The pouring rain batters the car windshield relentlessly. Frank smokes a cigarette as he squints to decipher street names amidst the blurriness of his windshield. He almost misses the red light in front of him. Frank slams on the brakes and jolts forward, bracing himself with his free hand against the cold glass. He falls back into his seat and exhales sharply. Frank is beginning to feel the effects of insomnia. Only now did he begin to think of the lack of sleep he had been getting. The Man was too vivid in his mind to allow Frank the pleasure of a good night's rest. Frank did not seem to miss it; he did not seem to remember it either.
He looks across the intersection. There are no cars in sight. He looks down onto the case file sitting in his passenger seat. Once again he flicks it open with one finger. Daisy's calf is a little burnt, but the photograph is still good. He picks up the file and looks once again through Caulder's paperwork. Going to the precinct would be a stupid idea, Frank thought. If this is a stolen police file, and Frank enters the headquarters with this, things would go wrong. The light turns green. Frank puts down the case file and continues cruising through the relentless downpour.
Frank wonders how The Man had even obtained it. Did he work for the police? Stupid question. Maybe a doctor or a scientist. Frank remembers his encounter with little difficulty. The shivering of his whole body. His ghost white face. The stiff, outstretched arm with the file in hand. Stained. Was it brown? Was it blood? Come on, Frank. Detect. This is your job.
He rubs his eyes furiously while driving. If Frank does swerve in the road, he doesn't care. The roads are empty. The pain in his shoulder pulses back into attention. Frank grabs it with one hand. The rock. The warning. What the hell was all this? What the hell was Frank's purpose in it? Another red light.
All questions, no answers. You're not doing your job, Frank. In fact you're doing the opposite. He picks up the open case file again and examines Caulder's report. Daisy was found at 23:49 inside the 3rd Street warehouse lying on the left wing staircase. Who called the police? Frank scanned the report with his finger. Anonymous phone tip. Was it him? It had to be him. Frank knew it. Caulder would have to wait, if he could find him at all. 3rd Street warehouse was across town. Frank hadn't moved since the light turned green. He checks his rear-view mirror. A car is behind him. Frank looks back quickly.
He cannot make out the face behind the steering wheel. He turns around and looks at the bright green light, the rain illuminated and whizzing down onto the street. Frank grips the steering wheel tightly with both hands. His knuckles turn white as he grips tighter. His hands shake. The sound of the leather of his steering wheel scrunches and relaxes in his grip. The light turns amber. Frank steps on the gas. The car behind him turns left and out of sight.
The rain patters down heavily. It never stops. Frank closes his eyes. He opens them. He is in the opposite lane. Eyes widening rapidly, he turns his steering wheel the opposite way to avoid hitting the curb. The sharp turning swings the large rear of his car dangerously close to the sidewalk. As he counteracts this with another sharp turn of the wheel, the back of his car stabilizes and he regains control. Frank steps on the brake.
He jolts forwards and back as the car comes to a halt, but he is already burying his head in his hands. Frank widens and squints his eyes in rapid succession to test his consciousness. Test his sanity. Where are you, Frank? Do not do this now. If someone says you're going to die, you should do something about it, Frank. Get out while you can. What if Frank can't? It can't be too late already though. Too soon. Frank needs time to solve this. He must solve this. He sits back up and looks out the blurred window, water covering any detail of what is outside. Still, the bright neon sign is clearly discernable through the rain. Frank needs the caffeine.
He closes the case file and tucks it under is arm while opening the door with the other. The rain and thunder waste no time in penetrating Frank's ears. Hard and cold; as bad as it can be. They hit the pavement quick and droplets bounce back up. His first step out of the car splashes water everywhere. Before he makes a second, he returns to his front seat and grabs his fedora from the dashboard. He puts it on snugly and jogs to the front entrance under the bright, neon sign.
Frank hopes there will be no messages on rocks thrown through these windows. No strange old men confronting him in this diner either. For some reason, he expects anything to happen.
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