a hard time concentrating on it. The logs in the woodstove had burned down into embers from which wisps of flame rose, wavered, and disappeared.
When the phone rang, Gurney hurried into the den and picked it up.
Mellery’s voice was low and nervous. “Dave?”
“I’m here.”
“He’s on the other line. The recorder is on. I’m going to switch you in. Ready?”
“Go ahead.”
A moment later Gurney heard a strange voice in midsentence.
“ … away for a certain period of time. But I do want you to know who I am.” The pitch of the voice was high and strained, the speech rhythm awkward and artificial. There was an accent, foreign-sounding but nonspecific, as if the words were being mispronounced as a way of disguising the voice. “Earlier this evening I left something for you. Do you have it?”
“Have what?” Mellery’s voice was brittle.
“You don’t have it yet? You’ll get it. Do you know who I am?”
“Who are you?”
“Really want to know?”
“Of course. Where do I know you from?”
“The number six fifty-eight didn’t tell you who I am?”
“It doesn’t mean anything to me.”
“Really? But it was your choice—of all the numbers you could have chosen.”
“Who the hell are you?”
“There is one more number.”
“What??” Mellery’s voice rose in fear and exasperation.
“I said there is one more number.” The voice was amused, sadistic.
“I don’t understand.”
“Think of any number at all, other than six fifty-eight.”
“Why?”
“Think of any number other than six fifty-eight.”
“All right, fine. I thought of a number.”
“Good. We’re making progress. Now, whisper the number.”
“I’m sorry—what?”
“Whisper the number.”
“Whisper it?”
“Yes.”
“Nineteen.”
Mellery’s whisper was loud and rasping.
It was greeted by a long humorless laugh. “Good, very good.”
“Who
are
you?”
“You still don’t know? So much pain, and you have no idea. I thought this might happen. I left something for you earlier. A little note. You sure you don’t have it?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Ah, but you knew that the number was nineteen.”
“You said to think of a number.”
“But it was the right number, wasn’t it?”
“I don’t understand.”
“When did you last look in your mailbox?”
“My mailbox? I don’t know. This afternoon?”
“You better look again. Remember, I’ll see you in November or, if not, in December.” The words were followed by a soft disconnect sound.
“Hello!” cried Mellery. “Are you there? Are you there?” When he spoke again, he sounded exhausted. “Dave?”
“I’m here,” said Gurney. “Hang up, check your mailbox, call me back.”
No sooner had Gurney put the phone down when it rang again. He picked it up.
“Yes?”
“Dad?”
“Excuse me?”
“Is that you?”
“Kyle?”
“Right. You okay?”
“Fine. I’m just in the middle of something,”
“Is everything all right?”
“Yes. Sorry to be so abrupt. I’m waiting for a call that’s supposed to come within the next minute or two. Can I call you back?”
“No problem. Just wanted to bring you up to date with some stuff, some stuff that’s happened, stuff I’m doing. We haven’t spoken in a long time.”
“I’ll call you back as soon as I can.”
“Sure. Okay.”
“Sorry. Thanks. Talk to you soon.”
Gurney closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths. Christ, things had a way of piling up. Of course, it was his own fault for letting them pile up. His relationship with Kyle was an area of clear dysfunction in his life, full of avoidance and rationalization.
Kyle was the product of his first marriage, his short-lived marriage to Karen—the memory of which still, twenty-two years after the divorce, made Gurney uneasy. Their incompatibility was obvious from the beginning to everyone who knew them, but a defiant determination (or emotional disability, as he saw it in the wee
When the phone rang, Gurney hurried into the den and picked it up.
Mellery’s voice was low and nervous. “Dave?”
“I’m here.”
“He’s on the other line. The recorder is on. I’m going to switch you in. Ready?”
“Go ahead.”
A moment later Gurney heard a strange voice in midsentence.
“ … away for a certain period of time. But I do want you to know who I am.” The pitch of the voice was high and strained, the speech rhythm awkward and artificial. There was an accent, foreign-sounding but nonspecific, as if the words were being mispronounced as a way of disguising the voice. “Earlier this evening I left something for you. Do you have it?”
“Have what?” Mellery’s voice was brittle.
“You don’t have it yet? You’ll get it. Do you know who I am?”
“Who are you?”
“Really want to know?”
“Of course. Where do I know you from?”
“The number six fifty-eight didn’t tell you who I am?”
“It doesn’t mean anything to me.”
“Really? But it was your choice—of all the numbers you could have chosen.”
“Who the hell are you?”
“There is one more number.”
“What??” Mellery’s voice rose in fear and exasperation.
“I said there is one more number.” The voice was amused, sadistic.
“I don’t understand.”
“Think of any number at all, other than six fifty-eight.”
“Why?”
“Think of any number other than six fifty-eight.”
“All right, fine. I thought of a number.”
“Good. We’re making progress. Now, whisper the number.”
“I’m sorry—what?”
“Whisper the number.”
“Whisper it?”
“Yes.”
“Nineteen.”
Mellery’s whisper was loud and rasping.
It was greeted by a long humorless laugh. “Good, very good.”
“Who
are
you?”
“You still don’t know? So much pain, and you have no idea. I thought this might happen. I left something for you earlier. A little note. You sure you don’t have it?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Ah, but you knew that the number was nineteen.”
“You said to think of a number.”
“But it was the right number, wasn’t it?”
“I don’t understand.”
“When did you last look in your mailbox?”
“My mailbox? I don’t know. This afternoon?”
“You better look again. Remember, I’ll see you in November or, if not, in December.” The words were followed by a soft disconnect sound.
“Hello!” cried Mellery. “Are you there? Are you there?” When he spoke again, he sounded exhausted. “Dave?”
“I’m here,” said Gurney. “Hang up, check your mailbox, call me back.”
No sooner had Gurney put the phone down when it rang again. He picked it up.
“Yes?”
“Dad?”
“Excuse me?”
“Is that you?”
“Kyle?”
“Right. You okay?”
“Fine. I’m just in the middle of something,”
“Is everything all right?”
“Yes. Sorry to be so abrupt. I’m waiting for a call that’s supposed to come within the next minute or two. Can I call you back?”
“No problem. Just wanted to bring you up to date with some stuff, some stuff that’s happened, stuff I’m doing. We haven’t spoken in a long time.”
“I’ll call you back as soon as I can.”
“Sure. Okay.”
“Sorry. Thanks. Talk to you soon.”
Gurney closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths. Christ, things had a way of piling up. Of course, it was his own fault for letting them pile up. His relationship with Kyle was an area of clear dysfunction in his life, full of avoidance and rationalization.
Kyle was the product of his first marriage, his short-lived marriage to Karen—the memory of which still, twenty-two years after the divorce, made Gurney uneasy. Their incompatibility was obvious from the beginning to everyone who knew them, but a defiant determination (or emotional disability, as he saw it in the wee
Similar Books
