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"Package for Journi McCutcheon," said the delivery driver in the boredest voice Journi had ever heard. And as someone who'd practiced professional boredom on multiple occasions in her life, that was saying something.
"Thanks," she replied with equal enthusiasm after signing his fingerprint-smudged dataglass. Then, offering him a wry smile, she asked, "It's not a baby, is it?"
The tall, lanky werestork stared down his beak at her, the patchy feathers on his forehead prickling in disapproval. "Gee, I've never heard that one before. You must be a comedian."
Journi scowled and accepted the padded envelope. "I like to think so."
Without another word, he walked back to his FedHex truck, his spindly orange legs made all the skinnier by his oversized khaki shorts.
"Have a nice day!" she called, resisting the urge to give into irony and flip him the bird.
Closing the door on the muggy July heat instead, she returned to her desk, ignoring the pitiful wheeze of the building's ailing AC unit. Sitting, she inspected the package moodily.
She'd yet to track down her secret admirer, and their tokens of unwanted appreciation had grown steadily more disturbing. And as she studied the simple, padded manila envelope with no return address, she knew it was from them even though it hadn't triggered a vision.
Not a surprise given FedHex's trademark magical decontamination process.
Nobody wanted to relive the brief but pustulous acne plague of 2013—especially not FedHex, whose trucks had been responsible for delivering the zit-inducing, black-magic-infected packages to three quarters of the city's population. Journi shuddered at the Noxzema-filled memory and turned the package over to inspect the back.
Nothing.
Knowing that another kitten's life was likely at stake, she sighed and retrieved the letter opener from her desk drawer instead of trashing the offending envelope.
Then, with a deepening frown, she gingerly opened the flap and peered inside.
As expected, the contents were cryptic.
A single sheet of paper bearing the image of three tiny kittens of various colors. They were huddled together inside what appeared to be a wire cage, their wide eyes focused on whoever held the camera.
And a knife.
Angled in such a way to conceal any of the would-be kitten killer's identifying features, only the weapon's blade was visible.
But the intent was clear.
Below the disturbing image, a series of oh-so-clichéd magazine-cutout letters spelled a grisly warning.
Txt tHe cOdE wRd 2 614-555-2856 by 4 p.M. oR the CatZ get IT.
Grinding her teeth, Journi glanced again at the three frightened kittens, then at the old-school clock mounted on her office wall.
3:47 p.m.
Which meant she had just thirteen minutes to solve the puzzle.
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