John Verdon - Think of a Number

“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 gold 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.”

“I’m just here for the day.”

“Really?” Something in her tone seemed to be demanding an explanation.

“I’m a friend of Mark Mellery.”

She frowned slightly. “Dave Gurney, did you say?”

“That’s right.”

“Well, I’m sure he’s mentioned your name, it just doesn’t ring a bell. Have you known Mark long?”

“Since college. May I ask what it is that you do here?”

“What I do here?” Her eyebrows rose in amazement. “I live here. This is my home. I’m Caddy Mellery. Mark is my husband.”

Although it was noon, the thickening clouds gave the enclosed valley the feeling of a winter dusk. Gurney turned on the car heater to take the chill off his hands. Each year his finger joints were becoming more sensitive, reminding him of his father’s arthritis. He flexed them open and shut on the steering wheel.

The identical gesture .

He remembered once asking that taciturn, unreachable man if there was pain in his swollen knuckles. “Just age, nothing to be done about it,” his father had replied, in a tone that prevented further discussion.