heart thumped in his neck and his ears. He was free.
What would he tell Mom about his jacket, though? The money couldn’t even buy him a replacement. So much for a doghouse.
That’s what I get. Stupid me! Never shoulda even talked to that woman
.
One good thing. At least that Clay guy had never found out his name.
Bathrobe-clad, Clay stood rooted in the middle of the yard. The unidentified kid on the bike had vanished down the road, leaving him here with a jacket, an envelope in hand, and a series of numerals burning along his nerve endings.
7.1.1.0.4 …
Each digit carved its presence. The sum total, once again, was thirteen.
He knew he shouldn’t be surprised; in fact, he should be used to it. Hehad to admit, Summer’s passing had shaken him. Sure, he’d known her only casually, yet he’d seen her, spoken with her, touched her.
And she had died soon after, her numbers matching those on her tombstone.
A blue Escort zipped by, and Clay realized how ridiculous he must look out here in his plaid robe. He shuffled back to the porch, wincing at a sliver that poked through his dew-soaked socks.
7.1.1.0.4 …
That would be July 11, 2004. A week from tomorrow.
Hopping on one leg, he picked out the sliver, but his mind was on the paperboy. Was the kid in danger? Were the numbers a dire omen? If the dates could be matched up like this, what about that old guy in the hardware store? His numbers would’ve translated to July 2. The day before yesterday.
Clay was relieved that his mother’s numbers implied a date years away.
He tamped the thought down, convinced his imagination was getting out of hand. He couldn’t be responsible for every stranger he met. Maybe this was all part of his need to punish himself, his drive to pay for the death at the riverbank.
“I’m trying to start fresh,” Clay told himself. “I refuse to do this to myself.”
He tore the envelope, doubled it, started to tear again. Wait. Maybe he’d be better off saving these clues for later. He collected the pieces and stuffed them into a pocket.
Guilt was a blade at his throat, holding him hostage, forcing him back to this momentous spot. Clay brought the Duster to a stop on rutted mud and pebbles, then set the hand brake. The engine idled, ready for a getaway.
He glared at the ripped envelope on the seat, contemplating a reaction.
Here at the riverside, the blade pressed deeper, sharpened by the view of these waters. At this place one nightmarish incident had stripped him of his golden-boy aura, disturbed the course of his career, bled into his marriage.
For Clay, returning to JC had been an effort to regain his confidence, torediscover his potential. Instead, he felt inadequate—as he had in college. A jump shooter who had lost his touch.
Except now I have more touch than I want!
Still in his robe, Clay leaned over the steering wheel and stared up at the railroad bridge. The sun was drilling through the fog, skipping along the river’s surface, and riveting the girders with refracted sparkles. This is where it had happened.
Up there. Clay flicked his eyes. And down there.
He hated what he had done, hated that someone was now throwing it back in his face. The mysterious author of the notes had an ax to grind, no doubt about that, but Clay wouldn’t just roll over and die. If only he could uncover this person’s identity.
“It’s not gonna work,” he told the river. “I’m not giving in that easy.”
Near the bank the daylight pointed out a knotted stump caught in an eddy. The misshapen wood, bleached by water and sun, brought back to mind a spine-tingling sight. There, not ten yards from the stump’s present position, Clay had stood over his friend’s body—bloodied, naked, facedown in the water.
10
Bad News
“Gonna be late for work, Son.”
“I’m not going.”
“Thought you worked Saturdays.”
“Not today.”
“Does Blomberg know this?”
“I’ll call right now.” Clay brushed past his father’s
What would he tell Mom about his jacket, though? The money couldn’t even buy him a replacement. So much for a doghouse.
That’s what I get. Stupid me! Never shoulda even talked to that woman
.
One good thing. At least that Clay guy had never found out his name.
Bathrobe-clad, Clay stood rooted in the middle of the yard. The unidentified kid on the bike had vanished down the road, leaving him here with a jacket, an envelope in hand, and a series of numerals burning along his nerve endings.
7.1.1.0.4 …
Each digit carved its presence. The sum total, once again, was thirteen.
He knew he shouldn’t be surprised; in fact, he should be used to it. Hehad to admit, Summer’s passing had shaken him. Sure, he’d known her only casually, yet he’d seen her, spoken with her, touched her.
And she had died soon after, her numbers matching those on her tombstone.
A blue Escort zipped by, and Clay realized how ridiculous he must look out here in his plaid robe. He shuffled back to the porch, wincing at a sliver that poked through his dew-soaked socks.
7.1.1.0.4 …
That would be July 11, 2004. A week from tomorrow.
Hopping on one leg, he picked out the sliver, but his mind was on the paperboy. Was the kid in danger? Were the numbers a dire omen? If the dates could be matched up like this, what about that old guy in the hardware store? His numbers would’ve translated to July 2. The day before yesterday.
Clay was relieved that his mother’s numbers implied a date years away.
He tamped the thought down, convinced his imagination was getting out of hand. He couldn’t be responsible for every stranger he met. Maybe this was all part of his need to punish himself, his drive to pay for the death at the riverbank.
“I’m trying to start fresh,” Clay told himself. “I refuse to do this to myself.”
He tore the envelope, doubled it, started to tear again. Wait. Maybe he’d be better off saving these clues for later. He collected the pieces and stuffed them into a pocket.
Guilt was a blade at his throat, holding him hostage, forcing him back to this momentous spot. Clay brought the Duster to a stop on rutted mud and pebbles, then set the hand brake. The engine idled, ready for a getaway.
He glared at the ripped envelope on the seat, contemplating a reaction.
Here at the riverside, the blade pressed deeper, sharpened by the view of these waters. At this place one nightmarish incident had stripped him of his golden-boy aura, disturbed the course of his career, bled into his marriage.
For Clay, returning to JC had been an effort to regain his confidence, torediscover his potential. Instead, he felt inadequate—as he had in college. A jump shooter who had lost his touch.
Except now I have more touch than I want!
Still in his robe, Clay leaned over the steering wheel and stared up at the railroad bridge. The sun was drilling through the fog, skipping along the river’s surface, and riveting the girders with refracted sparkles. This is where it had happened.
Up there. Clay flicked his eyes. And down there.
He hated what he had done, hated that someone was now throwing it back in his face. The mysterious author of the notes had an ax to grind, no doubt about that, but Clay wouldn’t just roll over and die. If only he could uncover this person’s identity.
“It’s not gonna work,” he told the river. “I’m not giving in that easy.”
Near the bank the daylight pointed out a knotted stump caught in an eddy. The misshapen wood, bleached by water and sun, brought back to mind a spine-tingling sight. There, not ten yards from the stump’s present position, Clay had stood over his friend’s body—bloodied, naked, facedown in the water.
10
Bad News
“Gonna be late for work, Son.”
“I’m not going.”
“Thought you worked Saturdays.”
“Not today.”
“Does Blomberg know this?”
“I’ll call right now.” Clay brushed past his father’s
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