The flood of print has turned reading into a process of gulping rather than savoring.
Warren Chappell
Spending almost four hours camped outside the home of the esteemed Doctor Maura Isles and Detective Jane Rizzoli, waiting for a peek, or even a glimpse, of whatever the hell was inside that box was not Sarah Martin's idea of a good time. Then there was those three hours standing shivering in the drizzling rain out in front of the Boston Police Department waiting patiently for the press conference that never came. None of this was her fault, and yet it seemed that her Editor had decided to settle the blame for their complete and utter lack of information directly on her shoulders, because she worked the crime desk and was supposed to just 'know things,' apparently.
I'd probably have an easier time arranging an audience with the Queen than getting a direct quote from Detective Rizzoli, Sarah thought to herself with a snort, taking a sip of her cold cup of coffee, grimacing at the bitter taste. She hated drinking it cold, but her hatred was at that minute outweighed by how much she couldn't be bothered moving to rectify the situation.
Sarah Martin leaned back in her swivel chair as she took a long glance around the mostly empty office. Only Frank was still seated as his desk, but he hardly ever went home at a sensible time. Ever since his wife left him he dedicated every viable moment of his time to writing endless, mind numbingly dull sporting articles. Everyone else had clocked off hours ago and left her with nothing more than a salute of solidarity. They had it easy. The most strenuous thing some of them had to do for a story was bake their own cakes so they could write about it from experience for the cooking section.
Lucky bastards, she thought ruefully, running her hand through cropped blonde hair, wondering if she could wrangle one more day without washing it. Sarah smirked as she recalled that she wouldn't have to put up with her ex-boyfriend sniping at her for coming home so late tonight, not after she ejected the scrounging, smarmy, self righteous son of a bitch from her apartment two days ago.
Sarah rolled her head around on aching shoulder. Some nights she felt more like eighty seven rather than twenty seven. She cast a mournful glance at her cup of coffee, willing herself to move from this comfortable chair and procure something a little more palatable. Maybe she could convince Frankie to take a smart jog down to the coffee shop a block away...
Twenty minutes later, Frank had sloped off home with a morose goodnight and a tentative invitation to dinner that Sarah had to shut down with all the politeness she had left in her system. It wasn't a lot, but it was more than he could have hoped for on other occasions. Now that she was the only person left on this floor, Sarah felt under pressure to finish her article and get the hell out of there. Usually, Sarah loved her job more than plenty of other things in her life.
It might remain the main topic of many arguments with her parents, who felt she was wasting her writing talents on working for a newspaper, for chrissakes, but she adored the thrill, she actively sought out difficult cases and puzzles she could crack and question her sources about. Sarah enjoyed being a spokesperson for the victims of violent crime and for the public, and she was long past the point where she cared for her parent's opinion on her career and lifestyle.
Sarah groaned aloud into the empty open plan office space (which was supposed to encourage communication, co-operation and team work, according to the lecture she and her colleagues were forced into attending last month) and re-read the previous paragraph of her article. Her faintly freckled nose wrinkled in distaste as she analysed what she had written;
As the Homicide Detectives in the Boston Police Department continue to stonewall the press, we have to ask ourselves an important question, should we be made privy more often to the knowledge they have at their disposal to ensure our safety? Or are we better off not knowing what kind of evil stalks our streets, and remain shrouded in the ignorance we have previously been so content with? It is clear from the police presence at the home of Doctor Maura Isles and Detective Jane Rizzoli (pictured below at a Gallery Opening last year) that their private lives have been once again thrust into the spotlight by someone, the identity of whom is currently under much speculation.
That was fourth page material at best. With a defeated sigh that would rival even Frank, Sarah pushed back from her desk, snatching her cup with renewed determination. If she was going to finish that damned thing sometime this side of Sunday then she needed caffeine and she needed it now.
The break room held the acrid stench of body odor and stale food and as she waited patiently for the machine to filter a fresh cup of hot coffee, Sarah stood with her thumb and forefinger wedged beneath her nostrils, warding off most of the smell.
Humming softly, feeling rejuvenated and prepared to tackle her story with a fresh perspective, Sarah Martin exited the break room and clipped over to her desk, wondering exactly how she could properly introduce the concept of information sharing between the Police and the press without being arrested or prosecuted for use of inflammatory language or something and further alienating her from the Detectives she badly wanted to interview.
She was so lost in her musings that she failed to notice what was waiting for her beside the computer until she was a mere two steps away from the chair that supported her weight most evenings. Indeed, the sight was one she couldn't seem to comprehend for a long moment; for it was the most absurd, out of place thing she had ever laid eyes upon. Moments ago her desk had been its usual cluttered chaos, with pens and pencils and torn scraps of paper littering the surface, now, a space had been cleared amidst the mess and a rather large package sat in its place.
Sarah cocked her head to one side and stared, her confused mind rushing to make sense of what her eyes were seeing and force them into some sort of reconciliation of the oddity before her. "What the hell…?" She muttered under her breath, setting her cup down on the desk with such force that the liquid inside rushed over the rim and stained the papers beneath. Sarah paid it no attention, she only had eyes for the box on her desk that had definitely, and oh most assuredly, not bloody been there just minutes ago. The box was a deep purple, a rich color that Sarah herself had always admired, and there were the smallest of golden swirls swimming around in the dark paper. The ribbon resting on top of the package was bright pink. The brightness of it was slightly garish amidst its bed of golds and purples.
Curled around the ribbon was a tag that read 'Miss Sarah Martin' in little more than a scrawl, and the reporter felt the first sliver of unease taking root.
Surely Frank hadn't decided that now she had declined his invitation to dinner it was time to start wooing her? As she practically ran to the exit Sarah promised herself that if Frank was behind this extravagant gift box she would set him right tomorrow morning and no later. This couldn't go on.
The staircase was empty. As was the floor below. Although her natural curiosity was screaming at her to race back upstairs and rip open that lid before someone could remove the package as quickly as it appeared, Sarah felt that she had to determine whether the person who delivered it was still in the vicinity. The woman manning reception looked at her with such disinterest when she enquired if a mystery man carrying a package had entered the building that Sarah felt exceedingly foolish, and slinked into the elevator to return to her desk immediately after Fiona told her 'No, I'm sure I would have remembered that' with the most powerful eye roll Sarah had witnessed in all her years on Earth.
A wave of relief rolled over the reporter when she tripped into the office once more and saw that the box was still sitting on her desk just as she left it. A memory tugged at her mind, and before it could race away she plucked at it and pulled it in for scrutiny.
That box was just like the one she spent the entire day trying to get a look inside. This was like the box that was left outside the Rizzoli-Isles household, the details of which had been withheld with a fierce protectiveness by all involved. A spark of excitement spluttered to life inside Sarah and she unconsciously licked her lips as she untied the ribbon.
Sarah Martin barely managed to choke down a scream of horror as the contents of the package were finally revealed to her. She stumbled away from the desk, still clutching the lid in her hands, pulled tight against her chest as though there to ward off the evil she had just released. The ribbon trailed limply from her arms, like the bloodied tail of a wounded animal.
Gasping for breath, Sarah dropped to her knees and grabbed her purse and began searching frantically for the inhaler she hadn't used in weeks. Once she sucked in a few deep breaths and recovered somewhat from the shock, the petite blonde returned to her original position, standing over the box and gazing down with a sickened sense of morbid fascination. She had to turn away again almost immediately, feeling the blood drain from her face and settle in her stomach with a wet plop.
"God, oh god," she murmured, sucking on the inhaler, her eyes wide and glassy. She risked another glance inside the box and took stock of what she was looking at.
Two severed hands. The bloody stumps were a mess of bone and gristle, but the actual cut appeared to be clean, no hesitation marks from whoever removed them. Sarah swallowed the bile rising in the back of her throat and forced herself to keep looking.
The worst thing about it, aside from the obvious, was the baby blue nail polish applied to the fingernails. It was chipped now. The fingernails were grimy underneath, and a couple had been torn right down to the quick, but the application had once been done with due care and attention, probably by a young woman. It was with a soft sob that Sarah saw that she had recently painted her own nails a similar color, and that those hands could very well be her own.
The note was the last thing Sarah noticed. The dread that was steadily building to a crescendo inside the reporter intensified as she read the message. It was short, and yet so filled with menace that Sarah felt faint at what it could possibly mean, that perhaps she was not the only person to receive such a package, that maybe Doctor Isles and Detective Rizzoli received the other parts of this poor woman.
'All the better to grab you with.'
Sarah briefly entertained the thought of quickly hammering out the first draft to an article containing every detail she could produce pertaining to the horror that sat on her desk, and then dismissed the whole idea almost as soon as it came to mind. In doing that, she would have to let that monstrosity stay with her for longer than was necessary, whilst possibly preventing the police from having an edge on the bastard who left it there.
She paused, her cell phone in hand. 'The bastard who left it there.'
He could still be in the building.
Why was so much evil pleasant, pretty on the outside, like poisoned candy?
Laurell K. Hamilton
