Chapter 63: Name

Chapter 63: Name

Message from Seer: "Letter arrived. From Washington, D.C."

Kyle picked up his phone. "Open it."

"A piece of paper. Just one name on it."

"What name?"

"Jack Wilson."

Kyle put down his phone. Irene came out of the kitchen, drying her hands, and sat across from him.

"The name came."

"What is it?"

"Jack Wilson."

She looked at him. "Is it your name?"

"No." He didn't even frown. His finger tapped the table once, then stopped.

Kyle picked up his phone and typed: "Tell him the name is fake. Real name for the recording. No exchange, deal's off."

Seer went silent for a while. Ten seconds, twenty seconds. Kyle stared at the screen, his finger stopped tapping. He wondered if Klaus was also staring at his phone screen right now, wondered if he'd make up another name, wondered how much time he had left to waste. The screen lit up: "He says—how do you know it's fake?"

"Because I'm not called Jack Wilson."

Seer didn't reply. Kyle put down his phone. Irene looked at him, hands on the table, not moving.

"Kyle, will he exchange?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because he's scared. If the recording gets sent out, he has nothing. He took back the authorization letter. He needs something on me, he needs a name—a real name." Kyle looked at her, his finger tapped the table once. "He's more anxious than me. He can't afford to wait. He's newly appointed, his position isn't stable. He needs me to shut up, needs what I have to disappear forever. He's more anxious than me."

She made a sound of acknowledgment, withdrew her hands from the table, and placed them on her knees.

The phone lit up. Message from Seer: "He agreed. Real name for recording. Send simultaneously."

Kyle looked at the screen, didn't reply. "When?"

"Tomorrow."

Kyle put down his phone, stood up and walked to the mantelpiece. The voice recorder and key sat side by side next to the crayon box. He picked them up and gripped them in his hand, the metal casing pressing into his palm, like holding a knife. Once this thing was sent out, he'd have nothing left—just the key, just an empty shell. He stood there for a while, put them back, walked back and sat down. Irene looked at him, said nothing.

At dawn, Kyle stood up and walked to the window, lifted the curtain. The street corner was empty. He dropped the curtain and went upstairs. Amy was still sleeping. He stood at her bedroom door watching for a while: she was sleeping on her side, one hand out from under the covers resting on the pillow, that copy of "Knights and Dragons" showing a corner from under the pillow. He quietly closed the door and went downstairs. Irene stood at the kitchen doorway, holding coffee.

"Kyle, are you taking her today?"

"Yes."

She made a sound of acknowledgment and handed him the coffee. He took it and had a sip. Footsteps sounded upstairs, Amy ran down, hair tied up, blue ribbon.

"Kyle, are we having bread today?"

"No."

"Then what?"

"Ask your mom."

Irene came out of the kitchen, carrying a bowl of cereal and placed it in front of Amy. Amy picked up the spoon and took a bite.

"Kyle, you're wearing short sleeves today."

"Yes."

"Aren't you cold?"

"No."

She nodded, finished the cereal, jumped down from the chair. "Let's go."

Kyle stood up. Irene looked at him. He pushed open the door and walked into the sunlight with Amy. She walked quickly, didn't hold his hand. When they reached the school gate, she stopped.

"Kyle, see you this afternoon."

"See you this afternoon."

She ran in. When she ran to the school building entrance, she stopped and looked back at him, looked for two seconds, then pushed open the door and disappeared into the hallway.

Kyle stood in place, looking at that closed door, then turned to walk back. When he reached the street corner, he stopped—there was an envelope on the ground, white, no postmark. He bent down to pick it up and opened it. Inside was a piece of paper with only one address: Washington, D.C.

Kyle folded the paper and stuffed it in his pocket, walked quickly home, pushed open the door. Irene stood by the window, curtain lifted a crack. Dorothy sat at the dining table, knitting needles in hand.

"He came?"

"Yes. The address."

He took out the paper and placed it on the table. Irene picked it up, glanced at it, put it down. Kyle picked it up and stuffed it in his pocket, walked to the mantelpiece—the key was still there, the voice recorder wasn't, it was in his pocket. He didn't touch it, walked back and sat down.

The phone lit up. Message from Seer: "He's asking, did you send it?"

Kyle typed: "Sending today."

"He's waiting."

Kyle stood up, walked to the door and pushed it open, stood on the steps. The street corner was empty. He walked down the steps toward the post office, reached the corner and looked back—the door was open, Irene stood in the doorway. She didn't speak, didn't wave. He looked for a while, turned and continued walking.

The post office was small, a white single-story building. He pushed open the door. Behind the counter sat that woman, painting her nails. She saw him and put down the nail polish.

"What are you sending?"

Kyle took out the voice recorder from his pocket and placed it on the counter. The woman picked it up and glanced at it.

"Where to?"

"Washington, D.C."

The woman looked at him, didn't ask questions. She took an envelope, stuffed the voice recorder inside and sealed it, stuck on a stamp.

"Address?"

Kyle took out that piece of paper and placed it on the counter. The woman glanced at it, wrote the address on the envelope, tossed it into the basket behind her.

"I'll notify you when it arrives."

Kyle nodded, pushed open the door and walked out. Sunlight hit his face, he squinted, stood on the steps looking at the street corner—empty. He turned to walk back, pushed open the door. Irene stood by the window, curtain lifted a crack. Dorothy sat at the dining table, knitting needles in hand.

"Kyle, did you send it?"

"Sent it."

She made a sound of acknowledgment. Kyle sat across from her, put his hand in his pocket, felt the key—the voice recorder was gone. He withdrew his hand, looked at the doorway. The street corner was empty. The voice recorder was sent out, only the key remained in his hand. Wait for the real name to come, or wait for Klaus to lie again.

He sat there. Not waiting—calculating. Calculating whether Klaus would dare to lie again, calculating whether his chips were still enough, calculating when he'd beg for mercy. His finger tapped his knee once, once, again, then stopped. Klaus couldn't afford to wait, his position wasn't stable, he needed Kyle to shut up, needed Kyle's name—the real name. He was more anxious than Kyle.

Kyle took his hand off his knee, put it in his pocket, felt the key—cold, hard. He gripped it. Wait for the real name to come—no, not wait, calculate. Already calculated. Klaus would send it, would send the real one, because he didn't dare lie again. If he lied, the deal was off, he'd have nothing. Kyle still had the key, still had those things on the mantelpiece, still had that "Kyle" in Amy's textbook. Enough. This time, see who lets go first.