The depression came back, and the guilt—the knowledge of treason—that made him want to go to a mirror and stand, watching blood trickle down his face in cherry rivulets like tears.
And fear.
When he shielded, she resumed the pressure.
At noon he was back in Los Angeles. Perspiration was under his skin, waiting icily.
He went directly to the warehouse.
Hickle, in surprise, crossed the room to him. "Mister Parr!" he said.
The right corner of Parr's mouth was twitching nervously. "Get a chair. Bring it to the desk."
When Hickle was seated before him, Parr said, "Okay. I've got some papers. I'm going to explain them to you." He got them out. "They're all alike in form. Here." He took off the top sheet and Hickle stood up to see. "This number, here, is for the truck unit." He circled it and scribbled the word "truck." "This number." He circled it. "This number is the lot number. You see, truck number nine has lots seventeen, twenty-seven, fifty-three, thirty-one."
"I get it," Hickle said.