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By Root 543 0

in his life, despite forty years behind bars, than he, Joe Wilcox had. Michael was free, truly free from the sort of bars behind which he, Joe, had ended up. His brother was self-assured, musically talented, erudite, charming, well-read, and socially clever. His freedom hadn’t been taken from him when he was incarcerated in that hospital. To the contrary, it had liberated him from the confines of the modern outside world, wrapped him in a protective blanket under which he could learn to play his guitar, read his books, indulge his fantasies, and think, thumbing his nose all the while at those on the other side of the locked gates.

His anger and sadness drained from him as he left the car and entered the house.

“Want to talk about it?” Georgia asked.

“No. I want to go to bed. I’m very tired.”

“Roberta and Tom Curtis are talking about becoming engaged.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Good night.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Wilcox rolled out of bed at six the next morning. His mood had improved considerably. He turned on the mixture of regular and decaf coffee and went to the driveway for that day’s Tribune. Back in the kitchen, he opened to the Metro section. A reproduction of the letter ran big in the center of the story.

Dear Mr. Wilcox:

I feel like we know each other. You’ve been writing about me in your newspaper even though we’ve never met. I want you to know that the young women who were killed were not worthy of being alive. They, and newspapers like the one you work for, corrupt everything decent and good. This is not the last time I will write to you, Mr. Wilcox. And don’t let the police interfere with our communication. That would be unfortunate.

To his astonishment, a smaller photo of himself was included in the article, taken a few years ago by the paper’s PR department while establishing a speakers’ bureau. Did I ever look that young?

Georgia joined him, and he showed her the piece.

“It gives me the chills,” she said, filling two coffee cups.

“I didn’t know they’d run a picture,” he said.

“I almost wish they hadn’t,” she said. “What do you think about Robbie’s announcement that she and Tom are considering becoming engaged?”

“Oh, right. I’m sorry. I’m afraid I wasn’t in a very good mood last night. They’re serious? I mean, really serious?”

“Semiserious,” she said. “They’re discussing it. She wanted us to know before they went any further.”

He said nothing, continuing to read his article, mindlessly unhappy over some editorial changes that had been made to his original copy. “No passion in the world is equal to the passion to alter someone else’s draft.” H.G. Wells’s comment came and went.

“Joe?”

“Huh?”

“Robbie and Tom, what do you think?”

“I think it’s too soon for them to be talking about engagement and marriage. They haven’t known each other long enough.”

“I suggested that, too, and she assured me they would take their time. It’s important that she has our approval, Joe, particularly yours.”

“Sure. He seems like a nice enough fellow, but time will tell. I do think that—”

The ringing phone interrupted.

“Joe Wilcox,” he said into the mouthpiece.

“It’s Edith, Joe.”

“Hi. I have a feeling I know why you’re calling.”

“I’m sure you do. This letter, Joe. You should have reported it the minute you received it.”

“It wasn’t my call, Edith. A corporate decision.”

“I’m on my way to the paper to pick it up. I need to talk with you.”

“Of course. I’ll be there within the hour.”

“No,” she said. “Let’s meet somewhere else first.”

“If you say so.”

“I say so. That coffee shop across the street from the Trib.”

“See you there.”

He left Georgia in the kitchen and took his cup with him to the bathroom where he showered and shaved. She was still reading the paper when he reappeared.

“I’m sure he knows where you live,” she said.

“Who? The nutjob? Probably.” He kissed her on the top of her head and headed for the front door. The phone rang. Georgia answered. “Joe, it’s for you. The Fox news channel.”

He took the cordless phone from her and walked into the dining room. When he returned, he replaced