Think of a Number (Dave Gurney, No.1) Read Free Page B

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 ofhysteria 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.
    A fter 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