Spark: A Novel Read Online Free PDF Page B

Unit.
    There was only one problem with my teacher: she found pleasure touching things—Joey, of course, along with her silk scarves and cashmere sweaters. I didn’t tell her about my list of rules, but I said that I disliked being touched because of psychological problems. Once Mrs. Driscoll touched my arm, then remembered and quickly pulled her hand away.
    “Ahhh, yes. Your dreadful affliction. But you will touch Joey. Won’t you, Mr. Morgan? Isn’t he a dear little thing?”
    “Yes, he is,” I said, and then I touched him. Joey’s fur was soft and his body was warm. He was indisputably alive.
    “After Mr. Driscoll passed on, I was so sad until my little darling came into my life. Mr. Morgan, with all affection and respect, I do feel that you should consider getting a dog. Sometimes …” Her thin hands fluttered through the air and the bracelets jingled. “Sometimes you seem so
lonely.
You’re the loneliest man I’ve ever met.”
    I took my hand away from the dog. “Let’s continue with our lesson.…”

    Six days after I set up the Sentinel cameras, a FedEx deliveryman arrived at the apartment with a large box labeled GOLF EQUIPMENT . Inside the box was a new golf bag that contained a breech-loading double-barrel shotgun. It was an elegant mechanism with a walnut stock, but it was designed to kill grouse or pheasant—not former hedge-fund executives with well-armed bodyguards.
    I e-mailed Miss Holquist and used soft language:
    // Received shipment. I am concerned. This equipment is not adequate for an effective sales presentation.
    Five hours later, I got an answer:
    // We are still negotiating with a new UK supplier. In the interim, your equipment was purchased from a reputable subcontractor in Brixton. I believe that this equipment is more than adequate for a one-time presentation to a single client. Please complete your assignment.
    But what if another guard was in the house? Or what if Mallory was armed? The shotgun looked like an antique. What if the weapon jammed or didn’t work? I thought about sending another e-mail to Miss Holquist, but I knew that it would be a waste of time. Once I accepted an assignment, there was no backing out.
    Sitting in the living room, I felt my Spark drift through my Shell like a red glass marble dropped into a vat of honey. Smell of moldy curtains, dusty carpets. Sound of the traffic outside as Christmas music forced its way through the walls from a neighbor’s flat:
    Angels we have heard on high
    Sweetly singing o’er the plain
    And the mountains in reply
    Echoing their joyous strains
    Gloria …

I spent most of the next day trying to figure out how I would carry and conceal the shotgun. It was a relief to take the bus to Stoke Newington for my evening lesson.
    Mrs. Driscoll’s downstairs neighbor was returning home with shopping bags. She recognized me from previous visits and let me into the vestibule. I climbed the stairs, knocked twice, and, when no one answered, entered the apartment.
    The dining room and kitchen were dark, but a table lamp glowed in the transformation room. “Mrs. Driscoll?” I whispered and, for a moment, I forgot the name I’d been using with her. “It’s Mr. Morgan.”
    I passed through the doorway and entered the transformation room. My teacher was lying on the sofa, curling around a throw pillow. It looked as if she was embracing the pillow, trying to draw it into her body.
    “Mrs. Driscoll?”
    “Oh.” She sat up quickly. Tangled hair. No makeup. No earrings. Her face showed emotions, but I couldn’t evaluate them and didn’t want to take out my phone to access the emotion file.
    “Is everything all right?”
    “Joey—Joey is dead. Murdered.” She began crying, her fist clutching a lace handkerchief while her lungs wheezed and gasped for air.
    “What happened?”
    “Yesterday—Thursday—the door was open … and … and he got out. When I came out of the bathroom, I couldn’t
hear
him, couldn’t
find
him. I