Act of Betrayal by Edna Buchanan

barometer falls, the full moon rises, and all hell breaks out. At one time in my life I sought logic in everything. Now I know better. We are constantly bombarded by unseen radio and television signals we would never receive without the proper equipment. Now I suspect that some people, for unknown reasons, become receivers, sensitive to other invisible signals.
    A year ago, my Aunt Odalys warned me to wear the red and white beads and the resguardo, a talisman she had given me for protection. I ignored her and nearly lost my life.
    As the smell of coffee filled my small kitchen, I scooped the newspaper off the front stoop, still in my nightgown. The sky was hot and pink as I slid the News from its plastic sheath and began to fillet it, flinging the advertising sections into the green recycling bin without a glance.
    Charles Randolphs innocent smile greeted the world from the top of the local page. I smiled back. No late-breaking news had knocked my story off local. It read well. I love perusing my stories in the morning paper, aware that half a million strangers are reading them too. I imagined them, in hair curlers, bathrobes, fighting hangovers, over scrambled eggs or bloody marys, couples still in bed, swapping sections, families at breakfast tables. I hoped the right person was reading it and would talk. My bomb follow was at the bottom of the local, beneath the fold.
    The phone startled Billy Boots off my lap. I answered eagerly, hoping for Kendall McDonalds voice.
    It was Lottie.
    â€œHow’d your date go?”
    â€œJust shoot me now,” she muttered.
    â€œWhat happened?”
    Her romantic evening had never materialized. The Polish Prince failed to show up at the appointed hour so she had gone out to hunt him down. Cruised by his town house, his office, and prowled his favorite watering hole. No sign of the man.
    â€œWhat would you have done if you spotted him?”.
    She paused. “Depends,” she finally said, “on who he was with and whether or not he tried to make a run for it. But that ain’t all.”
    When she finally gave up and went home, furious and sworn off the man for good, she found his business card in her door, along with a single red rose. She quickly called him, but he wasn’t home.
    â€œA damn cakewalk of musical chairs,” she said.
    â€œOh, Lottie, I’m sorry. Why didn’t he call to say he’d be late?”
    â€œDunno. That man has got me bumfuzzled for sure. At least he didn’t think I was home waiting up for him. The question now is, who stood who up?”
    We both laughed. “Did you see the paper?”
    â€œYeah, good story. Hope you find that young ‘un. Think he’s alive?”
    â€œCommon sense says no, after all this time, but his mother believes he is.”
    â€œMothers always do. You see that story in the A section?”
    â€œWhich one?” I reached for the paper.
    â€œWire story. Some Harvard Ph.D. says seven percent of the population is pure evil.”
    â€œOnly seven percent?”
    â€œThat’s what surprised me. Hell all Friday, why’d they all settle here?”
    â€œWhat’s the breakdown on the rest of us?” I asked. “Fifty percent good and the rest undecided?”
    â€œDon’t say here.”
    I hate it when there’s a hole in a story. I sipped my coffee, a wickedly rich, hearty brew that jump-started my batteries. “My Aunt Odalys called just before you did and said something bad is sneaking up on us.”
    â€œMaybe she’s right. I feel something in my bones. Hope I git to shoot color.”
    I attended a nine o’clock church service on sun-splashed Lincoln Road Mall. As the congregation sang “safe and secure from all alarms,” a violent thunderstorm blew up, triggering blinding bursts of lightning and a chorus of wailing, beeping, and honking car alarms. The sounds reminded me of Alex and the WTOP parking lot. By the time the service