Think of a Number

by John Verdon

  “What we say is what we do.”

  “No confrontations at all?”

  “Why do you belabor the point?”

  “I was wondering if you’d ever kicked anyone hard enough in the balls to make him want to kick you back.”

  “Our approach rarely makes anyone angry. Besides, whoever my pen pal is, he’s from a part of my life long before the institute.”

  “Maybe, maybe not.”

  A confused frown appeared on Mellery’s face. “He’s fixated on my drinking days, something I did drunk, so it has to be before I founded the institute.”

  “On the other hand, it could be someone involved with you in the present who read about your drinking in your books and wants to scare you.”

  As Mellery’s gaze wandered through a new array of possibilities, a young woman entered. She had intelligent green eyes and red hair pulled back in a ponytail.

  “Sorry to intrude. I thought you might want to see your phone messages.”

  She handed Mellery a small pile of pink message notes. His surprised expression gave Gurney the sense that he was not often interrupted this way.

  “At least,” she said, raising an eyebrow significantly, “you might want to look at the one on top.”

  Mellery read it twice, then bent forward and handed the message form across the table to Gurney, who also read it twice.

  On the “To” line was written: Mr. Mellery.

  On the “From” line was written: X. Arybdis.

  In the space allocated to “Message” were the following lines of verse:

  Of all the truths

  you can’t remember,

  here are the truest two:

  Every act demands its price.

  And every price comes due.

  I’ll call tonight to promise you

  I’ll see you in November

  or, if not, in December.

  Gurney asked the young woman if she herself had taken the message. She glanced at Mellery.

  He said, “I’m sorry, I should have introduced you. Sue, this is an old and good friend of mine, Dave Gurney. Dave, meet my wonderful assistant, Susan MacNeil.”

  “Nice to meet you, Susan.”

  She smiled politely and said, “Yes, I was the one who took the message.”

  “Man or woman?”

  She hesitated. “Odd you should ask. My first impression was a man. A man with a high voice. Then I wasn’t sure. The voice changed.”

  “How?”

  “At first it sounded like a man trying to sound like a woman. Then I got the idea that it might be a woman trying to sound like a man. There was something unnatural about it, something forced.”

  “Interesting,” said Gurney. “One more thing—did you write down everything this person said?”

  She hesitated. “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

  “It looks to me,” he said, holding up the pink slip, “like this message was dictated to you carefully, even the line breaks.”

  “That’s right.”

  “So he must have told you that the arrangement of the lines was important, that you should write them exactly as he dictated them.”

  “Oh, I see. Yes, he did tell me where to start each new line.”

  “Was anything else said that’s not actually written here?”

  “Well … yes, he did say one other thing. Before he hung up, he asked if I worked at the institute directly for Mr. Mellery. I said yes, I did. Then he said, ‘You might want to look at new job opportunities. I’ve heard that spiritual renewal is a dying industry.’ He laughed. He seemed to think it was very funny. Then he told me to make sure Mr. Mellery got the message right away. That’s why I brought it over from the office.” She shot a worried look at Mellery. “I hope that was okay.”

  “Absolutely,” said Mellery, imitating a man in control of a situation.

  “Susan, I notice you refer to the caller as ‘he,’” said Gurney. “Does that mean that you’re pretty sure it was a man?”

  “I think so.”

  “Did he give any indication what time tonight he planned to call?”

  “No.”

  “Is there anything else you remember, anything at all, no matter how trivial?”

  Her brow furrowed a little. “I got a sort of creepy feeling—a feeling that he wasn’t very nice.”

  “He sounded angry? Tough? Threatening?”

  “No, not that. He was polite, but …”

  Gurney waited while she searched for the right words.

  “Maybe too polite. Maybe it was the odd voice. I can’t say for sure what gave me the feeling. He scared me.”

  After she left to go back to her office in the main building, Mellery stared at the floor between his feet.

  “It’s time to go to the police,” said Gurney, picking this moment to make his point.

  “The Peony police? God, it sounds like a gay cabaret act.”

  Gurney ignored the shaky attempt at humor. “We’re not just dealing with a few crank letters and a phone call. We’re dealing with someone who hates you, who wants to get even with you. You’re in his sights, and he may be about to pull the trigger.”

  “X. Arybdis?”

  “More likely the inventor of the alias X. Arybdis.”

  Gurney proceeded to tell Mellery what he had recalled, with Madeleine’s help, about the deadly Charybdis of Greek myth. Plus the fact that he had been unable to find a record of any X. Arybdis in Connecticut or any adjoining state through any online directory or search engine.

  “A whirlpool?” asked Mellery uneasily.

  Gurney nodded.

  “Jesus,” said Mellery.

  “What is it?”

  “My worst phobia is about drowning.”

  Chapter 12

  The importance of honesty

  Mellery stood at the fireplace with a poker, rearranging the burning logs.

  “Why would the check come back?” he said, returning to the subject like a tongue to a sore tooth. “The guy seems so precise—Christ, look at the handwriting, like an accountant’s—not a guy who’d get an address wrong. So he did it on purpose. What purpose?” He turned from the fire. “Davey, what the hell is going on?”

  “Can I see the note it came back with, the one you read me on the phone?”

  Mellery went over to a small Sheraton desk on the other side of the room, carrying the poker with him, not noticing it until he was there. “Christ,” he muttered, looking around in frustration. He found a spot on the wall where he could lean it before taking an envelope from the desk drawer and bringing it to Gurney.

  Inside a large outer envelope addressed to Mellery was the envelope Mellery had sent to X. Arybdis at P.O. Box 49449 in Wycherly, and inside that envelope was his personal check for $289.87. In the large outer envelope, there was a sheet of quality stationery with a GD SECURITY SYSTEMS letterhead including a phone number, with the brief typed message that Mellery had read over the phone to Gurney earlier. The letter was signed by Gregory Dermott, with no indication of his title.

  “You haven’t spoken to Mr. Dermott?” asked Gurney.

  “Why should I? I mean, if it’s the wrong address, it’s the wrong address. What’s it got to do with him?”

  “Lord only knows,” said Gurney. “But it would make sense to talk to him. Do you have a phone handy?”

  Mellery unclipped the latest-model BlackBerry from his belt and handed it over. Gurney entered the number from the letterhead. After two rings he was connected to a recording: “This is GD Security Systems, Greg Dermott speaking. Leave your name, number, the best time to return your call, and a brief message. You may begin now.” Gurney switched off the phone and passed it back to Mellery.

  “Why I’m calling would be hard to explain in a message,” said Gurney. “I’m not your employee or legal representative or a licensed PI, and I’m not the police. Speaking of which, it’s the police you need—right here, right now.”

  “But suppose that’s his goal—get m
e disturbed enough to call the cops, stir up a ruckus, embarrass my guests. Maybe having me call the cops and create a bunch of turmoil is what this sicko wants. Bring the bulls into the china shop and watch everything get smashed.”

  “If that’s all he wants,” said Gurney, “be thankful.”

  Mellery reacted as if he’d been slapped. “You really think he’s planning to … do something serious?”

  “It’s quite possible.”

  Mellery nodded slowly, as though the deliberateness of the gesture could keep a lid on his fear.

  “I’ll talk to the police,” he said, “but not until we get the phone call tonight from Charybdis, or whatever he calls himself.”

  Seeing Gurney’s skepticism, he went on, “Maybe the phone call will clear this thing up, let us know who we’re dealing with, what he wants. We may not have to involve the police after all, and even if we do, we’ll have more to tell them. Either way it makes sense to wait.”

  Gurney knew that having the police present to monitor the actual call could be important, but he also knew that no rational argument at this point would budge Mellery. He decided to move on to a tactical detail.

  “In the event that Charybdis does call tonight, it would be helpful to record the conversation. Do you have any kind of recording device—even a cassette player—that we could hook up to an extension phone?”

  “We’ve got something better,” said Mellery. “All our phones have recording capability. You can record any call just by pushing a button.”

  Gurney looked at him curiously.

  “You’re wondering why we have such a system? We had a difficult guest a few years back. Some accusations were made, and we found ourselves being harassed by phone calls that were increasingly unhinged. To make a long story short, we were advised to tape the calls.” Something in Gurney’s expression stopped him. “Oh, no, I can see what you’re thinking! Believe me, that mess has nothing to do with what’s happening now. It was resolved long ago.”

  “You sure of that?”

  “The individual involved is dead. Suicide.”

  “Remember the lists I asked you to work on? Lists of relationships involving serious conflicts or accusations?”

  “I don’t have a single name I can write down in good conscience.”

  “You just mentioned a conflict, at the end of which someone killed him- or herself. You don’t think that qualifies?”

  “She was a troubled individual. There was no connection between her dispute with us, which was the product of her imagination, and her suicide.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Look, it’s a complicated story. Not all of our guests are poster children for mental health. I’m not going to write down the name of every person who ever expressed a negative feeling in my presence. That’s crazy!”

  Gurney leaned back in his chair and gently rubbed his eyes, which were starting to feel dry from the fire.

  When Mellery spoke again, his voice seemed to come from a different place inside himself, a less guarded place. “There’s a word you used when you were describing the lists. You said I should write down the names of people with whom I had ‘unresolved’ problems. Well, I’ve been telling myself that the conflicts of the past have all been resolved. Maybe they haven’t. Maybe by ‘resolved’ I just mean I don’t think about them anymore.” He shook his head. “God, Davey, what’s the point of these lists, anyway? No offense, but what if some muscle-headed cop starts knocking on doors, stirring up old resentments? Christ! Did you ever feel the ground slipping from under your feet?”

  “All we’re talking about is putting names on paper. It’s a way to get your feet on the ground. You don’t have to show the names to anyone if you don’t want to. Trust me, it’s a useful exercise.”

  Mellery nodded in numb acquiescence.

  “You said not all your guests are models of mental health.”

  “I didn’t mean to imply that we’re running a psychiatric facility.”

  “I understand that.”

  “Or even that our guests have an unusual number of emotional problems.”

  “So who does come here?”

  “People with money, looking for peace of mind.”

  “Do they get it?”

  “I believe they do.”

  “In addition to rich and anxious, what other words describe your clientele?”

  Mellery shrugged. “Insecure, despite the aggressive personality that goes with success. They don’t like themselves—that’s the main thing we deal with here.”

  “Which of your current guests do you think is capable of physically harming you?”

  “What?”

  “How much do you know for certain about each of the people currently staying here? Or the people who have reservations for the coming month?”

  “If you’re talking about background checks, we don’t do them. What we know is what they tell us, or what the people who refer them tell us. Some of it is sketchy, but we don’t pry. We deal with what they are willing to tell us.”

  “What sorts of people are here right now?”

  “A Long Island real-estate investor, a Santa Barbara housewife, a man who may be the son of a man who may be the head of an organized-crime family, a charming Hollywood chiropractor, an incognito rock star, a thirty-something retired investment banker, a dozen others.”

  “These people are here for spiritual renewal?”

  “In one way or another, they’ve discovered the limitations of success. They still suffer from fears, obsessions, guilt, shame. They’ve found that all the Porsches and Prozac in the world won’t give them the peace they’re looking for.”

  Gurney felt a little stab, being reminded of Kyle’s Porsche. “So your mission is to bring serenity to the rich and famous?”

  “It’s easy to make it sound ridiculous. But I wasn’t chasing the smell of money. Open doors and open hearts led me here. My clients found me, not the other way around. I didn’t set out to be the guru of Peony Mountain.”

  “Still, you have a lot at stake.”

  Mellery nodded. “Apparently that includes my life.” He stared into the sinking fire. “Can you give me any advice about handling tonight’s phone call?”

  “Keep him talking as long as you can.”

  “So the call can be traced?”

  “That’s not the way the technology works anymore. You’ve been watching old movies. Keep him talking because the more he says, the more he may reveal and the better chance you may have of recognizing his voice.”

  “If I do, should I tell him I know who he is?”

  “No. Knowing something he doesn’t think you know could be an advantage to you. Just stay calm and stretch out the conversation.”

  “Will you be home tonight?”

  “I plan to be—for the sake of my marriage, if nothing else. Why?”

  “Because I just remembered that our phones have another fancy feature we never use. The trade name is ‘Ricochet Conferencing.’ What it lets you do is bring another party into a conference call after someone has called you.”

  “So?”

  “With ordinary teleconferencing, all the participants need to be dialed from one initiating source. But the Ricochet system gets around that. If someone calls you, you can add other participants by dialing them from your end without disconnecting the person who called you—in fact, without them even knowing you’re doing it. The way it was explained to me, the call to the party to be added goes out on a separate line, and after the connection is made, the two signals are combined. I’m probably botching up the technical explanation—but the point is, when Charybdis calls tonight, I can dial you into it and you can hear the conversation.”

  “Good. I’ll definitely be home.”

  “Great. I appreciate that.” He smiled like a man experiencing momentary relief from chronic pain.

  Out on the grounds, a bell rang several times. It had the strong, brassy ring of an old ship’s bell. Mellery checked the slim g
old watch on his wrist.

  “I have to prepare for my afternoon lecture,” he said with a little sigh.

  “What’s your topic?”

  Mellery rose from his wing chair, brushed a few wrinkles out of his cashmere sweater, and set his face with some effort in a generic smile.

  “The Importance of Honesty.”

  The weather had remained blustery, never gaining any warmth. Brown leaves swirled over the grass. Mellery had gone to the main building after thanking Gurney again, reminding him to keep his phone line free that evening, apologizing for his schedule, and extending a last-minute invitation. “As long as you’re here, why don’t you look over the grounds, get a feel for the place.”

  Gurney stood on Mellery’s elegant porch and zipped up his jacket. He decided to take the suggestion and head for the parking lot by a roundabout route, following the broad sweep of the gardens that surrounded the house. A mossy path brought him around the rear of the house to an emerald lawn, beyond which a maple forest fell away toward the valley. A low drystone wall formed a demarcating line between the grass and the woods. Out at the midpoint of the wall, a woman and two men seemed to be engaged in some sort of planting and mulching activity.

  As Gurney strolled toward them across the wide lawn, he could see that the men, wielding spades, were young and Latino and that the woman, wearing knee-high green boots and a brown barn jacket, was older and in charge. Several bags of tulip bulbs, each a different color, lay open on a flat garden cart. The woman was eyeing her workers impatiently.

  “Carlos!” she cried. “Roja, blanca, amarilla … roja, blanca, amarilla!” Then she repeated to no one in particular, “Red, white, yellow … red, white, yellow. Not such a difficult sequence, is it?”

  She sighed philosophically at the ineptitude of servants, then beamed benignly as Gurney approached.

  “I believe that a flower in bloom is the most healing sight on earth,” she announced in that tight-lipped, upper-class Long Island accent once known as Locust Valley Lockjaw. “Don’t you agree?”

  Before he could answer, she extended her hand and said, “I’m Caddy.”

  “Dave Gurney.”

  “Welcome to heaven on earth! I don’t believe I’ve seen you before.”