Chapter 12: Tom's Last Message

The old man dug into his vest and brought out a flip phone held together with black tape.

"I kept it nineteen years," he said. "I charge it every winter and I've never once had the nerve to use it."

I stood on the step under the red neon, and I could hear a table scraping across the floor inside.

Mace had stepped up beside me.

"What's on it?" I asked.

"The last thing your father ever said that wasn't to Ray."

He thumbed it open with one stiff finger.

"He left it on my machine at twelve minutes past nine."

He held it toward me and pressed a button.

I heard rain first, and a long scratch of wind.

Then a man's voice, hoarse and low and slow, said, "It's Tom. Pick up, old friend."

I hadn't heard that voice since I was nine.

I put a hand over my mouth.

"Ray left me at the guardrail. I'm hurt bad. He won't call it in."

A cough, and a hard wet breath.

"Don't let him have the sparrow, old friend. My wife has it. Keep her and my girl clear of him."

There was a gap of rain, and the voice came again, softer.

"Tell my girl I'm sorry I'm not coming home."

The message ended.

I couldn't see for a moment.

Mace had put his arm around my shoulders without asking, and I leaned into him without asking either.

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