Free Shiver by Michael Prescott Page A

and her stereo system for the hundredth time. God, was she ever tired. Maybe food would revive her.
    She walked the length of the department, passing rows of particleboard cubicles identical to her own. Her lunch was stashed in the compact refrigerator under the water cooler. Kneeling, she opened the fridge and found the brown bag marked with her name.
    She was turning to go when she saw two of the newer writers, Kirsten Vaccaro and Monica Logan, approaching. They were deep in whispered conversation. As they came closer, Wendy caught a reference to the Gryphon.
    Oh, no. She didn’t want to hear this. But before she could walk away, Monica spotted her.
    “Hey, Wendy, you live on the Westside, right?”
    Glumly she nodded. “Half a mile from here.”
    “So are you scared out of your wits or what?”
    “I ... I guess so.”
    “Sure glad I’m out in the Valley. You know, I’ll bet when they get this guy, he turns out to be one of those released mental patients.”
    Kirsten frowned. “What makes you say that?”
    “Because he’s obviously crazy. I mean, totally insane.”
    Kirsten was thoughtful. “I don’t know. He’s got to be at least somewhat rational to avoid getting caught.”
    “Rational? Him? No way. He’s foaming at the mouth.”
    Having lingered long enough, Wendy felt she could permit herself to leave. She had taken her first tentative step away from the water cooler, the paper bag clutched in her fist, when Kirsten turned to her.
    “What do you think, Wendy?”
    She froze.
    “Me?” she asked stupidly.
    “Yeah. Is the Gryphon a certified psycho or not?”
    She faced the two women, who were watching her expectantly. Hot panic swelled inside her. Nobody ever asked for her opinion. She had no idea what to say. Her mind had gone blank.
    “Well, I …” She groped desperately for words. “I think ... I think he probably can’t help doing what he does. Because none of us can really help it, right? Whatever we do. It all goes back to our childhood.”
    Monica pursed her lips. “You’re saying the Gryphon is a victim of his childhood?”
    Was she saying that? She supposed she was. It sounded kind of ridiculous, didn’t it? Or maybe not. She wasn’t sure. Monica and Kirsten were still looking at her, still waiting.
    “He might be,” Wendy said cautiously, searching for a way to squirm free of the snare of words. “I mean, you could look at it like that. But it’s just an idea, that’s all. I guess I’m not really sure one way or the other....”
    Her voice trailed off into embarrassed silence.
    “Well,” Kirsten said dryly, “I don’t feel sorry for him, no matter how lousy his childhood might have been.” She turned back to Monica. “And I don’t think he’s crazy either. I think he’s just bad news, and when they catch the guy, they ought to string him up by his balls.”
    “Ouch,” Monica said. “Nasty.”
    “That’s me. The Torquemada of the typewriter,”
    The two women laughed. Discussion continued. Wendy slipped away unnoticed. She was trembling.
    She returned to her cubicle and sank into her swivel chair. She stared at the computer screen. A paragraph of text stared back at her, the cursor winking maliciously like an evil eye.
    Slowly she opened the brown bag and removed a chicken-salad sandwich sealed in Saran Wrap, a can of Diet Sprite, two paper napkins, and a banana. While she ate, she scrolled through the work she’d done this morning, not seeing it, not seeing anything except her own humiliation.
    She asked herself why she’d always been so deathly afraid of taking a stand, any kind of stand. Why she froze up like a deer in a splash of headlights the minute anybody asked her anything more controversial than the time of day.
    She sighed. The answer, she supposed, was obvious enough; it was contained, in fact, in what she’d said at the water cooler, even though her presentation had been so inept that the logic of the idea had been impossible to follow.
    Childhood was