Holland Suggestions by John Dunning Read Free Book Online Page A

put in for it.”
    “You don’t have to put in for anything; just go.”
    “How about the first three weeks in May?”
    “What’s wrong with right now?”
    “Christ, Al, if you’re going to make me take this vacation, at least let me go when the fish are biting.”
    He frowned, then smiled, then frowned again. “Go ahead, put in for it,” he said at last; “now get out of here so I can get some work done.”
Later, in the privacy of my own office, I tremble at what might have happened. But I know that Al is right: I do need to get away, and soon. But not too soon. Something inside me says May, and that is how I will have to play it.
    Morning business. Darlene buzzed; phone call from a project boss in Front Royal. Coffee. The morning mail. Even before I began leafing through it I noticed the familiar manila envelope at the bottom of the stack.
    In all aspects it was a duplicate of the other. It had the same yellowed appearance, similar dust lines, and the faded word PERSONAL stamped on both sides. The postmark said New York, two days ago; again, there was no return address. I turned it over and saw that it was sealed with Scotch tape. The tape was old and beginning to crack, but still it held tight. I slit the top of the envelope and took out the picture with trembling hands. It was the same mountain trail, but a better photograph, taken closer to the cave and in better light. Now I could easily see the Maltese cross without a glass; I could even see into the cave for a short distance. There were objects on the floor: a coil of rope; a backpack; a digging tool of some kind. I turned the picture over. Taped to the back was a gold coin.
    It was Spanish, very old, with tiny, intricate engravings. I examined the coin under the magnifying glass. Among the engravings was a tiny Maltese cross near its upper face-edge. It was about the size of an American quarter and, I guessed, very valuable. I knew at once that I would never sell it, and under those circumstances I did not even want to know its value. I placed the picture and its wrappings in my desk drawer and locked it. At the end of the day I retrieved it, took it home, and filed it with the Holland papers. Then I locked the cabinet and joined Judy at dinner.
Today I tried another automatic-writing experiment, with strange results. I wrote three words—“blood of Christ”—and again the numbers 50, 96, and 12. It all means something, but what? I wonder if I will ever know.
    By the first of April there was no longer any question in my mind: I was going to New York. I put in for three weeks beginning in May; Al rubber-stamped it, and for all practical purposes I was on my way. Then a curious thing happened. From the moment my decision was made, my depression vanished. April was a good month. Only twice did I wake at three-thirty, and then I was able to get back to sleep in about half an hour. Still, my newfound peace of mind did not create any false sense of security. I was painfully aware that it might be temporary; that its existence was tenuous and easily explainable. My subconscious had accepted my plan and had made an uneasy truce with me. That’s what Robert Holland would say, and even though I had no idea what would happen in New York or how I would function there, I believed it. For my own peace of mind I had to go and at least make an effort. The game plan was so simple on paper: In three weeks I would try to find the person on the other end of these mailings, in a city of eight million anonymous people. How? I had no idea. The thought of hiring a detective crossed my mind, but I would deal with that possibility later, on the scene. I looked into my savings account and prepared to spend some money.
    Away from work, my thinking zeroed in on a single purpose. I wrote a possible newspaper ad: “Will the party who sent Jim Ryan the mountain scenery please contact Mr. Ryan at the Hotel…” Not very specific, but he would know what it meant. I would try it