The Thomas Berryman Number by James Patterson Page B

that were always shiny.
    “You’re Thomas Berryman, aren’t you?” he said quite seriously.
    I was too startled to answer for a second. I thought he’d gotten tipsy. Then I told him that I wasn’t Berryman and went looking for more identification in my wallet.
    “No, no.” He grabbed my arm and held it out of my pocket. “I knew you weren’t. Just had to make sure of it. I got nervous, I guess.”
    He went on to tell me that Oona had mentioned Berryman to him during several phone calls over the past few months.
    Then he brought up Jimmie Horn.
    He said Oona had dropped the name during a phone call on July 3rd. Then on the 4th of July he’d read that Jimmie Horn had been murdered down South.
    Quinn clarified further. He said that Oona had called him from Tennessee on July 2nd, 3rd, and 4th. He said that she was almost hysterical when she called on the 4th. He wanted me to tell him why, and I told him what I could.
    Margaret Quinn came home just after five. Frankie and I were still out oh the porch.
    Margaret was a slender; dark-haired woman who reminded me of her daughter. I agreed with Frank Quinn’s estimate that he was a lucky man.
    I also got the feeling that neither one of them had any idea what their daughter had become. In their eyes she was still a high school girl, thought high school girl thoughts, wore plaid jumpers and blue blazers.
    I liked the Quinns, but I also felt sorry for them. What was about to happen to them, especially if my story broke nationally, frightened me. Frank and Margaret Quinn were going to be totally unprepared to deal with it.
    In general, I just wasn’t meeting the kind of bad people I’d expected to be connected with an assassination.
    In the meantime, though, I had the problem that Oona Quinn wasn’t telling me everything I needed to know. At least maybe she wasn’t. And maybe she was lying to me altogether.
    I didn’t like it at all, but then
it
wasn’t asking to be liked.
    I drove back from Massachusetts to New York in a gray-blue rainstorm. It was Saturday night, nearly 6:30 when I began the trip.
    The storm came on strong as I was winding away from the Revere amusement park area. The families-with-young-children crowd was just arriving on the opposite side of the street.
    The first raindrops were half-dollar-sized, and I had to close up all the car windows in spite of the heat.
    The downpour didn’t let up once until I was getting off the New London ferry back on Long Island. I began to feel like that L’il Abner character with the personal rain-cloud that follows him everywhere he goes.
    Every light in Berryman’s house was burning. Floodlights on top of the garages showed up large patches of white dune grass.
    I eased up the driveway, crunching gravel, fantasizing either a party or a suicide.
    Oona was sitting all by herself in the front room. She was wrapped up in a red star quilt on the couch, bare feet and head showing, watching the TV.
    “Ochs?” she looked at the dark screen door and called. “Is that Ochs?”
    I stood on the porch, wondering who else it could be. Then I started to rap on the wood frame around the door. “Anybody home?” I called out. I was acting like I was fresh back from a ten-duck shoot. I was psyched up to talk with her about Tennessee.
    She wasn’t in the mood for that, though.
    “We can talk tomorrow,” she said. “Tomorrow’s soon enough. You’ve had enough for tonight, little man.”
    I sat down in a musty easy chair. “Little man?” I laughed.
    She sat across the width of the room wrapped up in her ball of red quilt. She was looking at me kind of funny. Boy-girl funny, I thought.
    All scrunched up on the couch, she seemed to be freezing cold. She looked like she wanted someone to cuddle.
    Both of us sat there not saying anything.
Easy Rider
was playing on TV, but it was already past the Jack Nicholson part. I was thinking that Oona reminded me of those high-paid and basically overwhelming photographic models … only