Split Second
Page 62
I find myself wondering as I write this letter to you how long I knew you before I went to my reward. I also find myself wondering how old you are as you read this. You see, my instructions were for you to be given this letter and ring upon the death of your father. I hope Josh lived a long, satisfying life and you, my dear, are middle-aged, and you have gained wisdom and insight into yourself and your fellow man. Do you yourself have a daughter?
I wish you joy, and love, and fulfillment in your life, Lucy. I will love you always.
Your Grandfather, Milton Xavier Carlyle
Lucy laid the letter on the desk, picked up the ring, and laid it on her palm. She slowly closed her hand around it. To her surprise, she felt warmth from it, and more, the ring felt quite natural in her hand.
Without thinking, she slipped the ring onto her middle finger. Since it was so large, she curled her fingers to keep it on. She turned on the desk lamp and held it close to the light. She saw symbols etched beneath the three carnelians—a half circle, flat side up; a circle with an inverted cross coming out of it, like an incomplete symbol of Venus or woman; and two small isosceles triangles with nothing at all unusual about them. She had to concentrate to make the symbols out clearly, they were so shallow and faded in the gold. What did the symbols mean? Were they pictographs from a long-ago language? She looked on the inside of the ring. There, in letters large enough for her to see clearly, was a single word etched in black letters: SEFYLL.
Was that Welsh? She whispered the word aloud, stumbling over the sound.
She whispered the word again, changing how she said it until the word flowed more smoothly out of her mouth, as if she had the right pronunciation. She said the word aloud, and she would swear there was a gentle rippling in the light from the desk lamp. Strange, but simply a play of the light—nothing, really.
Her cell phone rang, once, twice, three times, but she ignored it, pressed speaker, and let it go to voice mail. She heard Dillon’s deep voice speaking, but she paid no attention.
She stroked the ring with her thumb, then said the word again: “SEFYLL.”
Dillon stopped speaking in mid-sentence. It seemed to Lucy that the very air stopped, but only for a moment, and then her cell blared out the racing trumpet call again, then rang—one ring, two rings, three rings. And there was Dillon’s voice, and he was repeating what he’d said before.
Like a rubber band snapping back. She fell into the big leather wing chair, heart pounding, too confused to be frightened. What had happened? Dillon was speaking the same words he’d been saying before. She blinked when she heard him say, “So, bottom line, it was Kirsten who struck on Wall Street last night, and she had an accomplice. Call me.”
It was the oddest feeling, listening to him, knowing what he would say. Had he been cut off, called her twice, repeated the same message? She grabbed her cell. What had he said? “Dillon? Lucy here. Ah, you said there was an accomplice with Kirsten last night?”
There was a moment of silence, then, “Are you okay, Lucy?”
“What? Oh, yes, sure, I’m okay.”
Another brief pause, then, “I know Dr. Judd contacted you about the findings of the autopsy. I’m sorry.”
So, he’d called Dillon, too. Well, no surprise there. “Thank you, Dillon.”
“Coop asked me to call you, said you weren’t picking up. They’ve been interviewing Thomas Hurley, and they’ve got a police artist making a sketch.”
But Lucy couldn’t stop staring at the huge ring still sitting comfortably on her middle finger.
“Lucy?”
“I’m sorry, Dillon. Would you tell me something? Did you call me twice just now, get cut off maybe, and called again, or did you call only once?”
“Just once, and you called me right back.”
“I must have been mistaken, then. Don’t worry about it. I guess it has been quite a week, Dillon. I’m okay, though.”
Dillon wondered for an instant if Lucy was drunk, but no, that couldn’t be right. She sounded like she wasn’t really there, like she wasn’t hearing him, or didn’t care. Something was wrong.
“Lucy, is there something you want to tell me?”
Tell him? And look mad? Tell him this ring and this letter were scaring her to her toes? Say something!
“I’m fine, really. The house is no longer a crime scene, they cleared it this morning, but I’m not about to visit the attic, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“Tell you what, Lucy, you stay right there, and I’ll be over with some takeout, all right? Sherlock and Coop won’t be back until late, a flight delay. I’ll call you later.”
I wish you joy, and love, and fulfillment in your life, Lucy. I will love you always.
Your Grandfather, Milton Xavier Carlyle
Lucy laid the letter on the desk, picked up the ring, and laid it on her palm. She slowly closed her hand around it. To her surprise, she felt warmth from it, and more, the ring felt quite natural in her hand.
Without thinking, she slipped the ring onto her middle finger. Since it was so large, she curled her fingers to keep it on. She turned on the desk lamp and held it close to the light. She saw symbols etched beneath the three carnelians—a half circle, flat side up; a circle with an inverted cross coming out of it, like an incomplete symbol of Venus or woman; and two small isosceles triangles with nothing at all unusual about them. She had to concentrate to make the symbols out clearly, they were so shallow and faded in the gold. What did the symbols mean? Were they pictographs from a long-ago language? She looked on the inside of the ring. There, in letters large enough for her to see clearly, was a single word etched in black letters: SEFYLL.
Was that Welsh? She whispered the word aloud, stumbling over the sound.
She whispered the word again, changing how she said it until the word flowed more smoothly out of her mouth, as if she had the right pronunciation. She said the word aloud, and she would swear there was a gentle rippling in the light from the desk lamp. Strange, but simply a play of the light—nothing, really.
Her cell phone rang, once, twice, three times, but she ignored it, pressed speaker, and let it go to voice mail. She heard Dillon’s deep voice speaking, but she paid no attention.
She stroked the ring with her thumb, then said the word again: “SEFYLL.”
Dillon stopped speaking in mid-sentence. It seemed to Lucy that the very air stopped, but only for a moment, and then her cell blared out the racing trumpet call again, then rang—one ring, two rings, three rings. And there was Dillon’s voice, and he was repeating what he’d said before.
Like a rubber band snapping back. She fell into the big leather wing chair, heart pounding, too confused to be frightened. What had happened? Dillon was speaking the same words he’d been saying before. She blinked when she heard him say, “So, bottom line, it was Kirsten who struck on Wall Street last night, and she had an accomplice. Call me.”
It was the oddest feeling, listening to him, knowing what he would say. Had he been cut off, called her twice, repeated the same message? She grabbed her cell. What had he said? “Dillon? Lucy here. Ah, you said there was an accomplice with Kirsten last night?”
There was a moment of silence, then, “Are you okay, Lucy?”
“What? Oh, yes, sure, I’m okay.”
Another brief pause, then, “I know Dr. Judd contacted you about the findings of the autopsy. I’m sorry.”
So, he’d called Dillon, too. Well, no surprise there. “Thank you, Dillon.”
“Coop asked me to call you, said you weren’t picking up. They’ve been interviewing Thomas Hurley, and they’ve got a police artist making a sketch.”
But Lucy couldn’t stop staring at the huge ring still sitting comfortably on her middle finger.
“Lucy?”
“I’m sorry, Dillon. Would you tell me something? Did you call me twice just now, get cut off maybe, and called again, or did you call only once?”
“Just once, and you called me right back.”
“I must have been mistaken, then. Don’t worry about it. I guess it has been quite a week, Dillon. I’m okay, though.”
Dillon wondered for an instant if Lucy was drunk, but no, that couldn’t be right. She sounded like she wasn’t really there, like she wasn’t hearing him, or didn’t care. Something was wrong.
“Lucy, is there something you want to tell me?”
Tell him? And look mad? Tell him this ring and this letter were scaring her to her toes? Say something!
“I’m fine, really. The house is no longer a crime scene, they cleared it this morning, but I’m not about to visit the attic, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“Tell you what, Lucy, you stay right there, and I’ll be over with some takeout, all right? Sherlock and Coop won’t be back until late, a flight delay. I’ll call you later.”
