The Donzerly Light by Ryne Douglas Pearson Page A
Authors: Ryne Douglas Pearson
Tags: Suspense & Thrillers
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change, thinking that he should probably leave a big tip for his girl (despite the circular meaninglessness of such a gesture), but he never got past the consideration stage of the tip quandary because when he saw the change that Carrie had brought him and placed on the counter all thoughts stilled. His breath gasped softly out. His heart raced.
There was a ten and a one left from his twenty, and atop the paper laid seven coins. Three quarters, a nickel, three pennies, and all were heads.
Air slowly filled his lungs once more as he straightened on the stool, recoiling slightly from the sight. The seven coins. The eighty three cents. All of them heads.
He swallowed and breathed. Breathed. Breathed. His mouth was parched, but he did not reach for the water glass very near his right hand. Instead, he reached for the coins.
There were no sounds, no sights around him as his fingers brushed over the small rounds of metal and took them in hand. There was only the coins. The feel of them. The fear of them. The want of them.
He raised his fist over the counter and opened it. The seven coins dribbled down, and bounced, and rolled, and spun, and then settled. Settled with seven heads to the unseen sky.
And the voice that was not a voice, that was pure knowing , telling him, prompting him, Zee Zee Tee .
ZZT
“It’s not over,” Jay whispered to himself, a small, hungry grin curling onto his lips. “It’s not over at all.”
Second Interrogation
August 15...12:55 a.m.
“It was only the beginning,” Jay told Mr. Wright, bringing his cuffed hands up from his lap to wipe his mouth. “It happened again, and again, and just kept on happening. Once, twice, sometimes three times in one day. I’d get change from a cup of coffee, or at the market, or the video store, or Carrie would dump her purse on the kitchen counter, and wherever it fell there would be heads. Not every single time, but enough. And when it did, I’d know.”
“You’d know,” Mr. Wright said, his fingers tapping in repeated sequence—pinkie, ring, middle, index, pinkie, ring, middle, index. He paused for a moment, saying nothing, just the muted, rhythmic thud-thud-thud-thud, thud-thud-thud-thud of calloused fingertips against the back of his other hand to vie with the hum of the fluorescents overhead. “You’d know what stock to buy because some little voice that wasn’t a voice whispered it to you. Is that your story, Grady?”
There might have been some mocking intended, but what was there to do? Protest? To who? Jay wondered, reaching with one of his bound hands to rub just above the cast on his throbbing left leg. No protest would be entertained here, he knew, and no prayer either, so he massaged the hot skin beneath the cut off leg of his pants and simply nodded in reply to Mr. Wright’s question.
“All from a bunch of coins,” Mr. Wright commented. His fingers stilled, and in his small notebook he wrote something quickly, then flipped the cover closed. “Coins that came up all heads?”
Jay nodded, knowing there was no way to convey just what it had been. What the knowing had felt like. How real, how tangible it was, like... “It was like some new instinct had just switched on inside of me,” he told his captor, but the stab at an explanation seemed not to impress, and dissipated completely in the silence that followed.
The fluorescents hummed alone for a moment as Mr. Wright thought to himself. About what, Jay could only imagine, though he tried not to.
“And you told no one about this? Not a soul?”
Jay snickered. “Lousy brokers make lousy money. Crazy brokers—or those who say crazy things—make less than lousy brokers.”
Mr. Wright thought quietly again for a time, his gaze mining his prisoner’s face, his look, his tried and tired features, very carefully as though recording every wrinkle, every minute muscle twitch, every possible thing that there was to see. His own wanting showing again. But what was it he wanted?
There was a ten and a one left from his twenty, and atop the paper laid seven coins. Three quarters, a nickel, three pennies, and all were heads.
Air slowly filled his lungs once more as he straightened on the stool, recoiling slightly from the sight. The seven coins. The eighty three cents. All of them heads.
He swallowed and breathed. Breathed. Breathed. His mouth was parched, but he did not reach for the water glass very near his right hand. Instead, he reached for the coins.
There were no sounds, no sights around him as his fingers brushed over the small rounds of metal and took them in hand. There was only the coins. The feel of them. The fear of them. The want of them.
He raised his fist over the counter and opened it. The seven coins dribbled down, and bounced, and rolled, and spun, and then settled. Settled with seven heads to the unseen sky.
And the voice that was not a voice, that was pure knowing , telling him, prompting him, Zee Zee Tee .
ZZT
“It’s not over,” Jay whispered to himself, a small, hungry grin curling onto his lips. “It’s not over at all.”
Second Interrogation
August 15...12:55 a.m.
“It was only the beginning,” Jay told Mr. Wright, bringing his cuffed hands up from his lap to wipe his mouth. “It happened again, and again, and just kept on happening. Once, twice, sometimes three times in one day. I’d get change from a cup of coffee, or at the market, or the video store, or Carrie would dump her purse on the kitchen counter, and wherever it fell there would be heads. Not every single time, but enough. And when it did, I’d know.”
“You’d know,” Mr. Wright said, his fingers tapping in repeated sequence—pinkie, ring, middle, index, pinkie, ring, middle, index. He paused for a moment, saying nothing, just the muted, rhythmic thud-thud-thud-thud, thud-thud-thud-thud of calloused fingertips against the back of his other hand to vie with the hum of the fluorescents overhead. “You’d know what stock to buy because some little voice that wasn’t a voice whispered it to you. Is that your story, Grady?”
There might have been some mocking intended, but what was there to do? Protest? To who? Jay wondered, reaching with one of his bound hands to rub just above the cast on his throbbing left leg. No protest would be entertained here, he knew, and no prayer either, so he massaged the hot skin beneath the cut off leg of his pants and simply nodded in reply to Mr. Wright’s question.
“All from a bunch of coins,” Mr. Wright commented. His fingers stilled, and in his small notebook he wrote something quickly, then flipped the cover closed. “Coins that came up all heads?”
Jay nodded, knowing there was no way to convey just what it had been. What the knowing had felt like. How real, how tangible it was, like... “It was like some new instinct had just switched on inside of me,” he told his captor, but the stab at an explanation seemed not to impress, and dissipated completely in the silence that followed.
The fluorescents hummed alone for a moment as Mr. Wright thought to himself. About what, Jay could only imagine, though he tried not to.
“And you told no one about this? Not a soul?”
Jay snickered. “Lousy brokers make lousy money. Crazy brokers—or those who say crazy things—make less than lousy brokers.”
Mr. Wright thought quietly again for a time, his gaze mining his prisoner’s face, his look, his tried and tired features, very carefully as though recording every wrinkle, every minute muscle twitch, every possible thing that there was to see. His own wanting showing again. But what was it he wanted?
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