He hurried to the telephone book to see if Brighton might be covered by the 942 exchange. But no: 942 was for Watertown, across the Charles River from Brighton. While he was at it, he checked Marj’s home telephone. There was an M. Simmons at her address on Washington Street, but the phone was 367–9836. Another wild possibility struck him. Both the name Rollins and the number 9427503 were seven units long. Was 9427503 the numerical equivalent of his name on the telephone dial? Was someone playing an elaborate joke on him? He checked the telephone. No to that, too. Rollins and 9427503 did not overlap in the slightest; the telephone equivalent of Rollins was 7655467.
He was tempted to dial that number, just for curiosity’s sake. But he returned to the kitchen and, leaving the two pieces of paper on their easels, he prepared his breakfast (toast with peach jam, orange juice, black coffee). He continued to stare at them from various angles around the little kitchen throughout his meal. When he had cleared away his dishes, he could postpone the inevitable no longer. He carried the note over to his telephone table, picked up the receiver, and dialed. He got two rings, then a click. Then the shrill whine of a fax/modem line shrieked into his ear, and he hurriedly replaced the receiver.
It would have been about a ten-minute walk from his North End apartment to Johnson Investments in Boston’s financial district, but Rollins always drove. That took fifteen minutes, what with the lights, the tangle of one-way streets, and the parking. With the windows rolled up and the visor down, he felt safely insulated from the world as he glided along. Irritable this morning, with so much on his mind, he applied the horn liberally to scatter the pedestrians in his path.
He settled the car into its space four levels down from the street, then boarded the elevator to the lobby floor, its gleaming Tuscan marble and polished brass a testament to the firm’s prosperity, if not to that of its employees. For himself, he liked being part of such a big, gleaming success; it took off some of the family pressure to accomplish something personally. He enjoyed the smart click of his heels against the marble, the expansive echo, the surge of other well-dressed employees hurrying along to keep up with the demands of the global markets. He crossed the hall and, passing up two elevators that looked a bit too full for comfort, rode in silence to the fourteenth floor in the company of Kent McMillan, the twenty-nine-year-old stock picker whose Emerging Sector Fund had of late defied gravity. For three flights, Rollins watched him in the shiny reflection of the elevator doors. Then he spoke. “Mind if I ask you a question?”
McMillan’s eyes turned to his.
“Do people ever send you things out of the blue? People you don’t know, I mean.”
“Fan mail?” McMillan flicked some lint off a lapel. “Sure. Goes with the territory.”
“I meant something more along the line of…anonymous notes.”
Clearly, McMillan didn’t grasp what Rollins meant. “I get pictures sometimes. Women send ’em to me. You’d be surprised. Some of ’em—whew.” He rolled his eyes.
“They send them to you at home?”
“God, no. I’m not listed. The office. Why—someone been bugging you?”
“No, no.” Rollins coughed up a little laugh that he hoped would sound dismissive. “Nothing serious. I just received something a little unusual—handwritten, no name—and I thought you might—”
McMillan interrupted: “If it gets weird, you can always call security. They’re tigers.”
The elevator reached Rollins’ floor, and he stepped out. “Well, thanks.”
“Sorry it happened,” McMillan called out behind him.
McMillan had ten more flights to go, but Rollins got off on fourteen to join the other drones in operations, or ops, which amounted to the custodial department of the growing Johnson empire. If Rollins were ever blinded, he could find his way here by smell, or the absence thereof, for it was the one part of the entire building that bore no scent whatsoever. The other departments, to Rollins’ refined nostrils, nearly reeked of greed and fear, the dueling emotions of high finance. But ops was safe from all that. All the drones did was run the numbers on the numbers—determining the profits and losses of the big egos upstairs. By most standards, it was dull work. It involved no travel, few telephone conversations even, just the steady click of computer keys and an occasional amble down the hall for a cup of decaf or a Diet Coke.
But ops was Rollins’ domain, his lair, and it comforted him to see the place this morning, just as always: the blue-gray carpeting that covered not just the floor but three feet of the walls as well; the chalky, acoustic-tiled ceiling; the shiny faces, unmarked by strain. The sounds evoked an electronic rain forest: the driplike patter of the computer keyboards; the murmur of subdued, unenthusiastic voices; the warbling sort of ring that the phones gave off. Rollins had been here five years, a tenure twice the duration of the next-longest inmate, the irrepressible Sally James in overseas. But unlike the others, Rollins had no plans to leave.
One of the attractive points of the job for Rollins had always been the narrowness of its emotional range. He didn’t go to many parties, but when he did he usually accompanied the inevitable description of his job with a brief, wry lecture on the value of monotony. To him, the work represented security, reliability, steadiness—qualities that were important for reasons he had never fully explored and did not intend to. He let the big egos grapple with the vagaries of the investment trade, whether interest rates would rise or fall, where the unemployment rate would be six months out, whether the bond market would be spooked by an inauspicious military buildup in some piddling third-world country. Rollins merely put the day’s figures in a row and added them up. Well, there was more to it than that, but who really wanted to go into it? Leave it at this: Some days the sum was positive, some days negative, and he didn’t particularly care either way.
Rollins always arrived well before nine o’clock, to give himself time to get settled before the numbers started to fly when the domestic equity markets opened at nine-thirty. This morning, he passed through the glass double doors at 8:47. Happy not to be waylaid by Harmony, the gabby receptionist, he embarked on the twenty-three steps that led him to his small office with its one window, a prized emblem of his seniority. Marj’s workstation was about ten feet past his own, off to the right, and concealed behind a gray baffle. Rollins would catch sight of her only if she was standing, which she evidently wasn’t doing now. He was burning to ask her about the note, but he was not prepared to go and actually peer in her doorway to see if she was there. That would be a public declaration of interest in Marj that he wasn’t prepared to make. She was little more than a temp, after all, one with double earrings in each ear, like some Hottentot.
He veered off toward his desk, sat down, and scanned the windows of the office building across the way. But his eyes did not linger there. He felt edgy, restless. He flipped on his computer and tapped his foot on the carpeting until the machine booted up. He checked for e-mail messages, but found none. He felt a moment of relief that at least one avenue to his awareness remained uninvaded. Then disappointment set in. Marj might have sent him something. He could imagine it: clumsy but affectionate, signed—who knows?—“me.” He drummed his fingers on the desk. Maybe she hadn’t arrived yet. Unlike himself, her daily schedule was more variable. Some days, she rushed in well after the market had opened, a bit of tardiness that was nearly unforgivable at Johnson. Other days, she arrived even before he did. Was she here?
Rollins stood up and quickly scanned across the baffle tops. No sign of her.
He grabbed a mug off the slender shelf above his desk and headed down the corridor toward the kitchen nook. He slowed as he passed Marj’s desk. He glimpsed a bright summer outfit. Marj was leaning back in her chair as she talked to Jenette Manglen, the matronly senior executive from sectors. Rollins’ and Marj’s eyes met for only a moment. Marj’s fingers flicked a slight greeting. Before Manglen could spot him loitering there, Rollins accelerated again.
He lingered in the kitchen are
a, sampling the doughnuts. He bit into three of them, found them all unappetizing, and dropped them in the trash. He checked his watch, then slowly made his way back to his office, coffee in hand. This time, Marj was alone. She looked up toward him expectantly, but, right then, Rollins could not bring himself to speak to her. What would he say? It was enough to know, simply, that she was there. He continued on back to his desk, where he sipped his coffee, his door open beside him.
“You could at least wave.” It was Marj, close by. He sensed the brightness of her dress.
Rollins pretended to be absorbed in his computer screen.
From the way the air moved, he could feel her lean down to him. “Hello?”
He turned around to face her. He noticed the thin, wobbly line of yellow eyeliner on her eyelid, the youthful softness of her cheeks and chin.
She leaned back against his desktop, her pelvis nearly at his eye level. “What, not talking to me?”
In his youth, Rollins had been prone to migraines that whipped up out of nothing, forcing him to lie under cold compresses in bed with the shades drawn for days, and he lived in fear that they would someday return. They tended to come out of a feeling of being overwhelmed, as if he were caught in a net from which he could never clear himself, no matter how much he flailed and flailed. Certain colors could do it, some smells, even a noise if it was the right pitch. But some emotions would do it most of all. Now, despite his eagerness to be here with Marj, Rollins felt his temples pounding in a way that was not auspicious. He needed silence, solitude. Rollins got up from his chair and stepped past her, inadvertently catching his fingertip on her skirt as he brushed by. “Excuse me. I’m sorry.” He headed briskly down the corridor. Rollins could sense heads turning toward him as he rushed by, but he was past caring. As he passed the kitchen nook, he hurriedly set his coffee mug down in the sink. Behind him, he could see Marj pursuing him.
This was not good. He hurried on down to the end of the corridor, past the boss’s glassed-in office, took a right, and dashed to the men’s room, sure that he would be safe there among the porcelain urinals. He pushed open the heavy door and rushed headlong to the sink, desperate to plunge his head under ice-cold water. But just as he was reaching for the spigot, the door opened again behind him, and he heard a pair of heels click on the tiled floor.
“Rolo, you all right?” It was Marj, coming closer.
At first, Rollins didn’t answer. He ducked down silently to check the toilet stalls, which, mercifully, were empty. “You shouldn’t be in here,” he said quietly. He soaked a paper towel with cold water and dabbed his forehead.
Marj stepped closer and took the towel from him. “Bend down.” She spoke softly.
Rollins grasped the edges of the sink with his hands, bowed his head, and closed his eyes. He felt her hands push into his hair as she pressed the cool towel down on his temples, first one, then the other. Some water trickled down toward his eyes, like backward tears.
Warm water slurping in his ear, and suds threatening his eyes, and her hands on him, Neely’s hands, digging into his scalp, pushing and pushing, from behind him, as she bent over his back. “Keep your eyes shut,” she’d say. “Squeeze ’em.” And his snuffling as he said okay.
He closed his eyes tight, his head filled with the soothing sensation that came from Marj’s fingertips. He was eager for it, but uncertain, too. He was too aware of Marj’s body, pressing against his side; with Neely, he’d sensed only her hands.
“Headache?”
“A migraine. I could feel it coming. I’m sorry. I should have said.”
Marj continued to massage his temples. Rollins was terribly afraid someone might come in. “You sleep all right last night?” she asked.
“Not particularly.”
“Me neither. I kept thinking about that weird house, and that real estate guy.”
Rollins let his head sag, trying to let the soothing coolness from her fingertips work into his brain. A long time passed in silence as her fingers went around and around on his temples. For a while, her gentle strokes achieved wonders. It seemed that her caresses were actually reaching into his consciousness. But finally, the sheer proximity of this near-stranger, delightful as she was, unnerved him. He thought about how awkward it would look if someone came in and found them there, his head bent low before her, his left ear so close to her breast. He stepped away from the sink. “Thanks.” He pulled out some paper towels to dry his hands and the sides of his face. When he looked up, he was surprised she was still there, considering that he had delivered her cue to leave. But there was no denying it—she was definitely attractive just now, her hair rumpled, her lips parted as she looked at him.
“I found this when I arrived home last night,” he said after a moment. He reached into his jacket pocket and handed her the envelope.
Marj wiped her hands on her skirt and took it from him.
Rollins watched her open up the envelope and slide out the paper. “You didn’t leave it for me by any chance, did you?”
“This?” Marj read off the digits, then checked on the back. “God, no. What’s 9427503—the winning lotto?”
“I figured it was a phone number.”
“You try it?”
Rollins nodded gently, not wanting to bring on a headache. “It’s a fax line.”
Marj brought her hand to her mouth. “Oh, God—you got that, that screech? No wonder you have a headache.”
“You sure you didn’t leave it?”
“Rolo, I don’t even know where you live.”
That nickname seemed to have established an intimacy that Rollins wasn’t quite ready for.
“Yesterday, you told Sloane I lived in town,” he said evenly.
“Will you get off this, please? In town—that’s just an expression, okay?” She looked at the note again. “It’s not even my handwriting. I don’t do script—not like that anyway. Look—”
She reached into Rollins’ jacket for a pen and wrote his name out in her own handwriting below the other Rollins. When she was finished, it was strange to see his name there twice, as if two different people—both of them strangers, really—were calling out to him.
“See?” Marj asked. “What would I send you a bunch of numbers for, anyway? If I wanted to write you something, I’d use words.”
“I guess I wasn’t thinking.”
“So who did send it?”
“That’s what I don’t know.”
“We’ll have to try the fax line, then.” Marj snapped up the paper and headed for the door.
“Wait a second—you can’t just—”
But Marj didn’t stop. Conscious of his incipient migraine, Rollins tried not to jostle his head too much as he hurried to catch up to her outside in the corridor. “You can’t just send her anything.”
Marj turned around toward him, puzzlement on her face. “Her?”
Somewhat sheepishly, Rollins told her his theory of female penmanship, afraid Marj might find it sexist. Women could be touchy about such things.
Marj looked at the letter again. “Maybe. We’ll have to find out, won’t we?” She led him back to the fax machine and pulled out a blank sheet of paper. “Here. Write something.”
“But if I send a note, it will have this fax number on it. Whoever-it-is will know where I work.”
“They already know where you live.”
Rollins rubbed his temples, feeling the hot skin slide around on either side of his head.
“Besides, you were willing to call from your home phone. That’s traceable. Ever heard of caller ID?”
“Yes, but—” It hadn’t occurred to him that such a modern innovation might apply to his own calls from such an antique phone. It distressed him to think how visible he was—he who had always prided himself on his ability to stay hidden. It seemed that he was scattering calling cards wherever he went. “Oh, never mind.”
“Go on. Write something. It probably won’t go through anyway. It’s probably just a computer modem.”
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Rollins leaned over the table on which the fax machine sat. After a bit of thought, he wrote: Who are you and what do you want? He showed the line to Marj.
“Perfect.” She gave him an admiring look, then took the sheet and fed it into the fax machine, punched in the number on the telepad, and pressed the green START button. There was a dial tone, then the chirp of the numbers going through, and then the scream of the machine at the other end of the line. Finally a click, and the paper started to slide slowly through.
“Looks like it’s working,” Marj said.
Both of them watched the paper disappear into the machine and reemerge into the collecting tray beneath. Marj scooped it up from there and handed it to Rollins, who dropped it into the wastebasket. “I guess it was a fax number,” he said.
All Rollins could think was that he had sent a message off into the void. But he didn’t have a chance to ponder this for long. The fax machine soon gave out another click, then it started to rumble, and slowly a piece of paper rose from the machine’s hind end. Rollins swept the fax off the receiving tray. It was his own message sent back to him. But this time, each you was underlined, so that the sentence now read: Who are you and what do you want?
“Well, looks like it was a wrong number after all,” Rollins said, relieved.
Marj looked astonished. “Are you kidding me? Somebody’s on to you, Rolo. Who are you, what do you want—it’s what I’d want to know.”
“Come on. It’s just some clod who’s irritated to get a fax from a stranger.”
“Well, let’s find out.” Marj snatched the message from Rollins and grabbed the pen that was still in his hand. She added her own note to the bottom of the fax: What’s that supposed to mean?
Rollins watched as she slid it into the fax machine, pressed REDIAL, then START. The fax worked its way through the machine’s digestive tract.
The Dark House Page 4