John Verdon - Think of a Number

Dermott was getting restless. It was time for another wild swing.

“The birds,” said Gurney slyly. At least he hoped he sounded sly and not inane. Something in Dermott’s eyes told him the wild swing may have connected. But how? And what now? What was it about the birds that mattered? What was the message? The wrong time of year for what? Rose-breasted grosbeaks! That’s what they were! But so what? What did rose-breasted grosbeaks have to do with anything?

He decided to push the bluff and see where it led. “Rose-breasted grosbeaks,” he said with an enigmatic wink.

Dermott tried to hide a flicker of surprise under a patronizing smile. Gurney wished to God he knew what it was all about, wished he knew what he was pretending to know. What the hell was the number Wellstone had mentioned? He had no idea what to say next, how to parry a direct question should it come. None came.

“I was right about you,” said Dermott smugly. “From our first phone call, I knew you were smarter than most members of your tribe of baboons.”

He paused, nodding to himself with apparent pleasure.

“That’s good,” he said. “An intelligent ape. You’ll be able to appreciate what you’re about to see. As a matter of fact, I think I’ll follow your advice. After all, this is a very special night-a perfect night for magic slippers.” As he was speaking, he was backing up toward a chest of drawers against the wall on the far side of the room. Without taking his eyes off Gurney, he opened the top drawer of the chest and removed, with conspicuous care, a pair of shoes. The style reminded Gurney of the open-toe, medium-heel dress shoes his mother used to wear to church-except that these shoes were made of ruby-colored glass, glass that glistened like translucent blood in the subdued light.

Dermott nudged the drawer shut with his elbow and returned to the bed with the shoes in one hand and the gun in the other, still leveled at Gurney.

“I appreciate your input, Detective. If you hadn’t mentioned the slippers, I wouldn’t have thought of them. Most men in your position wouldn’t be so helpful.” The unsubtle ridicule in the comment was meant to convey, Gurney assumed, the message that Dermott was so completely in control that he could easily turn to his own advantage anything anyone else might say or do. He leaned over the bed and removed the old woman’s worn corduroy bedroom slippers and replaced them with the glowing red ones. Her feet were small, and the shoes slipped on smoothly.

“Is Dickie Duck coming to bed?” the old woman asked, like a child reciting her favorite part of a fairy tale.

“He’ll kill the snake and cut off its head. / Then Dickie Duck will come to bed,” he replied in a singsong voice.

“Where’s my little Dickie been?”

“Killing the cock to save the hen.”

“Why does Dickie do what Dickie does?”

“For blood that’s as red / as a painted rose. / So every man knows / he reaps what he sows.”

Dermott looked at the old woman expectantly, as though the ritual exchange was not finished. He leaned toward her, prompting her in a loud whisper, “What will Dickie do tonight?”

“What will Dickie do tonight?” she asked in the same whisper.

“He’ll call the crows till the crows are all dead. / Then Dickie Duck will come to bed.”

She moved her fingertips dreamily over her Goldilocks wig, as though she imagined she were arranging it in some ethereal style. The smile on her face reminded Gurney of a junkie’s rush.

Dermott was watching her, too. His gaze was revoltingly unfilial, the tip of his tongue moving back and forth between his lips like a small, slithering parasite. Then he blinked and looked around the room.

“I think we’re ready to begin,” he said brightly. He got up on the bed and crawled over the old woman’s legs to the opposite side-taking the goose from the hope chest as he did so. He settled himself against the pillows beside her and placed the goose in his lap. “Almost ready now.” The cheeriness of this assurance would have been appropriate for someone placing a candle on a birthday cake. What he was doing, however, was inserting his revolver, finger still on the trigger, into a deep pocket cut into the back of the goose.

Jesus bloody Christ , thought Gurney. Is that the way he shot Mark Mellery? Is that how the residue of down stuffing ended up in the neck wound and in the blood on the ground? Is that possible-that at the moment of his death Mellery was staring at a fucking goose? The picture was so grotesque he had to choke back a crazed urge to laugh. Or was it a spasm of terror? Whatever the emotion was, it was sudden and powerful. He’d faced his share of lunatics-sadists, sex murderers of every persuasion, sociopaths with ice picks, even cannibals-but never before had he been forced to devise a solution to such a complex nightmare while just a finger twitch away from a bullet in the brain.

“Lieutenant Nardo, please stand. It’s time for your entrance.” Dermott’s tone was ominous, theatrical, ironic.

In a whisper so low that Gurney wasn’t sure at first whether he was hearing it or imagining it, the old woman began muttering, “Dickie-Dickie-Dickie Duck. Dickie-Dickie-Dickie Duck. Dickie-Dickie-Dickie Duck.” It was more like a clock ticking than a human voice.

Gurney watched as Nardo unclasped his hands, stretching and clenching his fingers. He rose from his position on the floor at the foot of the bed with the resilient spring of a man in very good condition. His hard glance shifted from the odd couple on the bed to Gurney and back again. If anything in that scene surprised him, his stony face didn’t show it. The only obvious thing, from the way he eyed the goose and Dermott’s arm behind it, was that he’d figured out where the gun was.

In response, Dermott began stroking the back of the goose with his free hand. “One last question, Lieutenant, regarding your intentions before we begin. Do you plan to do as I say?”

“Sure.”

“I’ll take that answer at face value. I’m going to give you a series of directions. You must follow them precisely. Is that clear?”

“Yeah.”

“If I were a less trusting man, I might question your seriousness. I do hope you appreciate the situation. Let me put all my cards on the table to prevent any lingering misunderstanding. I’ve decided to kill you. That issue is no longer open for discussion. The only question that remains is when I will kill you. That piece of the equation is up to you. Do you follow me so far?”

“You kill me. But I decide when.” Nardo spoke with a kind of bored contempt that seemed to amuse Dermott.

“That’s right, Lieutenant. You decide when. But only up to a point, of course-because, ultimately, everything will come to an appropriate end. Until then you can remain alive by saying what I tell you to say and doing what I tell you to do. Still following me?”

“Yeah.”

“Please remember that at any point you have the option of dying instantly through the simple expedient of not following my instructions. Compliance will add precious moments to your life. Resistance will subtract them. What could be simpler?”

Nardo stared at him unblinkingly.

Gurney slid his feet a few inches back toward the legs of his chair to put himself in the best possible position to propel himself at the bed, expecting the emotional dynamic between the two men to explode within seconds.

Dermott stopped stroking the goose. “Please put your feet back where they were,” he said without taking his eyes off Nardo. Gurney did as he was told, with a new respect for Dermott’s peripheral vision. “If you move again, I’ll kill you both without saying another word. Now, Lieutenant,” Dermott continued placidly, “listen carefully to your assignment. You are an actor in a play. Your name is Jim. The play is about Jim and his wife and her son. The play is short and simple, but it has a powerful ending.”