THOUGHTS OF A POET IN THE RAIN

The phone rang in Robert Langdon’s apartment just as he was stepping out into the rain. “Oh,” he groaned, “now what.”

With little speed he approached the ringing device and picked it up.

“Robert,” Denise’s shrill voice made him move the receiver from his ear. “Robert! Where are you?”

“I am right here on the phone with you. Damnit Denise, what is it now? I am on my way over there.”

“He’s gone.”

Silence on Robert’s end.

“He’s gone, damnit didn’t you hear me. He’s gone. He’s gone.”

Robert listened as Denise’s voice tumbled as if a cliff into hysterical crying. “He’s ——he’s gone, Robert.”

“What? Where?”

“She took him.”

“She? Who is she? I don’t understand. Just a minute.” He dropped the phone onto the couch and crossing the room in a bound closed the front door then back to the phone. “What the hell are you talking about Denise?”

“She—she took him.”

“Stop crying and talk to me. Who is she?”

“Runa.”

Robert’s face went white as the phone slipped from his grasp and landed on the sofa.