Myron reread the article and looked at his two friends. “Nice to have a consensus,” he said.
13
The mobile phone blew him out of his sleep like a shotgun blast. Myron’s hand reached up blindly, his fingers bouncing along the night table until they located the phone.
“Hello?” he croaked.
“Is this Myron Bolitar?”
The voice was a whisper.
“Who is this?” Myron asked.
“You called me.”
Still whispering, the sound like leaves skittering across pavement.
Myron sat upright, his heartbeat picking up a little steam. “Davis Taylor?”
“Sow the seeds. Keep sowing. And open the shades. Let the truth come in. Let the secrets finally wither in the daylight.”
Ooookay. “I need your help, Mr. Taylor.”
“Sow the seeds.”
“Yes, of course, we’ll sow away.” Myron flicked on the light. 2:17 A.M. He checked the LCD display on the phone. The Caller ID was blocked. Damn. “But we have to meet.”
“Sow the seeds. It’s the only way.”
“I understand, Mr. Taylor. Can we meet?”
“Someone must sow the seeds. And someone must unlock the chains.”
“I’ll bring a key. Just tell me where you are.”
“Why do you wish to see me?”
What to say? “It’s a matter of life and death.”
“Whenever you sow the seeds, it’s a matter of life and death.”
“You donated blood for a bone marrow drive. You’re a match. A young boy will die if you don’t help.”
Silence.
“Mr. Taylor?”
“Technology cannot help him. I thought you were one of us.” Still whispering but sad now.
“I am. Or at least I want to be—”
“I’m hanging up now.”
“No, wait—”
“Good-bye.”
“Dennis Lex,” Myron said.
Silence, except for the sound of breathing. Myron wasn’t sure if the sound was coming from him or the caller.
“Please,” Myron said. “I’ll do whatever you ask. But we have to meet.”
“Will you remember to sow the seeds?”
Small chunks of ice dropped down his back.
“Yes,” Myron said, “I’ll remember.”
“Good. Then you know what you must do.”
Myron gripped the receiver. “No,” he said. “What must I do?”
“The boy,” the voice whispered. “Say one last good-bye to the boy.”
14
“Sow the seeds?” Esperanza said. They were in Myron’s office. The morning sun striped the floor with Venetian slits, two cutting across Esperanza’s face. She didn’t seem to mind.
“Right,” Myron said. “And something about that phrase keeps gnawing at me.”
“It was a Tears for Fears song,” Esperanza said.
“ ‘Sowing the Seeds of Love.’ I remember.”
“Wasn’t that the name of the tour too? We saw them at the Meadowlands in, what, 1988?”
“Eighty-nine.”
“What happened to those guys?”
“They broke up,” Myron said.
“Why do they all do that?”
“Got me.”
“Supertramp, Steely Dan, the Doobie Brothers—”
“Not to mention Wham.”
“They break up and then they never make anything decent on their own. They flounder around and end up a segment of VH-1’s Where Are They Now?”
“We’re getting off the subject.”
Esperanza handed him a slip of paper. “Here’s the office number for Susan Lex, Dennis’s older sister.”
Myron read the number like it was in code and might mean something. “I had another thought.”
“What’s that?”
“If Dennis Lex exists, then he had to have gone to school, right?”
“Maybe.”
“So let’s see if we can find out where the Children Lex schooled—public, private, whatever.”
Esperanza frowned. “You mean like college?”
“Start there, yes. Not that siblings go to the same school, but maybe they did. Or maybe they all went to Ivy League schools. Something like that. You might want to start with high school. It’s more likely that they all went to the same one.”
“And if I don’t find any record of him in high school?”
“Go back even further.”
She crossed her legs, folded her arms. “How far?”
“As far as you can.”
“And what good will this exercise in futility do us?”
“I want to know when Dennis Lex fell off the radar screen. Did people know him in high school? In college? In grad school?”
She did not look impressed. “And assuming I somehow manage to find, say, his elementary school, what exactly is that going to do for us?”
“Damn if I know. I’m grasping at straws here.”
“No, you’re asking me to grasp at straws.”
“Then don’t do it, Esperanza, okay? It was just a thought.”
“Nah,” she said with a wave of her hand. “You may be right.”
Myron put his palms on his desk, arched his back, looked left, looked right, looked up, looked down.
“What?” she said.
“You said I may be right. I’m waiting for the world as we know it to end.”
“Good one,” Esperanza said, standing. “I’ll see what I can dig up.”
She left the room. Myron picked up the telephone and dialed Susan Lex’s number. The receptionist transferred the call, and a woman identifying herself as Ms. Lex’s secretary picked it up. She had a voice like a steel-wool tire over gravel.
“Ms. Lex does not see people she doesn’t know.”
“It’s a matter of grave importance,” Myron said.
“Perhaps you did not hear me the first time.” Classic Battle-ax. “Ms. Lex does not see people she doesn’t know.”
“Tell her it’s about Dennis.”
“Excuse me?”
“Just tell her that.”
Battle-ax put Myron on hold without another word. Myron listened to a Muzak version of Al Stewart’s “Time Passages.” Myron had thought the original was Muzak-y enough, thank you very much.
The battle-ax came back with a snap. “Ms. Lex does not see people she doesn’t know.”
“I’ve been thinking about that, but it doesn’t really make sense.”