Think of a Number

by John Verdon

  Chapter 3

  Trouble in paradise

  The following day was more exquisite than the day before. It was the picture of October in a New England calendar. Gurney rose at 7:00 A.M., showered and shaved, put on jeans and a light cotton sweater, and was having his coffee in a canvas chair on the bluestone patio outside their downstairs bedroom. The patio and the French doors leading to it were additions he’d made to the house at Madeleine’s urging.

  She was good at that sort of thing, had a sensitive eye for what was possible, what was appropriate. It revealed a lot about her—her positive instincts, her practical imagination, her unfailing taste. But when he got tangled in their areas of contention—the mires and brambles of the expectations each privately cultivated—he found it difficult to focus on her remarkable strengths.

  He must remember to return Kyle’s call. He would have to wait three hours because of the time difference between Walnut Crossing and Seattle. He settled deeper into his chair, cradling his warm coffee mug in both hands.

  He glanced at the slim folder he’d brought out with his coffee and tried to imagine the appearance of the college classmate he hadn’t seen for twenty-five years. The photo that appeared on the book jackets that Madeleine printed out from a bookstore website refreshed his recollection not only of the face but of the personality—complete with the vocal timbre of an Irish tenor and a smile that was improbably charming.

  When they were undergraduates at Fordham’s Rose Hill campus in the Bronx, Mark Mellery was a wild character whose spurts of humor and truth, energy and ambition were colored by something darker. He had a tendency to walk close to the edge—a sort of careening genius, simultaneously reckless and calculating, always on the brink of a downward spiral.

  According to his website bio, the direction of the spiral, which had taken him down rapidly in his twenties, had been reversed in his thirties by some sort of dramatic spiritual transformation.

  Balancing his coffee mug on the narrow wooden arm of the chair, Gurney opened the folder on his lap, extracted the e-mail he’d received from Mellery a week earlier, and went over it again, line by line.

  Hello, Dave:

  I hope you don’t find it inappropriate to be contacted by an old classmate after so much time has elapsed. One can never be sure what may be brought to mind by a voice from the past. I’ve remained in touch with our shared academic past through our alumni association and have been fascinated by the news items published over the years concerning the members of our graduating class. I was happy to note on more than one occasion your own stellar achievements and the recognition you were receiving. (One article in our Alumni News called you THE MOST DECORATED DETECTIVE IN THE NYPD—which didn’t especially surprise me, remembering the Dave Gurney I knew in college!) Then, about a year ago, I saw that you’d retired from the police department—and that you’d moved to up here to Delaware County. It got my attention because I happen to be located in the town of Peony—“just down the road apiece,” as they say. I doubt that you’ve heard of it, but I now run a kind of retreat house here, called the Institute for Spiritual Renewal—pretty fancy-sounding, I know, but in reality quite down to earth.

  Although it has occurred to me many times over the years that I would enjoy seeing you again, a disturbing situation has finally given me the nudge I needed to stop thinking about it and get in touch with you. It’s a situation in which I believe that your advice would be most helpful. What I’d love to do is pay you a brief visit. If you could find it possible to spare me half an hour, I’ll come to your home in Walnut Crossing—or to any other location that might better suit your convenience.

  My recollections of our conversations in the campus center and even longer conversations in the Shamrock Bar—not to mention your remarkable professional experience—tell me that you’re the right person to talk to about the perplexing matter before me. It’s a weird puzzle that I suspect will interest you. Your ability to put two and two together in ways that elude everyone else was always your great strength. Whenever I think of you, I always think of your perfect logic and crystal clarity—qualities that I dearly need more of right now. I’ll call you within the next few days at the number that appears in the alumni directory—in the hope that it’s correct and current.

  With many good memories,

  Mark Mellery

  P.S. Even if you end up as mystified by my problem as I am, and have no advice to offer, it will still be a delight to see you again.

  The promised call had come two days later. Gurney had immediately recognized the voice, eerily unchanged except for a distinct tremor of anxiety.

  After some self-deprecating remarks about his failure to stay in touch, Mellery got to the point. Could he see Gurney within the next few days? The sooner the better, since the “situation” was urgent. Another “development” had occurred. It really was impossible to discuss over the phone, as Gurney would understand when they met. There were things Mellery had to show him. No, it wasn’t a matter for the local police, for reasons he’d explain when he came. No, it wasn’t a legal matter, not yet, anyway. No crime had been committed, nor was one being specifically threatened—not that he could prove. Lord, it was so difficult to talk about it this way; it would be so much easier in person. Yes, he realized that Gurney was not in the private-investigation business. But just half an hour—could he have half an hour?

  With the mixed feelings he’d had from the beginning, Gurney agreed. His curiosity often got the better of his reticence; in this instance he was curious about the hint of hysteria lurking in the undertone of Mellery’s mellifluous voice. And, of course, a puzzle to be deciphered attracted him more powerfully than he cared to admit.

  After rereading the e-mail a third time, Gurney put it back in the folder and let his mind wander over the recollections it stirred up from the back bins of his memory: the morning classes in which Mellery had looked hungover and bored, his gradual coming to life in the afternoon, his wild Irish jabs of wit and insight in the wee hours fueled by alcohol. He was a natural actor, undisputed star of the college dramatic society—a young man who, however full of life he might be at the Shamrock Bar, was doubly alive on the stage. He was a man who depended on an audience—a man who was drawn up to his full height only in the nourishing light of admiration.

  Gurney opened the folder and glanced through the e-mail yet again. He was bothered by Mellery’s depiction of their relationship. The contact between them had been less frequent, less significant, less friendly than Mellery’s words suggested. But he got the impression that Mellery had chosen his words carefully—that despite its simplicity, the note had been written and rewritten, pondered and edited—and that the flattery, like everything else in the letter, was purposeful. But what was the purpose? The obvious one was to ensure Gurney’s agreement to a face-to-face meeting and to engage him in the solution of whatever “mystery” had arisen. Beyond that, it was hard to say. The problem was clearly important to Mellery—which would explain the time and attention he had apparently lavished on getting the flow and feeling of his sentences just right, on conveying a certain mix of warmth and distress.

  There was also the small matter of the “P.S.” In addition to subtly challenging him with the suggestion that he might be defeated by the puzzle, whatever it was, it also appeared to obstruct an easy exit route, to vitiate any claim Gurney might be tempted to make that he was not in the private-investigation business or would not be likely to be helpful. The thrust of its wording was to characterize any reluctance to meet as a rude dismissal of an old friend.

  Oh, yes, it was carefully crafted.

  Carefulness. That was something new, wasn’t it? Definitely not a cornerstone quality of the old Mark Mellery.

  This apparent change interested Gurney.

  On cue, Madeleine came out through the back door and walked about two-thirds of the way to where Gurney was sitting.

  “Your guest has arrived,” she announced flatly.

  “Wher
e is he?”

  “In the house.”

  He looked down. An ant was zigzagging along the arm of his chair. He sent it flying with a sharp flick of his fingernail.

  “Ask him to come out here,” he said. “It’s too nice to be indoors.”

  “It is, isn’t it?” she said, making the comment sound both poignant and ironic. “By the way, he looks exactly like his picture on the book jacket—even more so.”

  “Even more so? What’s that supposed to mean?”

  She was already returning to the house and did not answer.

  Chapter 4

  I know you so well I know what you’re thinking

  Mark Mellery took long strides through the soft grass. He approached Gurney as if planning to embrace him, but something made him reconsider.

  “Davey!” he cried, extending his hand.

  Davey? wondered Gurney.

  “My God!” Mellery went on. “You look the same! God, it’s good to see you! Great to see you looking the way you do! Davey Gurney! Back at Fordham they used to say you looked like Robert Redford in All the President’s Men. Still do—haven’t changed a bit! If I didn’t know you were forty-seven like me, I’d say you were thirty!”

  He clasped Gurney’s hand with both of his as though it were a precious object. “Driving over today, from Peony to Walnut Crossing, I was remembering how calm and collected you always were. An emotional oasis—that’s what you were, an emotional oasis! And you still have that look. Davey Gurney—calm, cool, and collected—plus the sharpest mind in town. How have you been?”

  “I’ve been fortunate,” said Gurney, extricating his hand and speaking in a voice as devoid of excitement as Mellery’s was full of it. “I have no complaints.”

  “Fortunate …” Mellery enunciated the syllables as if trying to recall the meaning of a foreign word. “It’s a nice place you have here. Very nice.”

  “Madeleine has a good eye for these things. Shall we have a seat?” Gurney motioned toward a pair of weathered Adirondack chairs facing each other between the apple tree and a birdbath.

  Mellery started in the direction indicated, then stopped. “I had something …”

  “Could this be it?” Madeleine was walking toward them from the house, holding in front of her an elegant briefcase. Understated and expensive, it was like everything else in Mellery’s appearance—from the handmade (but comfortably broken in and not too highly polished) English shoes to the beautifully tailored (but gently rumpled) cashmere sport jacket—a look seemingly calculated to say that here stood a man who knew how to use money without letting money use him, a man who had achieved success without worshipping it, a man to whom good fortune came naturally. A harried look about his eyes, however, conveyed a different message.

  “Ah, yes, thank you,” said Mellery, accepting the briefcase from Madeleine with obvious relief. “But where …?”

  “You laid it on the coffee table.”

  “Yes, of course. My brain is kind of scattered today. Thank you!”

  “Would you like something to drink?”

  “Drink?”

  “We have some iced tea already made. Or, if you’d prefer something else …?”

  “No, no, iced tea would be fine. Thank you.”

  As Gurney observed his old classmate, it suddenly occurred to him what Madeleine had meant when she said that Mellery looked exactly like his book jacket photograph, “only more so.”

  The quality most evident in the photograph was a kind of informal perfection—the illusion of a casual, amateur snapshot without the unflattering shadows or awkward composition of an actual amateur snapshot. It was exactly that sense of carefully crafted carelessness—the ego-driven desire to appear ego-free—that Mellery exemplified in person. As usual, Madeleine’s perception had been on target.

  “In your e-mail you mentioned a problem,” said Gurney with a get-to-the-point abruptness verging on rudeness.

  “Yes,” Mellery answered, but instead of addressing it, he offered a reminiscence that seemed designed to weave another little thread of obligation into the old school tie, recounting a silly debate a classmate of theirs had gotten into with a philosophy professor. During the telling of this tale, Mellery referred to himself, Gurney, and the protagonist as the “Three Musketeers” of the Rose Hill campus, striving to make something sophomoric sound heroic. Gurney found the effort embarrassing and offered his guest no response beyond an expectant stare.

  “Well,” said Mellery, turning uncomfortably to the matter at hand, “I’m not sure where to begin.”

  If you don’t know where to begin your own story, thought Gurney, why the hell are you here?

  Mellery finally opened his briefcase, withdrew two slim softcover books, and handed them, with care, as if they were fragile, to Gurney. They were the books described in the website printouts he had looked at earlier. One was called The Only Thing That Matters and was subtitled The Power of Conscience to Change Lives. The other was called Honestly! and was subtitled The Only Way to Be Happy.

  “You may not have heard of these books. They were moderately successful, but not exactly blockbusters.” Mellery smiled with what looked like a well-practiced imitation of humility. “I’m not suggesting you need to read them right now.” He smiled again, as though this were amusing. “However, they may give you some clue to what’s happening, or why it’s happening, once I explain my problem … or perhaps I should say my apparent problem. The whole business has me a bit confused.”

  And more than a bit frightened, mused Gurney.

  Mellery took a long breath, paused, then began his story like a man walking with fragile determination into a cold surf.

  “I should tell you first about the notes I’ve received.” He reached into his briefcase, withdrew two envelopes, opened one, took from it a sheet of white paper with handwriting on one side and a smaller envelope of the size that might be used for an RSVP. He handed the paper to Gurney.

  “This was the first communication I received, about three weeks ago.”

  Gurney took the paper and settled back in his chair to examine it, noting at once the neatness of the handwriting. The words were precisely, elegantly formed—stirring a sudden recollection of Sister Mary Joseph’s script moving gracefully across a grammar-school blackboard. But even stranger than the painstaking penmanship was the fact that the note had been written with a fountain pen, and in red ink. Red ink? Gurney’s grandfather had had red ink. He had little round bottles of blue, green, and red ink. He remembered so little of his grandfather, but he remembered the ink. Could one still purchase red ink for a fountain pen?

  Gurney read the note with a deepening frown, then read it again. There was neither a salutation nor a signature.

  Do you believe in Fate? I do, because I thought I’d never see you again—and then one day, there you were. It all came back: how you sound, how you move—most of all, how you think. If someone told you to think of a number, I know what number you’d think of. You don’t believe me? I’ll prove it to you. Think of any number up to a thousand—the first number that comes to your mind. Picture it. Now see how well I know your secrets. Open the little envelope.

  Gurney uttered a noncommittal grunt and looked inquiringly at Mellery, who had been staring at him intently as he read. “Do you have any idea who sent you this?”

  “None whatever.”

  “Any suspicions?”

  “None.”

  “Hmm. Did you play the game?”

  “The game?” Clearly Mellery had not thought of it that way. “If what you mean is, did I think of a number, yes, I did. Under the circumstances it would have been difficult not to.”

  “So you thought of a number?”

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  Mellery cleared his throat. “The number I thought of was six-five-eight.” He repeated it, articulating the digits—six, five, eight—as though they might mean something to Gurney. When he saw that they didn’t, he took a nervous breath and we
nt on.

  “The number six fifty-eight has no particular significance to me. It just happened to be the first number that came to mind. I’ve racked my brains, trying to remember anything I might associate it with, any reason I might have picked it, but I couldn’t come up with a single thing. It’s just the first number that came to mind,” he insisted with panicky earnestness.

  Gurney gazed at him with growing interest. “And in the smaller envelope …?”

  Mellery handed him the other envelope that was enclosed with the note and watched closely as he opened it, extracted a piece of notepaper half the size of the first, and read the message written in the same delicate style, the same red ink:

  Does it shock you that I knew you would pick 658?

  Who knows you that well? If you want the answer,

  you must first repay me the $289.87 it cost me to find you.

  Send that exact amount to

  P.O. Box 49449, Wycherly, CT 61010.

  Send me CASH or a PERSONAL CHECK.

  Make it out to X. Arybdis.

  (That was not always my name.)

  After reading the note again, Gurney asked Mellery whether he had responded to it.

  “Yes. I sent a check for the amount mentioned.”

  “Why?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s a lot of money. Why did you decide to send it?”

  “Because it was driving me crazy. The number—how could he know?”

  “Has the check cleared?”

  “No, as a matter of fact, it hasn’t,” said Mellery. “I’ve been monitoring my account daily. That’s why I sent a check instead of cash. I thought it might be a good idea to know something about this Arybdis person—at least know where he deposited his checks. I mean, the whole tone of the thing was so unsettling.”

  “What exactly unsettled you?”