Free The Faceless One by Mark Onspaugh Page B

the seat beside him as he gave the driver his destination.
    * * *
    Theresa looked up at the wall clock. It was 2:10, and there was still no sign of Mr. Purcival. Perhaps he had had an accident or lost track of the time. She decided to phone him on his cell and get both the clearance on the package and tell him Mr. Breckforth was waiting for him. The box she had packed was next to her desk. Even the presence of that anonymous cardboard-and-tape structure made her nervous. She hoped Mr. Purcival had intended on sending the mask. She really didn’t relish opening up the box and taking it out again. She thought wildly for a moment of asking Eleanor to do it, then admonished herself for being so foolish. She dialed Mr. Purcival’s number from memory, wondering why such a call hadn’t occurred to her until then. There was the hiss of static and a mechanical voice telling her the caller was out of the service area. How could that be? Mr. Purcival could take calls in Europe, for God’s sake. How could he be out of the area? Clucking with agitation, she dialed again, very slowly. Again, Mr. Purcival was nowhere in the known world, as far as Sprint was concerned.
    The sound of footsteps approaching her desk made Theresa look up. It was Joey, the deliveryman from UPS. Theresa liked Joey. He was friendly as well as good-looking and seemed to embrace each day with unbridled enthusiasm. She held up her index finger, asking him to give her a second. Joey smiled and looked over some of the photos she had taken on her trip to Barcelona.
    The mechanical voice recited its message once again, each syllable modulated in precisely the same way, yet she imagined that she could hear the recording growing impatient with her repeated attempts to reach Mr. Purcival.
    What could she do? If she was wrong, Mr. Purcival might be angry, but they could always ask Mr. Slater to send the package back. Even if he wanted to keep the mask, not many people would argue with a high-priced Manhattan lawyer.
    Besides, was it her fault he was late?
    Theresa hung up the phone and smiled at Joey.
    * * *
    Purcival entered the lobby at two thirty. He almost whistled on his way up in the elevator although he found it annoying when anyone else did that. When he reached his office, he entered with the air of a man who had just won a lottery or gotten a positive response to his proposal of marriage.
    “Mr. Purcival, Mr. Breckforth wants to see you ASAP.”
    “The meeting’s still at three, right?”
    “Yes, but he wants to discuss things. ‘Touch base’ was the phrase he used.”
    Purcival smiled; nothing would dampen his good mood.
    “Fine, tell him I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.” He saw the look of dismay on her face. “Okay, make it ten.” With that, he breezed into his office.
    “Mr. Purcival—” She came in after, following him with all the anxiety of a terrier following a bear.
    He was already setting the bag on the conference table when he looked at the desk.
    It was gone.
    He hurried over to the desk, thinking that perhaps she had moved it to make room for documents requiring his review.
    The desk was empty.
    He looked up at her, and the paleness of his face told her she had made a very grave error.
    “Where is it?” he asked, his voice a stricken whisper.
    “I mailed it to California with the other items,” she said miserably.
    “I never told you to do that,” he said, his voice rising.
    “I know, but I thought … I mean, you said you were coming back at two, and I was going to … I’m so sorry.”
    “Sorry? You’re sorry, you goddamned bitch? ‘Sorry’ doesn’t mean shit, you stupid cunt!”
    Theresa flinched from the explosive violence of his words. Mr. Purcival had never lost patience with her, and now, to be called such names …
    As tears filled her eyes, he hurried around the desk. For a moment, she thought he was going to strike her, but he changed direction at the last moment to avoid colliding with her. His right