4
She crossed to the desk and snared the handset with a mixture of dread and irritation...but quite a bit heavier on the irritation. It was possible - just - that Amanda had decided to whack off an ear à la Van Gogh or maybe slit her throat instead of just a thigh or a forearm, but Lisey doubted it. All her life Darla had been the sister most apt to call back three minutes later, starting off with I just remembered or I forgot to tell you.
"What is it, Darl?"
There was a moment or two of silence, and then a male voice - one she thought she knew - said: "Mrs. Landon?"
It was Lisey's turn to pause as she ran through a list of male names. Pretty short list these days; it was amazing how your husband's death pruned your catalogue of acquaintances. There was Jacob Montano, their lawyer in Portland; Arthur Williams, the accountant in New York who wouldn't let go of a dollar until the eagle shrieked for mercy (or died of asphyxiation); Deke Williams - no relation to Arthur - the contractor from Bridgton who'd turned the empty haylofts over the barn into Scott's study and who'd also remodeled the second floor of their house, transforming previously dim rooms into wonderlands of light; Smiley Flanders, the plumber from over in Motton with the endless supply of jokes both clean and dirty; Charlie Haddonfield, Scott's agent, who called on business from time to time (foreign rights and short-story anthologies, mostly); plus the handful of Scott's friends who still kept in touch. But none of those people would call on this number, surely, even if it were listed. Was it? She couldn't remember. In any case, none of the names seemed to fit how she knew (or thought she knew) the voice. But, damn it -
"Mrs. Landon?"
"Who is this?" she asked.
"My name doesn't matter, Missus," the voice replied, and Lisey had a sudden vivid image of Gerd Allen Cole, lips moving in what might have been a prayer. Except for the gun in his longfingered poet's hand. Dear God, don't let this be another one of those, she thought. Don't let it be another Blondie. Yet she saw she once more had the silver spade in her hand - she'd grasped its wooden shaft without thinking when she picked up the phone - and that seemed to promise her that it was, it was.
"It matters to me," she said, and was astounded at her businesslike tone of voice. How could such a brisk, nononsense sentence emerge from such a suddenly dry mouth? And then, whoomp, just like that, where she'd heard the voice before came to her: that very afternoon, on the answering machine attached to this very phone. And it was really no wonder she hadn't been able to make the connection right away, because then the voice had only spoken three words: I'll try again. "You identify yourself this minute or I'm going to hang up."
There was a sigh from the other end. It sounded both tired and good-natured. "Don't make this hard on me, Missus; I'm tryin-a help you. I really am."
Lisey thought of the dusty voices from Scott's favorite movie, The Last Picture Show; she thought again of Hank Williams singing "Jambalaya." Dress in style, go hog-wile, me-oh-my-oh.
She said, "I'm hanging up now, goodbye, have a nice life."
Although she did not so much as stir the phone from her ear.
Not yet.
"You can call me Zack, Missus. That's as good a name as any.
All right?"
"Zack what?"
"Zack McCool."
"Uh-huh, and I'm Liz Taylor."
"You wanted a name, I gave you one."
He had her there. "And how did you get this number, Zack?"
"Directory Assistance." So it was listed - that explained that. Maybe. "Now will you listen a minute?"
"I'm listening." Listening...and gripping the silver spade...and waiting for the wind to change. Maybe that most of all.
Because a change was coming. Every nerve in her body said so.
"Missus, there was a man came see you a little while ago to have a look through your late husband's papers, and may I say I'm sorry for your loss."
Lisey ignored this last. "Lots of people have asked me to let them look through Scott's papers since he died." She hoped the man on the other end of the line wouldn't be able to guess or intuit how hard her heart was now beating. "I've told them all the same thing: eventually I'll get around to sharing them with - "
"This fella's from your late husband's old college, Missus. He says he is the logical choice, since these papers're apt to wind up there, anyway."