94
The Unicom Trade
nothing. But instead I don’t understand. Oh, God, but it’s lonely!”
For a space only the humming and the chill whistle were heard. Then: “Why did I call you, Trygve Yamamura? For help? What help is there now? You don’t even know that we don’t understand afterward. Were those pigs that I heard grunting in the forest, and did she come behind them in a black cloak? I’m all alone.”
And presently: “Something must be left. I read somewhere once that you don’t die in a piece. The last and lowest cells work on for hours. I guess that’s true. Because you’re still real, Trygve Yamamura.” Anther pause, as if for the thoughtful shaking of a weary head. “Yes, that must be why I called. What became of me, no, that’s of no account any more. But the others. They won’t stay real for very long. I had to call while they are, so you can help them. Come.”
“Cardynge,” Yamamura mumbled.
“No,” said the voice. “Goodbye.”
The instrument clicked off. Briefly the thin screaming continued along the wires, and then it too died, and nothing remained but the weight in Yamamura’s hand.
He became conscious of the storm that dashed against the windows, fumbled around and snapped the lamp switch. The bedroom sprang into existence: warm yellow glow on the walls, mattress springy beneath him and covers tangled above, the bureau with the children’s pictures on top. The clock said 1:35, He stared at the receiver before laying it back in its cradle.
DEAD PHONE
95
“Whoof,” he said aloud.
Had he dreamed that call? No, he couldn’t have. As full awareness flowed into him, every nerve cried alarm. His lanky, thick-chested frame left the bed in one movement. Yanking the directory from its shelf below the stand, he searched for an address. Yes, here. He took the phone again and dialed.
“Berkeley police,” said a tone he recognized.
“Joe? This is Trig Yamamura. I think I’ve got some trouble to report. Client of mine just rang me up. Damndest thing I ever heard, made no sense whatsoever, but he seems to be in a bad way and the whole thing suggests” Yamamura stopped.
“Yes, what?” said the desk officer.
Yamamura pinched his lips together before he said, “I don’t know. But you’d better send a car around to have a look.”
“Trig, do you feel right? Don’t you know what’s happening outdoors? We may get a disaster call any minute, if a landslide starts, and we’ve got our hands full as is with emergencies.”
“You mean this is too vague?” Yamamura noticed the tension that knotted his muscles. One by one he forced them to relax. “Okay, I see your point,” he said. “But you know I don’t blow the whistle for nothing, either. Dispatch a car as soon as possible, if you don’t hear anything else from me. Meanwhile I’ll get over there myself. The place isn’t far from here.”
“M-m-m … well, fair enough, seeing it’s you. Who is the guy and where does he live?”
96
The Unicorn Trade
“Aaron Cardynge.” Yamamura spelled the name and gave the address he had checked.
“Oh, yeah, I’ve heard of him. Medium-big importer, isn’t he? I guess he wouldn’t rouse you without some reason. Go ahead, then, and we’ll alert the nearest car to stop by when it can.”
“Thanks.” Yamamura had started to skin out of his pajamas before he hung up.
He was back into his clothes, with a sweater above, very nearly as fast, and pulled on his raincoat while he kicked the garage door open. The wind screeched at him. When he backed the Volkswagen out, it trembled with that violence. Rain roared on its metal and flooded down the windshield; his headlights and the rear lamps were quickly gulped down by night. Through everything he could hear how water cascaded along the narrow, twisting hill streets and sheeted under his wheels. The brake drums must be soaked, he thought, and groped his way in second gear.
But the storm was something real to fight, that cleansed him of vague horrors. As he drove, with every animal skill at his command, he found himself thinking in a nearly detached fashion.