Think of a Number (Dave Gurney, No.1) by John Verdon Read Free Book Online

reason. Madeleine often answered the phone regardless of who was closer to it. It had less to do with logistics than with their respective desires for contact with other people. For her, people in general were a plus, a source of positive stimulation (with exceptions such as the predatory Sonya Reynolds). For Gurney, people in general were a minus, a drain on his energy (with exceptions such as the encouraging Sonya Reynolds).
    “Hello?” said Madeleine in that pleasantly expectant way she greeted all callers—full of the promise of interest in whatever they might have to say. A second later her tone dropped into a less enthusiastic register.
    “Yes, he is. Just a moment.” She waved the handset toward Gurney, laid it on the table, and left the room.
    It was Mark Mellery, and his agitation level had risen.
    “Davey, thank God you’re there. I just got home. I got another of those damn letters.”
    “In today’s mail?”
    The answer was yes, as Gurney assumed it would be. But the question had a purpose nonetheless. He had discovered over years of interviewing countless hysterical people—at crime scenes, in emergency rooms, in all sorts of chaotic situations—that the easiest way to calm them was to start by asking simple questions they could answer yes to.
    “Does it look like the same handwriting?”
    “Yes.”
    “And the same red ink?”
    “Yes, everything’s the same except the words. Shall I read it to you?”
    “Go ahead,” he said. “Read it to me slowly and tell me where the line breaks are.”
    The clear questions, clear instructions, and Gurney’stranquil voice had the predictable effect. Mellery sounded like his feet were getting back on solid ground as he read aloud the peculiar, unsettling verse—with little pauses to indicate the ends of lines:
    “I do what I’ve done
    not for money or fun
    but for debts to be paid
,
    amends to be made
.
    For blood that’s as red
    as a painted rose
.
    So every man knows
    he reaps what he sows.”
    After jotting it down on the pad by the phone, Gurney reread it carefully, trying to get a sense of the writer—the peculiar personality lurking at the intersection of a vengeful intent and the urge to express it in a poem.
    Mellery broke the silence. “What are you thinking?”
    “I’m thinking it may be time for you to go to the police.”
    “I’d rather not do that.” The agitation was returning. “I explained that to you.”
    “I know you did. But if you want my best advice, that’s it.”
    “I understand what you’re saying. But I’m asking for an alternative.”
    “The best alternative, if you can afford it, would be twenty-four-hour bodyguards.”
    “You mean walk around my own property between a pair of gorillas? How on earth do I explain that to my guests?”
    “ ‘Gorillas’ may be a bit of an exaggeration.”
    “Look, the point is, I don’t tell lies to my guests. If one of them asked me who these new additions are, I’d have to admit that they are bodyguards, which would naturally lead to more questions. It would be unsettling—toxic to the atmosphere I try to generate here. Is there any other course of action you can suggest?”
    “That depends. What would you want the action to achieve?”
    Mellery answered with a sour little laugh. “Maybe you could discover who’s after me and what they want to do to me, and then keep them from doing it. Do you think you could do that?”
    Gurney was about to say, “I’m not sure whether I can or not,” when Mellery added with sudden intensity, “Davey, for Chrissake, I’m scared shitless. I don’t know what the hell is going on. You’re the smartest guy I ever met. And you’re the only guy I trust not to make the situation worse.”
    Just then Madeleine passed through the kitchen carrying her knitting bag. She picked up her straw gardening hat from the sideboard along with the current issue of
Mother Earth News
and went out through the French doors with a quick smile that seemed