This time, he let it go on blinking while he showered and shaved and brushed teeth. Then, wrapped in a towel, he listened to the message, which was Goldfarb: “Call me.” Well, that was succinct. Meehan hadn't had to memorize Goldfarb's number, since it was okay within the ten thousand rules for him to know it, but it did mean he had to remember where he'd put the piece of paper with the number and address. In the bedside table drawer, is where, next to the Gideon Bible. He dialed it. She picked up on the first ring, sounding paranoid: “Who's this?” “Meehan. You said call.” “Where were you?” Tricky question. “What do you mean?” “I left that message four o'clock yesterday.” “I was working,” he said. “You know what I mean.” Which was at least partly true. Up to the point he'd driven away from Burnstone Trail in that clean black Infiniti, he'd been working. After that, the thirty-five miles to the nearest New York City commuter line at Dover Plains, New York, where he'd abandoned the Infiniti without a fingerprint on it, he'd been fleeing.
