Mr. Mortimer rocked to the full extension of the mildewed oak runners as he sat beneath the drum chorus of heavy rain and thunder. He relaxed in one of two oversized wooden chairs spaced to fit a glass-covered brass table with a crystal ashtray sitting upon it. His covered porch ran the length of the patio and shielded the elements short of the edges, where water cascaded down from the bloated gutters, pooling on the rain-soaked floorboards.
Above him, a stone chimney glowed muted shades of yellow and orange from the flue opening against the backdrop of the angry gray sky.
The old man drew in a mouthful of cigar smoke and let it roll over his tongue before sipping from his glass of bourbon as a flash of lightning retreated from the black. He turned his head toward the Skinners’ home.
A mere block away, something had shifted in the world of Yitzhak Skinner, and in the world of Mr. Mortimer, too.
He heard the whispers, not from the same, but another. The whispers were strong. Pure. He sensed the pain and pleading from the one he knew. And yet a curious joy came from the other whisperer. Was it the boy? He could not tell. It no longer mattered once Yitzhak Skinner’s silent screaming grew still. A new partnership would soon begin—willing or not.
Mr. Mortimer spat and grinned.
“Akana mukav tut le Devlesa, Soptitorului.” I leave you to God, Whisperer, Mr. Mortimer said in the tongue of Polish Roma while raising his whiskey glass to the dark sky with respect.
From a plate by his side, he lifted a long bone to his mouth and, with a splintering crunch, bit through the hard outer layer to tongue the rich marrow clot inside.
