fought down nausea. The phone rang again and I just stared at it. Lydia picked it up.

“Irene Kelly’s desk… No, she’s right here, Frank.” She handed the phone to me.

“Frank? Frank, he just called me. He’s seen me. He knows I’m wearing a cast and that my arm is hurt-”

“Whoa, slow down. Who called you?”

“Thanatos. The letter writer. The killer.”

“He called you at the paper?”

“Yes.”

He was quiet for a moment, then asked, “Did he threaten you?”

“No. He just kept talking about next time-”

“Tell me exactly what he said.”

I repeated the conversation. This time, there was a long silence.

“I don’t like it,” he said at last.

“I’m not so hot about it myself. We found the envelope, by the way. He mailed it from the college post office.”

“Are you okay? You sound upset. I can understand why-”

“I’ll be all right. Just shook me up.”

“How about if I come by in a few minutes? I need to talk to John anyway.”

I felt some of my tension ease. “I’ll warn him you’re on your way.”

We said good-bye and I went off in search of John. He was talking to Stuart but broke off when he saw me hobbling in his direction. He met me halfway. I told him what had happened. He was scowling when I said, “Frank’s on his way over. He said he needed to talk to you.”

“Yeah, well, I need to talk to him, too.”

I didn’t know what to make of that.

I spent the twenty minutes or so that I waited for Frank trying to figure out why the letter writer had contacted me. I logged on to the computer and called up an index of stories I had written in the past six months. Nothing seemed to fit; no stories on ancient or modern Greece, nothing on mythology, nothing on the college or its professors. My stories mainly focused on local politics and government; outside of some implausible connection to ancient Greek city-states, it didn’t make sense that I should be the person he contacted. Why write to me? I wasn’t even well-versed in mythology.

I made a note to ask Jack for recommendations on mythology books.

I searched the computer for stories that might have appeared in the Express about Professor Edna Blaylock. Zilch. “Peacocks” didn’t pan out, either. There had been a few stories about the zoo itself, but unless Thanatos was upset about the zoo changing its hours or getting a new bear, I couldn’t find the connection.

Although this first round of inquiries didn’t prove fruitful, it did have the effect of helping me to calm down. I was still unnerved by the idea that Thanatos had watched me, but by the time Frank arrived, I had stopped feeling like my knees were made of gelatin.

Geoff, the security guard for the building, must have let John know that Frank was on his way to the newsroom, because he stepped out of his office just as Frank entered the room.

“So, when’s the wedding?” he boomed.

“It’s up to Irene,” Frank answered, making his way to my desk. John met him there with an extended hand.

“I haven’t had a chance to offer my congratulations, Frank.”

Frank thanked him and shook his hand. At the same time, he studied me.

“I’m okay,” I said, answering the unspoken question.

He didn’t seem convinced, but asked his other questions aloud. The first was, “Did the call come through the switchboard, or directly to you?”

I felt like an idiot for not checking that myself, and started to call the switchboard operator when John said, “Never mind, Kelly. I already called Doris. She hasn’t transferred any calls to you today. Must have come through direct.”

“Then it’s most likely someone you’ve met, perhaps given your business card to, right?” Frank asked.

“Maybe,” John said, before I could answer. “But it’s not that hard to learn someone’s direct dial number. There are a number of ways to do it. You could ask the switchboard operator for the number; she’ll usually give it out for anyone who’s not in upper management. If you wanted to be a little more sneaky about it, you could call another department, say, ‘Oops, I was trying to reach Irene Kelly. The operator must have transferred me to you by mistake. Could you tell me Irene’s extension?’”

“Even if it’s someone with a card – I’ve given out a lot of them,” I said. “I had a new direct dial number when I came back to the paper, so I had to let people know how to reach me. I had to re-establish contact with a lot of old sources, and I had to meet some new ones. And on almost every story, I end up giving a card to someone.”

“Well, it’s something to think about,” Frank said. “Maybe you’ll recall someone who mentioned this history professor to you, or who seemed interested in you in some unusual way – or who just seemed odd.”

“‘Odd’ will not narrow the list much.”

“Probably not. You said you found the envelope?”

I nodded, and handed it to him.

“Lydia!” John shouted, startling me. “Find something to keep Miss Kelly busy for a while.”

“Wait a minute-” I protested.

“You can live without him for five more minutes, can’t you, Kelly? You haven’t gone that soft on me, have you?”

I could sense something was up and that John was in a conspiratorial mood. But I couldn’t figure out a way to object before they walked off into John’s office, Frank turning at the last moment to give me a shrug of feigned helplessness.

I practiced breaking pencils with one hand while Lydia tried to find something for me to do.