For a moment Lisey said nothing. She reflected on how her caller had pronounced husband - almost husbun, as though Scott had been some exotic breakfast treat, now consumed. How he called her Missus. Not a Maine man, not a Yankee, and probably not an educated man, at least in the sense Scott would have used the word; she guessed that "Zack McCool" had never been to college. She also reflected that the wind had indeed changed. She was no longer scared. What she was, at least for the time being, was angry. More than angry. Pissed like a bear.
In a low, choked voice she hardly recognized, she said: "Woodbody. That's who you're talking about, isn't it? Joseph Woodbody. That Incunk son of a bitch."
There was a pause on the other end. Then her new friend said: "I'm not following you, Missus."
Lisey felt her rage come all the way up and welcomed it. "I think you're following me fine. Professor Joseph Woodbody, King of the Incunks, hired you to call and try to scare me into...what? Just turning over the keys to my husband's study, so he can go through Scott's manuscripts and take what he wants? Is that what...does he really think..." She pulled herself down. It wasn't easy. The anger was bitter but it was sweet, too, and she wanted to trip on it. "Just tell me, Zack. Yes or no. Are you working for Professor Joseph Woodbody?"
"That's none of your bi'ness, Missus."
Lisey couldn't reply to this. She was struck dumb, at least temporarily, by the sheer effrontery of it. What Scott might have called the puffickly huh-yooge (none of your bi'ness) ludicrosity of it.
"And nobody hired me to try and do nothing." A pause. "Anything, I mean. Now Missus. You want to close your mouth and listen. Are you listen to me?"
She stood with the telephone's receiver curled against her ear, considering that - Are you listen to me? - and said nothing. "I can hear you breathing, so I know you are. That's good. When I'm hired, Missus, this mother's son don't try, he does.
I know you don't know me, but that's your disadvantage, not mine. This ain't...iddn't just brag. I don't try, I do. You are going to give this man what he wants, all right? He is going to call me on the telephone or e-mail me in this special way we have and say, 'Everything's okay, I got what I want.' If that don't...if it dutn't happen in a certain run of time, I'm going to come to where you are and I'm going to hurt you. I am going to hurt you places you didn't let the boys to touch at the junior high dances."
Lisey had closed her eyes at some point during this lengthy speech, which had the feel of a memorized set-piece. She could feel hot tears trickling down her cheeks, and didn't know if they were tears of rage or...
Shame? Could they actually be tears of shame? Yes, there was something shameful in being talked to like this by a stranger.
It was like being in a new school and getting scolded by the teacher on your first day.
Smuck that, babyluv, Scott said. You know what to do.
Sure she did. In a situation like this you either strapped it on or you didn't. She'd never actually been in a situation like this, but it was still pretty obvious.
"Missus? Do you understand what I just told you?"
She knew what she wanted to say to him, but he might not understand. So Lisey decided to settle for the more common usage.
"Zack?" Speaking very low.
"Yes, Missus." He immediately fell into the same low tone.
What he perhaps took for one of mutual conspiracy.
"Can you hear me?"
"You're a bit low-pitch, but...yes, Missus."
She pulled air deep into her lungs. Held it for a moment, imagining this man who said Missus and husbun and dutn't for doesn't. Imagined him with the telephone screwed tightly against his ear, straining toward the sound of her voice. When she had the picture clearly in the forefront of her mind, she screamed into that ear with all her force. "THEN GO FUCK YOURSELF!"
Lisey slammed the phone back into the cradle hard enough to make dust fly up from the handset.
5
The telephone began to ring again almost immediately, but Lisey had no interest in further conversation with "Zack McCool." She suspected that any chance of having what the TV talking heads called a dialogue was gone. Not that she wanted one. Nor did she want to listen to him on the answering machine and find out if he'd lost that tone of weary good nature and now wanted to call her a bitch, a cunt, or a cooze. She traced the telephone cord back to the wall - the plate was close to that stack of liquor-store boxes - and yanked the jack.
The phone fell silent halfway through the third ring. So much for "Zack McCool," at least for the time being. She might have doings with him later, she supposed - or about him - but right now there was Manda to deal with. Not to mention Darla, waiting for her and counting on her. She'd just go back to the kitchen, grab her car-keys off the peg...and she'd take two minutes to lock the house up, as well, a thing she didn't always bother with in the daytime.
The house and the barn and the study.
Yes, especially the study, although she was damned if she'd capitalize it the way Scott had done, like it was some extraspecial big deal. But speaking of extra-special big deals...
She found herself looking into the top box again. She hadn't closed the flaps, so looking in was easy to do.
IKE COMES HOME
By Scott Landon
Curious - and this would, after all, take only a second - Lisey leaned the silver spade against the wall, lifted the titlepage, and looked beneath. On the second sheet was this: