hours of sleepless nights) had driven them into that unfortunate union.
Kyle looked like his mother, had her manipulative instincts and material ambition—and, of course, the name she had insisted ongiving him.
Kyle
. Gurney had never been able to get comfortable with that. Despite the young man’s intelligence and precocious success in the financial world,
Kyle
still sounded to him like a self-absorbed pretty boy in a soap opera. Moreover, Kyle’s existence was a constant reminder of the marriage, a reminder that there was some powerful part of himself that he failed to understand—the part that had wanted to marry Karen to begin with.
He closed his eyes, depressed by his blindness to his own motivations and by his negative reaction to his own son.
The phone rang. He picked it up, afraid it would be Kyle again, but it was Mellery.
“Davey?”
“Yes.”
“There was an envelope in the mailbox. My name and address are typed on it, but there’s no postage or postmark. Must have been delivered by hand. Shall I open it?”
“Does it feel like there’s anything in it other than paper?”
“Like what?”
“Anything at all, anything more than just a letter.”
“No. It feels perfectly flat, like nothing at all. No foreign objects in it, if that’s what you mean. Shall I open it?”
“Go ahead, but stop if you see anything other than paper.”
“Okay. Got it open. Just one sheet. Typed. Plain, no letterhead.” There were a few seconds of silence. “What? What the hell …?”
“What is it?”
“This is impossible. There’s no way …”
“Read it to me.”
Mellery read in an incredulous voice, “‘I am leaving this note for you in case you miss my call. If you don’t know yet who I am, just think of the number nineteen. Does it remind you of anyone? And remember, I’ll see you in November or, if not, in December.’”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it. That’s what it says—‘just think of the number nineteen.’ How the hell could he do that? It’s not possible!”
“But that’s what it says?”
“Yes. But what I’m saying is … I don’t know what I’m saying … I mean … it isn’t possible …. Christ, Davey, what the hell is going on?”
“I don’t know. Not yet. But we’re going to find out.”
Something had clicked into place—not the solution, he was still far from that, but something inside him had moved. He was now committed 100 percent to the challenge. He looked up and saw Madeleine watching him from the den door with a poignant intensity, as though she could sense in the air the escalation of his commitment to the case. He could only guess at what she was feeling, but it looked something like a combination of awe and loneliness.
T he intellectual challenge the new number mystery presented—and the surge of adrenaline it generated—kept Gurney awake well past midnight, although he’d been in bed since ten. He turned restlessly from side to side as his mind kept colliding with the problem, like a man in a dream who couldn’t find his key, circling a house, repeatedly trying each locked door and window.
Then he began retasting the nutmeg from the squash soup they’d had for dinner, and that added to the bad-dream feeling.
If you don’t know yet who I am, just think of the number nineteen
. And that was the number Mellery thought of. The number he thought of before he opened the letter. Impossible. But it happened.
The nutmeg problem kept getting worse. Three times he got up for water, but the nutmeg refused to subside. And then the butter became a problem, too. Butter and nutmeg. Madeleine used a lot of both in her squash soup. He’d even mentioned it once to their therapist. Their former therapist. Actually, a therapist they’d seen only twice, back when they were wrestling over the issue of whether he should retire and thought (incorrectly, as it turned out) that a third party might bring a greater clarity to their deliberations. He tried
Kyle looked like his mother, had her manipulative instincts and material ambition—and, of course, the name she had insisted ongiving him.
Kyle
. Gurney had never been able to get comfortable with that. Despite the young man’s intelligence and precocious success in the financial world,
Kyle
still sounded to him like a self-absorbed pretty boy in a soap opera. Moreover, Kyle’s existence was a constant reminder of the marriage, a reminder that there was some powerful part of himself that he failed to understand—the part that had wanted to marry Karen to begin with.
He closed his eyes, depressed by his blindness to his own motivations and by his negative reaction to his own son.
The phone rang. He picked it up, afraid it would be Kyle again, but it was Mellery.
“Davey?”
“Yes.”
“There was an envelope in the mailbox. My name and address are typed on it, but there’s no postage or postmark. Must have been delivered by hand. Shall I open it?”
“Does it feel like there’s anything in it other than paper?”
“Like what?”
“Anything at all, anything more than just a letter.”
“No. It feels perfectly flat, like nothing at all. No foreign objects in it, if that’s what you mean. Shall I open it?”
“Go ahead, but stop if you see anything other than paper.”
“Okay. Got it open. Just one sheet. Typed. Plain, no letterhead.” There were a few seconds of silence. “What? What the hell …?”
“What is it?”
“This is impossible. There’s no way …”
“Read it to me.”
Mellery read in an incredulous voice, “‘I am leaving this note for you in case you miss my call. If you don’t know yet who I am, just think of the number nineteen. Does it remind you of anyone? And remember, I’ll see you in November or, if not, in December.’”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it. That’s what it says—‘just think of the number nineteen.’ How the hell could he do that? It’s not possible!”
“But that’s what it says?”
“Yes. But what I’m saying is … I don’t know what I’m saying … I mean … it isn’t possible …. Christ, Davey, what the hell is going on?”
“I don’t know. Not yet. But we’re going to find out.”
Something had clicked into place—not the solution, he was still far from that, but something inside him had moved. He was now committed 100 percent to the challenge. He looked up and saw Madeleine watching him from the den door with a poignant intensity, as though she could sense in the air the escalation of his commitment to the case. He could only guess at what she was feeling, but it looked something like a combination of awe and loneliness.
T he intellectual challenge the new number mystery presented—and the surge of adrenaline it generated—kept Gurney awake well past midnight, although he’d been in bed since ten. He turned restlessly from side to side as his mind kept colliding with the problem, like a man in a dream who couldn’t find his key, circling a house, repeatedly trying each locked door and window.
Then he began retasting the nutmeg from the squash soup they’d had for dinner, and that added to the bad-dream feeling.
If you don’t know yet who I am, just think of the number nineteen
. And that was the number Mellery thought of. The number he thought of before he opened the letter. Impossible. But it happened.
The nutmeg problem kept getting worse. Three times he got up for water, but the nutmeg refused to subside. And then the butter became a problem, too. Butter and nutmeg. Madeleine used a lot of both in her squash soup. He’d even mentioned it once to their therapist. Their former therapist. Actually, a therapist they’d seen only twice, back when they were wrestling over the issue of whether he should retire and thought (incorrectly, as it turned out) that a third party might bring a greater clarity to their deliberations. He tried
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