Chapter 10

I got through all the threats somehow. I knew I'd need to go through 'em again, for I had a plan that required it, but I set that aside for the moment. I occupied myself during the afternoon by doing a bit of drudgery – necessary, but drudgery nonetheless. I noted the dates of the threatening letters, starring the ones that I was sure were from the real threat – the vile, detestable letters, the ones that went into graphic detail. I'd need to do the same thing for the tapes, but I decided to leave that for later. By the time I was done with the letters and looked at my watch I realized that Darlia would probably be home from school, so I put everything back in the accordion file and locked it in the filing cabinet. Normally I don't lock up stuff on a case when I've got it at home, and Darlia never paws through my stuff anyway, but this was one time I wasn't going to trust anything short of a lock.

I went up the two steps and through the door to the hallway, and down to the bathroom, the first door on the left as I headed toward the living. It's Darlia's bathroom, really, but we all use it at times, for it's not always convenient for me and Cecelia to go into our bedroom and through into the master bath ... not that I'm a master, and if I am, she has equal authority. Darlia's bathroom is thoroughly feminine – she's a tomboy, but she likes bubble bath and fluffy towels and her favorite color is pink, and her bathroom reflects that. I always feel like a clumsy oaf in there, but since she's our only child and it looks like she always will be, I'll put up with being out of place in her bathroom.

I used what the atevi in C.J. Cherryh's novels call the accommodation, and washed my face. I didn't look like I'd been consorting with demons all day. For that matter human monsters don't look like monsters. David Berkowitz – the Son of Sam – looked like an ordinary person, a bit of a nerd in fact. Ted Bundy was a handsome guy. Dennis Rader, who gave himself the name BTK – for bind, torture, kill – was a mediocre-looking guy you'd never notice on the street. Bloodthirsty psychopaths don't look any different from anyone else, no matter that we instinctively want monsters to look like they crawled out of the Black Lagoon. And those who have to deal with those monsters don't look like Superman – we just look like people.

Out of the bathroom I went on down the hall to the living room. Darlia's room had been open and she hadn't been there when I'd peeked in, so I wasn't surprised to see her doing her homework at the dining room table. Nor was I surprised to see Cecelia in the kitchen – when she's not in the sewing room or in the weight shed, the best place to look is the kitchen, where she cooks food that would do a restaurant proud. This time she was peering into the oven, and the smell of something spicy wafted toward me.

"What y'all cookin'?" I asked, leaning on the counter that divides the kitchen from the dining room.

"Beef enchiladas," she answered, straightening up and closing the oven door. "They'll be ready in another 10 minutes or so." She tossed her potholders on the counter beside the stove and leaned against the counter, facing me. "I can discern the depth of your concentration today from the fact that only now have you noticed the aroma."

"Yeah, it's been interesting," I said. "It didn't get any better."

"But, I trust, no worse."

"No, it didn't get worse. Still I'm glad to see you, and Darlia."

I hadn't been ignoring our daughter, just seeing if she'd think I was, and now as I said that I turned to look at her. She raised her head from her paper and said, "I knew you knew I was here, Daddy." Her voice had the rasp in it that I love. It's a deep voice, but still definitely that of a girl, and she always reminds me, when she speaks or sings, of Kim Carnes or Melissa Ethridge or any of a number of other hoarse-voiced singers.

"And how did you know that, Weightlifter?"

"'Cause you always notice things!"

"Okay, guilty as charged." I smiled at her. "What y'all workin' on?"

"History. Right now we're studying the Civil War."

I glanced back at Cecelia, who was stirring what looked like fruit salad in a bowl. I could eat her fruit salad all day long. She didn't appear to have noticed what Darlia had said, but I knew she had – she had just chosen not to react. I turned back to Darlia and said, "You know the Civil War affected Mommy's family."

"Yeah. They was slaves, and the 'Mancipation Proclomation freed 'em."

"They were slaves, Darlia," came Cecelia's voice from behind me. She might not have looked like she was listening, but she'd certainly caught that.

"Another thing, 'Lia," I said. "I know you get going sometimes, and I know you like to talk like me, which isn't real good English. But sometimes you really do need to slow down and say words right. It's emancipation, and you know it too."

"Yeah, Daddy, but it's a long word!"

"Yeah, it is. And you've always had trouble saying long words. But you're 10 now – it's time you took some trouble with the long ones, so that you can say 'em right."

She got a stubborn expression on her face. "Daddy, are you mad at me?"

"No, I'm not mad, Darlia. But I've told you about 67 million times that you shouldn't talk like me unless you can first talk right. And I can say those big words – without any trouble too. Look, you know I don't mind you using poor English in casual situations. I do it myself, and you've learned from me. But Mommy isn't wrong when she wants you to be able to speak well. You need to listen to her – and you need to learn to say 'emancipation' and 'Albuquerque' and other long words without dropping off syllables all the time. You're smart enough to do it, so all you need to do is make the effort."