Blake Crouch - *69

At nine-thirty on a Thursday evening, as he lounged in bed grading the pop quizzes hed sprung on his 11th grade honors English class, Tim West heard footsteps ascend the staircase and pad down the hallway toward the bedroom.

His wife, Laura, appeared in the open doorway.

Tim, come here.

He set the papers aside and climbed out of bed.

Following her down the squeaky stairs into the living room, he found immense pleasure in the architecture of her long legs and the grace with which she carried herself. Coupled with that yellow satin teddy he loved and the floral tang of skin lotion, Tim foresaw a night of marital bliss. Historically, Thursdays were their night.

Laura sat him down in the oversize leather chair across from the fireplace, and as she took a seat on its matching ottoman, it struck him-this fleeting premonition that she was on the verge of revealing she was pregnant with their first child, a project theyd been working on since last Christmas. Instead, she reached over to the end table beside the chair and pressed the blinking play button on the answering machine:

Ten seconds of the static hiss of wind.

A womans voice breaks through, severely muffled, and mostly unintelligible except for, didnt mean anything!

A mans voice, louder and distorted by static: making me do this.

I can explain!

late for that.

A thud, a sucking sound.

in my eyes. The mans voice. Look in them!..you cant speak butlisten the last minutewhore-lifebe disrespected. You lie there and think about that while

Thirty seconds of that horrible sucking sound, occasionally cut by the wind.

The man weeps deeply and from his core.

An electronic voice ended the message with, Thursday, nine-sixteen, p.m.

Tim looked at his wife. Laura shrugged. He reached over, played it again.

When it finished, Laura said, Theres no way thats what it sounds like, right?

There any way to know for certain?

Lets just call nine-one-

And tell them what? What information do we have?

Laura rubbed her bare arms. Tim went to the hearth and turned up the gas logs. She came over, sat beside him on the cool brick.

Maybe its just some stupid joke, she said.

Maybe.

What? You dont think so?

Remember Gene Malack? Phys ed teacher?

Tall, geeky-looking guy. Sure.

We hung out some last year while he was going through his divorce. Grabbed beers, went bowling. Nice guy, but a little quirky. There was this one time when our phone rang, and I picked it up, said, Hello?, but no one answered. The strange thing was that I could hear someone talking, only it was muffled, just like that message. But I recognized Genes voice. I shouldve hung up, but human nature, I stayed on, listened to him order a meal from the Wendys drive-through. Apparently, hed had our number on speed-dial in his cell. It had gotten joggled, accidentally called our house.

One of the straps had fallen down on Lauras teddy.

As Tim fixed it, she said, You just trying to scare me? Lets call your brother-

No, not yet-

No, youre saying that a man, who we know well enough to be on his speed-dial list, was killing some poor woman tonight, and he accidentallywhat was the word?

Joggled.

Thank you. Joggled his phone, inadvertently calling us during the murder. That where youre going with this?

Look, maybe were getting a little overly-

Overly, shit. Im getting freaked out here, Tim.

All right. Lets listen once more, see if we recognize the voice.

Tim went over to the end table, played the message a third time.

Theres just too much wind and static, he said as it ended.

Laura got up and walked into the kitchen, came back a moment later with a small notepad she used for grocery lists.

She returned to her spot on the hearth, pen poised over the paper, said, Okay, who are we close enough friends with to be on their speed-dial?

Including family?

Anyone we know.

My parents, your parents, my brother, your brother and sister.

Jen. She scribbled on the pad.

Chris.

Shanna and David.

Jan and Walter.

Dave and Anne.

Paul and Mo.

Hans and Lanette.

Kyle and Jason.

Corey and Sarah.

This progressed for several minutes until Laura finally looked up from the pad, said, Theres thirty names here.

So, Ive got an unpleasant question.

What?

If were going on the assumption that whats on that answering machine is a man we know murdering a woman, we have to ask ourselves, which of our friends is capable of doing something like that?

God.

I know.

For a moment, their living room stood so quiet Tim could hear the second hand of his grandmothers antique clock above the mantle and the Bose CD player spinning Bach up in their bedroom.

Ive got a name, he said.

Me, too.

You first.

Corey Mustin.

Oh, come on, youre just saying that cause he took me to that titty bar in Vegas, and youve hated him ever-

I hate most of your college friends, but he in particular gives me the creeps. I could see him turning psychotic if he got jealous enough. Womans intuition, Tim. Dont doubt it. Your turn.

Your friend Annes husband.

Dave? No, hes so sweet.

Ive never liked the guy. We played ball in church league a couple years ago, and he was a maniac on the court. Major temper problem. Hard fouler. We almost came to blows a few times.

So what should I do? Put a check by their names?

Yeahwait. God, were so stupid. Tim jumped up from the hearth, rushed over to the phone.

What are you doing? Laura asked.

Star sixty-nine. Calls back the last number that called you.

As he reached for the phone, it rang.

He flinched, looked over at Laura, her eyes covered in the bend of her arm.

That scared the shit out of me, she said.

Should I answer it?

I dont know.

He picked up the phone mid-ring.

Hello?

Tiiiiiimmmmm.

Hi, Mom.

Hows my baby boy?

Im fine, but-

You know, I talked to your brother today and Im worried-

Look, Mom, Im so sorry, but this is a really bad time. Can I call you back tomorrow?

Well, all right. Love you. Kisses and hugs to that pretty wife of yours.

You, too. Bye, Mom. Tim hung up the phone.

Laura said, Does that mean we cant star sixty-nine whoever left the message?

I dont know.

You think theres some number you push to like, double star-sixty-

I dont work for the phone company, Laura.

Remember, I suggested we buy the package with caller ID, but you were all, No, thats an extra five bucks a month. I think its time to call the police.

No, Ill call Martin. Hell be off his shift in an hour.

A few minutes shy of eleven oclock, the doorbell rang.

Tim unlocked the deadbolt, found his brother, Martin, standing on the stoop, half-squinting in the glare of the porchlight, his uniform wrinkled, deep bags under his eyes.

You look rough, big bro, Tim said.

Can I come in or you wanna chat out here in the cold?

Tim peered around him, saw the squad car parked in the driveway, the engine ticking as it cooled.

Fog enveloped the streets and homes of Quail Ridge, one of the new subdivisions built on what had been a farmers treeless pasture, the houses all new and homogenous, close enough to the interstate to always bask in its distant roar.

He stepped to the side as Martin walked into his house, then closed and locked the door after them.

Laura asleep? he asked.

No, shes still up.

They walked past the living room into the kitchen where Laura, now sporting a more modest nightgown, had put a pot of water on the stove, the steam making the lid jump and jive.

Hey, Marty, she said.

He kissed her on the cheek. My God, you smell good. So you told him about us yet?