Expired by Evie Rhodes Page B

In the darkness of the alleyway Tracie, too, was being watched.
    They watched her watching the truck. They watched as she slowly closed the heavy door. The hard-rock gaze bore into the slender figure of Tracie Burlingame as though it might burn a hole in her very being.
    After securing the basement that now held Whiskey’s shipment, Tracie headed back upstairs. Just as she passed her office, the phone gave a shrill ring. She jumped in the shadowy darkness.
    Startled, she frowned, hesitated, and then decided to answer the ringing phone. She walked into her office, not bothering to flick on any lights. Standing in the eerie darkness, suddenly the room had an off feel to it. She reached for the phone and spoke quietly into the receiver. “Hello, Tracie Burlingame.”
    Tracie heard a muffled sound on the other end of the phone. Finally, a man’s voice, which sounded distorted on the crackling wire, floated into Tracie’s ear. It was weird. It sounded as though the voice were coming from under water.
    She heard a low, deep, throaty laugh. Then he spoke. “Well, well, well. Tracie Burlingame. The Tracie Burlingame.”
    Tracie gripped the receiver tightly. She frowned into the darkness. A streak of moonlight streamed through the window, casting shadows in the office. “Hello. Who is this?”
    There was no answer. Tracie was about to hang up the phone when the voice burst forth loudly.
    â€œI wouldn’t hang up if I was you.”
    Slowly Tracie returned the receiver to her ear. She looked around the room, peering into the darkness. The streak of moonlight allowed her some light. She didn’t see anything out of the ordinary.
    Still, a slight trace of uneasiness crept into her voice. “Who is this? What do you want?”
    â€œThat question is a little bit late, Tracie. Just a wee bit.” Softly the voice began to hum, “ ‘Rock-a-bye, baby . . .’ ”
    Tiny beads of sweat appeared on Tracie’s forehead. She gripped the receiver even tighter.
    â€œWhat?” she said.
    On the other end of the line, the man’s voice was singing softly and distorted, “Rock-a-bye, baby, on a rooftop; when the wind blows, the body will drop. When the bough breaks, the body will fall, and down will come Randi with no boots at all.” The man laughed.
    Tracie dropped into the nearest chair. Her eyes opened wide. Her body shook. Her hand quivered on the telephone receiver. The whites of her eyes glowed in the darkness.
    â€œStop it. My God. You killed my baby? Why? Oh, God. Who are you?” she asked, the questions tumbling over one another in her confusion. It was one thing to lose her son, but for some maniac to call her up making a nursery rhyme out of his death was crazy. She was chilled to the bone. She didn’t quite know what to make of it.
    The distortion of the voice grew stronger on the line. “I freed your son, Tracie. I needed to be endowed. You should be licking my feet. Let’s just say I have alleviated a certain weight for him. That sounds so much more pleasant, don’t you think?”
    Tracie couldn’t find her voice. Her shallow breathing was the only sound in the room.
    â€œI’m a collector, Tracie. I’m a collector of very fine things. Things that are rare, you might say. I’m also fair. I beeped you just before Randi was thrown from the roof. You never bothered to answer the page. You are a very self-absorbed young lady. Maybe we could have talked . . . entered into a little bargaining. Perhaps you could have saved his life, but I guess it’s just a bit late for that now.”
    Tracie’s body shook more violently. She felt a stream of water gliding down her armpits, soaking the sides of her body. She struggled with a memory. Suddenly, she recalled her beeper going off on that day.
    When she worked out, she really didn’t like to be disturbed. Everyone who knew her knew that. So she hadn’t really paid