place at the dining nook and dialed from the kitchen phone. He left a curt message on Mr. Blomberg’s voice mail.
Although Gerald’s censure went unspoken, he ripped the lid from his blue travel mug and downed the coffee. Storm brewing; small craft advisories. With the urgency of a yachtsman trimming his sails and battening down the hatches, Gerald gathered the front section of the newspaper, then stalked to his bedroom at the end of the hall.
Watching the storm pass, Clay knew his mother would discern the source of shifting weather and come to check on him.
Sure, he desired comfort after the past few days’ events—preferably, though, from others of the female persuasion. Such as Jenni. Or Mylisha.
On the table the regional section of the
Guard
offered distraction. Clay moved back his father’s bowl with its residual Cream of Wheat ring. In respect for Summer’s death, he scanned the obituaries, but he was sure he was a few days late. At the job site, Mr. Blomberg had been the one to tell the particulars of the hit and run, how Summer’s head had struck a fence, how she’d died after a few comatose days in the hospital.
The culprit was yet to be apprehended.
How many people had been at her funeral? he wondered. Was she buried on the hillside by her parents and her sister Milly? No wonder she’d never called again.
Now Mylisha’s call made sense; she must’ve been crushed by this loss.
Trying to shake off depression, he panned to the section’s quaint back page where local yokels could see their names in lights, where years ago his future exploits had been bandied about with such confidence.
Human interest, they called it. Hometown heroes. Sports stars. Little old ladies with the courage to face down intruders.
Today’s picture did show an elderly woman. Smile lines creased her cheeks, underscoring the contentment she felt at her husband’s side. Mr. and Mrs. Coates, the story stated, had farmed acreage on Dane Lane and served the community as man and wife for nearly five decades before the tragic events of July 2.
“Mr. Coates sustained gunshot wounds to the chest …”
Clay studied the photo, bug-eyed.
July 2, 2004 … 7.2.0.4
.
“No! Tell me this is a joke.”
He choked on the details, shoved the paper away. His father’s bowl teetered at the table’s edge before crashing into pieces on the floor. Deaf to the rush of feet from the hallway, Clay bolted from his chair and tried to block out the image of Mr. Coates. The man from Ace Hardware. Hairy forearms. Canvas pants and work shirt.
This couldn’t be right. It was impossible!
In two separate cases now, the sets of numbers coincided with dates of death.
“I’m being punished.”
On his bed Clay ground his face into his hands until sparks of light exploded behind his eyelids, yet the terror of the newspaper column remained. Were the numbers intentional or accidental? Was this somebody’s idea of a joke?
“What the hell is going on?”
He groaned.
Hell … That’s exactly what this is. The penalty for my sins
.
With palms opened before his eyes, he studied the unique whorls, theindividual scars and lines, the epidermal layer. He flexed his fingers. Somehow, here at his fingertips, he could discern numbers.
Expiration dates.
This was more information than he wanted. He touched his fingers to his own skin, waiting for the branding iron to sizzle the newest numerals into place.
Nothing.
Apparently he was numb to his own demise. Not that he really wanted to know. What had the lady on the bus said? “God works in many different ways …” Had Henna passed this gift on to him? The newfound ability felt more like a curse.
“Clay.”
Motionless, he let his mother assume he was napping.
“Doll, you have a phone call.”
Probably Mr. Blomberg. Or the credit-card people catching up with him.
Della lowered her voice. “It’s a woman, dear. Her voice was so full of melancholy, I told her you’d take the
Although Gerald’s censure went unspoken, he ripped the lid from his blue travel mug and downed the coffee. Storm brewing; small craft advisories. With the urgency of a yachtsman trimming his sails and battening down the hatches, Gerald gathered the front section of the newspaper, then stalked to his bedroom at the end of the hall.
Watching the storm pass, Clay knew his mother would discern the source of shifting weather and come to check on him.
Sure, he desired comfort after the past few days’ events—preferably, though, from others of the female persuasion. Such as Jenni. Or Mylisha.
On the table the regional section of the
Guard
offered distraction. Clay moved back his father’s bowl with its residual Cream of Wheat ring. In respect for Summer’s death, he scanned the obituaries, but he was sure he was a few days late. At the job site, Mr. Blomberg had been the one to tell the particulars of the hit and run, how Summer’s head had struck a fence, how she’d died after a few comatose days in the hospital.
The culprit was yet to be apprehended.
How many people had been at her funeral? he wondered. Was she buried on the hillside by her parents and her sister Milly? No wonder she’d never called again.
Now Mylisha’s call made sense; she must’ve been crushed by this loss.
Trying to shake off depression, he panned to the section’s quaint back page where local yokels could see their names in lights, where years ago his future exploits had been bandied about with such confidence.
Human interest, they called it. Hometown heroes. Sports stars. Little old ladies with the courage to face down intruders.
Today’s picture did show an elderly woman. Smile lines creased her cheeks, underscoring the contentment she felt at her husband’s side. Mr. and Mrs. Coates, the story stated, had farmed acreage on Dane Lane and served the community as man and wife for nearly five decades before the tragic events of July 2.
“Mr. Coates sustained gunshot wounds to the chest …”
Clay studied the photo, bug-eyed.
July 2, 2004 … 7.2.0.4
.
“No! Tell me this is a joke.”
He choked on the details, shoved the paper away. His father’s bowl teetered at the table’s edge before crashing into pieces on the floor. Deaf to the rush of feet from the hallway, Clay bolted from his chair and tried to block out the image of Mr. Coates. The man from Ace Hardware. Hairy forearms. Canvas pants and work shirt.
This couldn’t be right. It was impossible!
In two separate cases now, the sets of numbers coincided with dates of death.
“I’m being punished.”
On his bed Clay ground his face into his hands until sparks of light exploded behind his eyelids, yet the terror of the newspaper column remained. Were the numbers intentional or accidental? Was this somebody’s idea of a joke?
“What the hell is going on?”
He groaned.
Hell … That’s exactly what this is. The penalty for my sins
.
With palms opened before his eyes, he studied the unique whorls, theindividual scars and lines, the epidermal layer. He flexed his fingers. Somehow, here at his fingertips, he could discern numbers.
Expiration dates.
This was more information than he wanted. He touched his fingers to his own skin, waiting for the branding iron to sizzle the newest numerals into place.
Nothing.
Apparently he was numb to his own demise. Not that he really wanted to know. What had the lady on the bus said? “God works in many different ways …” Had Henna passed this gift on to him? The newfound ability felt more like a curse.
“Clay.”
Motionless, he let his mother assume he was napping.
“Doll, you have a phone call.”
Probably Mr. Blomberg. Or the credit-card people catching up with him.
Della lowered her voice. “It’s a woman, dear. Her voice was so full of melancholy, I told her you’d take the
Similar Books
