“Yes,” he answered. “Perfect.”
He closed his eyes, hoping that the goodness of the moment would counteract those mental energies that were always propelling him into puzzle solving. For Gurney, achieving even a little contentment was, ironically, a struggle. He envied Madeleine’s keen attachment to the fleeting instant and the pleasure she found in it. For him, living in the moment was always a swim upstream, his analytic mind naturally preferring the realms of probability, possibility.
He wondered if it was genetic or a learned form of escape. Probably both, mutually reinforcing. Possibly…
Jesus!
He caught himself in the absurd act of analyzing his propensity for analysis. He ruefully tried again to be present in the room. God help me to be here, he said to himself, even though he had little faith in prayer. He hoped he hadn’t said it aloud.
The phone rang. It felt like a reprieve, permission to take a break from the battle.
He heaved himself up from the couch and went to the den to answer it.
“Davey, it’s Mark.”
“Yes?”
“I was just speaking to Caddy, and she told me she met you in the meditation garden today.”
“Right.”
“Ah… well… the thing is, I feel kind of embarrassed, you know, for not introducing you earlier in the day.” He paused, as if awaiting a response, but Gurney said nothing.
“Dave?”
“I’m here.”
“Well… anyway, I wanted to apologize for not introducing you. That was thoughtless of me.”
“No problem.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“You don’t sound happy.”
“I’m not unhappy-just a bit surprised that you didn’t mention her.”
“Ah… yes… I guess with so much on my mind, it didn’t occur to me. Are you still there?”
“I’m here.”
“You’re right, it must seem peculiar I didn’t mention her. It just never crossed my mind.” He paused, then added with an awkward laugh, “I guess a psychologist would find that interesting-forgetting to mention I was married.”
“Mark, let me ask you something. Are you telling me the truth?”
“What? Why would you ask me that?”
“You’re wasting my time.”
There was an extended silence.
“Look,” said Mellery with a sigh, “it’s a long story. I didn’t want to involve Caddy in this… this mess.”
“What exact mess are we talking about?”
“The threats, the insinuations.”
“She doesn’t know about the letters?”
“There’s no point. It would just frighten her.”
“She must know about your past. It’s in your books.”
“To a degree. But these threats are something else. I just want to save her from worrying.”
That sounded almost plausible to Gurney. Almost.
“Is there any particular piece of your past you’re especially eager to keep from Caddy, or from the police, or from me?”
This time the indecisive pause before Mellery said “No” so patently contradicted the denial that Gurney laughed.
“What’s so funny?”
“I don’t know if you’re the worst liar I’ve ever heard, Mark, but you’re in the finals.”
After another long silence, Mellery began to laugh, too-a soft, rueful laugh that sounded like muted sobbing. He said in a deflated voice, “When all else fails, it’s time to tell the truth. The truth is, shortly after Caddy and I were married, I had a brief affair with a woman who was a guest here. Pure lunacy on my part. It turned out badly-as any sane person could have predicted.”
“And?”
“And that was that. I recoil from the mere thought of it. It attaches me to all the ego, lust, and lousy judgment of my past.”
“Maybe I’m missing something,” said Gurney. “What’s that got to do with not telling me you were married?”
“You’re going to think I’m paranoid. But I got to thinking that the affair might in some way be connected to this Charybdis business. I was afraid that if you knew about Caddy, you’d want to talk to her and… the last thing on earth I want is for her to be exposed to anything that might be connected to my ridiculous, hypocritical affair.”
“I see. By the way, who owns the institute?”
“Owns? In what sense?”
“How many senses are there?”
“In spirit, I own the institute. The program is based on my books and tapes.”
“‘In spirit’?”
“Legally, Caddy owns everything-the real estate and other tangible assets.”
“Interesting. So you’re the star trapeze artist, but Caddy owns the circus tent.”
“You could say that,” Mellery replied coldly. “I should get off the phone now. The Charybdis call could come anytime.”
It came exactly three hours later.
Chapter 14
Madeleine had brought her bag of knitting to the sofa and was engrossed in one of the three projects she had in various stages of completion. Gurney had settled in an adjacent armchair and was leafing through the six-hundred-page user’s manual for his photo-manipulation software but was having 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.