John Verdon - Think of a Number

“What do you mean?” he’d ask in reply, dishonestly, knowing exactly what she meant.

“You can’t possibly care about that nonsense. Figure out what’s actually bothering you.”

Figure out what’s actually bothering you .

Easier said than done.

What was bothering him? The vast inadequacies of reason in the face of feral passions? The fact that the justice system is a cage that can no more keep the devil contained than a weather vane can stop the wind? All he knew was that something was there, in the back of his mind, chewing at his other thoughts and feelings like a rat.

When he tried to identify the most corrosive problem amid the day’s chaos, he found himself lost in a sea of unmoored images.

When he tried to clear his mind-to relax and think of nothing-two images would not disappear.

One was the cruel delight in Dermott’s eyes when he recited his hideous rhyme about Danny’s death. The other was the echo of the accusatory fury with which he himself had slandered his own father in the fictional account of the attack on his mother. That was no mere acting. Rising up from somewhere beneath it, saturating it, was a terrible anger. Did its authenticity mean he actually hated his father? Was the rage that exploded in the telling of that ugly tale the suppressed rage of abandonment-the fierce resentment of a child toward a father who did nothing but work and sleep and drink, a father who was forever receding into the distance, forever unreachable? Gurney was startled at how much, and how little, he had in common with Dermott.

Or was it the reverse-a smoke screen covering the guilt he felt for abandoning that chilly, insular man in his old age, for having as little to do with him as possible?

Or was it a displaced self-hatred arising out of his own double failure as a father-his fatal lack of attention toward one son and his active avoidance of the other?

Madeleine would probably say that the answer could be any of the above, all of the above, or none of the above; but whatever it was wasn’t important. What was important was to do what one believed in one’s heart to be the right thing to do, right here and now. And lest he find that concept daunting, she might suggest that he begin by returning Kyle’s phone call. Not that she was particularly fond of Kyle-in fact, she didn’t seem to like him at all, found his Porsche silly, his wife pretentious-but for Madeleine personal chemistry was always secondary to doing the right thing. Gurney marveled at how a person so spontaneous could also lead such a principled life. It was what made her who she was. It was what made her a beacon in the murkiness of his own existence.

The right thing, right now.

Inspired, he pulled over at the broad, scruffy entrance area of an old farm and took out his wallet to get Kyle’s number. (He’d never bothered to enter Kyle’s name in his phone’s voice-recognition system, an omission that gave his conscience a twinge.) Calling him at 3:00 A.M.-midnight in Seattle-seemed a little crazy, but the alternative was worse: He would put it off, and put it off again, and then rationalize not calling at all.

“Dad?”

“Did I wake you?”

“Actually, no. I was up. Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. I, uh… I just wanted to talk to you, return your call. I wasn’t being very good about that, seemed like you’d been trying to reach me for a long time.”

“You sure you’re all right?”

“I know it’s an odd time to call, but don’t worry, I’m fine.”

“Good.”

“I did have a difficult day, but it turned out okay. The reason I didn’t return your calls sooner… I’ve been in the middle of a complicated mess. But that’s no excuse. Was there anything you needed?”

“What kind of mess?”

“What? Oh-usual kind, homicide investigation.”

“I thought you were retired.”

“I was. I mean, I am. But I got involved because I knew one of the victims. Long story. Next time I see you, I’ll tell you all about it.”

“Wow. You did it again!”

“Did what?”

“You caught another mass murderer, right?”

“How’d you know that?”

“ Victims . You said victims , plural. How many were there?”

“Five that we know of, plans for twenty more.”

“And you got him. Damn! Mass murderers don’t have a chance against you. You’re like Batman.”

Gurney laughed. He hadn’t done much of that lately. And he couldn’t remember the last time he’d done so in a conversation with Kyle. Come to think of it, this was an unusual conversation in other ways as well-considering that they’d been talking for at least two minutes without Kyle’s mentioning something he’d just bought or was about to buy.

“In this case Batman had a lot of help,” said Gurney. “But that’s not why I called. I wanted to return your calls, find out what was happening with you. Anything new?”

“Not much,” said Kyle drily. “I lost my job. Kate and I broke up. I may change careers, go to law school. What do you think?”

After a second of shocked silence, Gurney laughed even louder. “Jesus Christ!” he said. “What the hell happened?”

“The financial industry collapsed-as you may have heard-along with my job and my marriage and my two condos and my three cars. Funny, though, how quickly you can adjust to unimaginable catastrophe. Anyway, what I’m really wondering about now is whether I should go to law school. That’s what I wanted to ask you. You think I have the right kind of mind for that?”

Gurney suggested that Kyle come up from the city that weekend, and they could talk about the whole situation in as much detail as he wanted for as long as he wanted. Kyle agreed-even seemed happy about it. When the call ended, Gurney sat for a good ten minutes, amazed.

There were other calls he had to make. In the morning he’d call Mark Mellery’s widow and tell her that it was finally over-that Gregory Dermott Spinks was in custody and that the evidence of his guilt was clear, concrete, and overwhelming. She’d probably already have gotten a personal call from Sheridan Kline and maybe from Rodriguez as well. But he’d call her anyway because of his relationship with Mark.

Then there was Sonya Reynolds. According to their arrangement, he owed her at least one more of his special mug-shot portraits. It seemed so unimportant now, such a trivial waste of time. Still, he’d call her and at least talk about it and would end up doing whatever he’d originally agreed to do. But nothing else. Sonya’s attention was pleasing, ego-gratifying, maybe even a little thrilling, but it came with too high a price, too great a danger to things that mattered more.

The 160-mile trip from Wycherly to Walnut Crossing took five hours instead of three because of the snow. By the time Gurney turned off the county highway onto the lane that meandered up the mountain to his farmhouse, he’d fallen into a kind of autopilot numbness. The window, open a crack for the last hour, had kept enough of a chill on his face and oxygen in his lungs to make driving possible. As he reached the gently sloping pasture that separated the big barn from the house, he noted that the snowflakes that had earlier been racing horizontally across the roads were now floating straight down. He drove slowly up through the pasture, turning eastward at the house before stopping, so that the warmth of the sun, later in the day when the storm had passed, could keep the windshield free of ice. He sat back, almost unable to move.

He was so deeply exhausted that when his phone rang, it took him several seconds to recognize the sound.

“Yes?” His greeting could have been mistaken for a wheeze.

“Is David there?” The female voice sounded familiar.