*69 by Blake Crouch Page A

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 Gene’s voice. I
should’ve hung up, but human nature, I stayed on, listened to him
order a meal from the Wendy’s drive-through. Apparently, he’d 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 Laura’s
teddy.
    As Tim fixed it, she said, “You just trying
to scare me? Let’s call your brother—”
    “No, not yet—”
    “No, you’re saying that a man, who we know
well enough to be on his speed-dial list, was killing some poor
woman tonight, and he accidentally…what was the word?”
    “Joggled.”
    “Thank you. Joggled his phone, inadvertently
calling us during the murder. That where you’re going with
this?”
    “Look, maybe we’re getting a little
overly—”
    “Overly, shit. I’m getting freaked out here,
Tim.”
    “All right. Let’s listen once more, see if we
recognize the voice.”
    Tim went over to the end table, played the
message a third time.
    “There’s 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, “There’s thirty names
here.”
    “So, I’ve got an unpleasant question.”
    “What?”
    “If we’re going on the assumption that what’s
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 grandmother’s antique
clock above the mantle and the Bose CD player spinning Bach up in
their bedroom.
    “I’ve got a name,” he said.
    “Me, too.”
    “You first.”
    “Corey Mustin.”
    “Oh, come on, you’re just saying that ‘cause
he took me to that titty bar in Vegas, and you’ve 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. Woman’s intuition, Tim. Don’t
doubt it. Your turn.”
    “Your friend Anne’s husband.”
    “Dave? No, he’s so sweet.”
    “I’ve 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?”
    “Yeah…wait. God, we’re 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 don’t know.”
    He picked up the phone mid-ring.
    “Hello?”
    “Tiiiiiimmmmm.”
    “Hi, Mom.”
    “How’s my baby boy?”
    “I’m fine, but—”
    “You know, I talked to your brother today and
I’m worried—”
    “Look, Mom, I’m so sorry, but this is a
really bad