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dial tone.
    The
hair on Victor's neck stood up as if the phone had given him an
electric shock.
    RARELY in
his life had he had this feeling.
    His
sweaty hands slid down the steering wheel, his heart was pounding
harder and harder, his chest hurt, and he felt like no matter how
deeply he inhaled, he couldn't get enough air into his lungs. For
Victor, this had only ever meant the possibility of sex.
    The
few times he had gone out with girls who he knew, or suspected, he
could end up in bed with, he'd felt the same sort of torment.
Unfortunately, or fortunately, none of them ever made passes at him,
and his dates had always ended with a quick peck and the promise of a
phone call.
    But
what about this? What kind of bed could he end up in tonight? This
date was with none other than Elisa Robledo.
    Whoa!
    He'd
been to her house before, sure (they were friends, after all, or he
liked to think they were), but always with other colleagues and never
so late at night; the other times being for some sort of celebration
(Christmas, the end of the semester) or to work on organizing a
seminar together. He'd fantasized about this ever since they met, ten
years ago, at an unforgettable party on the Alighieri campus. But
he'd never imagined it might come about in such a strange way.
    Besides,
he would have sworn sex wasn't exactly what Elisa was at home waiting
for.
    Thinking
about it, he laughed, and it did him good, put him slightly more at
ease. He pictured Elisa in her underwear, giving him a hug when he
arrived, kissing him and whispering provocatively, "Hello,
Victor. Glad you got the message. Come on in." His laughter
swelled like a balloon in his stomach, until finally it popped and
his customary serious nature returned. He ran through all the things
he'd thought, done, and fantasized about since the bizarre phone call
an hour ago: doubts, nerves, the desire to call her back and ask for
an explanation (but she'd told him not to), the rebus. Paradoxically,
the word puzzle was, in this case, the easiest thing to understand.
He remembered the answer perfectly, though he'd still rushed to pull
out his photo album and find the clipping. It was a recent one, and
showed what looked like a side of beef, an atom, an eye, and finally
the word "how" repeated three times. The question was
"Where's the party?" He'd solved it in less than five
minutes the day it was published. The words "meat," "atom,"
"I," and the repeated "how" made the sentence
"Meat+Atom+I+Hows"; said quickly, it was "Meet at my
house."
    That
was the easy part. What he couldn't figure out was why, for example,
Elisa couldn't just ask him to come to her place. Why not tell him
straight out that she needed him to come over? What was the matter?
Could there be someone with her (no, please, God), someone there
threatening her?
    Then
there was another possibility. One that was even more unsettling.
Elisa might be mentally ill.
    The
best possible explanation, the most likely, was one he didn't care
for. He pictured it would go like this: he'd arrive, she'd open the
door, and they'd have a ridiculous conversation. "Victor, what
are you doing here?"
    "You
told me to come over."
    "Me?"
    "Yes,
you said I should do what the rebus said."
    "Oh,
no, you didn't think...!" And then she'd burst out laughing. "I
told you to do
the puzzle tonight,
to solve the riddle, not do what the answer
said!"
    " But
you told me not to call..."
    "I
just meant not to go to any trouble, I was going to call you later."
And Victor would stand there in the doorway feeling ridiculous as
Elisa laughed at him.
    No.
    That
was impossible. He was sure.
    Something
was wrong. Something terrible. In fact, he knew Elisa had been going
through something terrible for years.
    He'd
always suspected it. Like all reserved people, Victor had an uncanny
ability to gauge things that interested him. And few things
interested him more than Elisa Robledo Morande. He watched her when
she walked, talked, and moved, and he thought,