Michael Koryta - Last Words

Her hand lingered on his in a strange grasp, as if she was trying to communicate a sense of need that she wasn’t willing to voice.

“It’s not my call,” Mark said. “I’ve got bosses to answer to.”

“Consideration,” she repeated, and then she released his hand and said, “Get out of the cold, and get some sleep.”

He followed the instruction, because it was damn cold, and suddenly he felt damn tired. When the sliding doors parted, they revealed an empty and silent lobby, the hotel so quiet it felt like a funeral home. The girl at the front desk glanced up at him, and her eyes were hard, almost hostile.

Do I look drunk? he wondered. He hadn’t had that many. Two, right? Maybe three. No more than three. He’d paid the bill; why hadn’t he noticed how many beers were on it?

“Mr. Novak, I want to let you know that your room will be unavailable tomorrow.”

He’d been almost to the elevator when she spoke, and he turned back in confusion.

“I booked just the one night.”

“I know. I’m only informing you that if you decide to stay in this town any longer, it won’t be here.”

Mark stared at her. She was standing tall, shoulders back and arms folded over her chest, a just-try-and-argue-with-me look.

“There are maybe nine cars in your parking lot,” he said. “Not real crowded.”

“Not tonight.”

“Tomorrow you’re filled up? What battalion is coming to town?”

“We won’t have any rooms available for you,” she said. “That’s all.”

“For me? Or for anyone?”

“There are other hotels in town,” she said, and then she turned on her heel, walked into the office, and shut the door behind her, leaving him alone in the silent lobby.

There was a mirror a few steps away, and he moved to it and looked at himself. Clear-eyed, if a little tired. Well dressed, if not for this weather. There was nothing about his appearance that made him an undesirable in a hotel that was probably desperate for cash this time of year.

So it’s Ridley. She overheard that conversation with Diane, thinks that I’m working for Ridley, and now I’m an unwelcome guest.

He was tired and wanted to sleep and shouldn’t give a shit about a girl who was throwing him out of her hotel for whatever small-town reasons she had. All the same, it chafed. It had been a long time since he’d been told he wasn’t welcome somewhere, and those days were supposed to be behind him. No matter the reason, the eviction stirred unpleasant memories and dark urges. He looked at the closed office door and considered it for a moment and then shook his head.

“Get some sleep, Markus,” he said. “And then get the hell out of here.”

He heard the phones ring the next morning while he was in the shower — first his cell, then the room phone. When the room phone stopped and then started up again, he shut off the water, wrapped a towel around his waist, and hurried out of the bathroom. He was expecting it to be Jeff or possibly Diane Martin. But the caller introduced himself as Gary Clay, a reporter with a newspaper in Evansville, just an hour south of Garrison.

“I understand that you’re opening an investigation into the Sarah Martin case, and I was hoping to learn a little bit about that,” Clay said.

“I really can’t comment. I don’t know who told you about this, but it’s a nonstory.”

“All due respect, but I’ve got plenty of readers who would disagree. The Martin case still has a hold around here, as I’m sure you know.”

“If we move forward with it, I’ll talk with you at some point.”

“My editor isn’t going to let me make that bargain. I’ve been told to write something, and all I know right now is that you’ve been hired by the only suspect—”

“No, that is not correct. In no way, shape, or form is that correct. Who told you that?”

“I can’t reveal that.”

“Of course not. But I’m supposed to reveal things to you, right?”

“I called to make sure I had accurate information,” Clay said. “See, it’s already helping.”

“Whatever you write, you’d better make it damn clear that we are not working for Ridley Barnes. Not working for anyone. And if you’re going to refuse to hold this story until you learn whether it even is a story, you’d better get your facts straight.”

“My apologies. I just knew that he was the only person you’d spoken with, which led me to believe—”

“Then you don’t know anything,” Mark snapped. “If you write that I’m working for Barnes, you’re going to need to have an attorney onboard real fast. Because that’s a flagrant lie. As is the statement that he’s the only person I’ve spoken with. As is, for that matter, the statement that he’s the only suspect.”

“Who else is a suspect?”

“Go read your own damn archives,” Mark said. “You’ll find some names. Then go call all of them and let them speak for themselves. Barnes, Borders, whoever you’d like. But do not put words in my mouth.”

“Is it correct that you haven’t attempted to locate any surviving family members but have already spoken with Ridley Barnes?”

“No, that is not correct,” Mark said. “I’ve met with Diane Martin, and she’s aware of the possibility of the investigation and supportive of it if we choose to move forward, and right now that’s unlikely. So you don’t need to waste your ink on me.”

There was a pause, and when the reporter spoke again, his words were slow and careful. “You met with Diane Martin?”

“I certainly did. And she’s—” Mark caught himself, grimaced, and shook his head. Gary Clay was pretty good. He’d turned Mark’s refusal to speak into a back-and-forth session in a few smooth moves by making bold statements that were designed to provoke an emotional response and, thus, a quotable response. Mark should have been smarter.

“That’s it,” he said. “That’s all I’ve got for you.”

“I understand that perspective,” Clay said, “but I actually think I might be able to help your reputation, not harm it. If you could—”

“I’m not going to let this go on any longer. If you write anything that says I’m working to clear Ridley Barnes, you’ll have some trouble over it. That’s not a threat. Just the truth of the matter.”

“In all honesty, I don’t think you can afford—”

“To continue this conversation,” Mark said. “You’re right. Good-bye.”

He hung up and closed his eyes for a minute. It would be better to fly back, sit before the board of directors, and tell them what had happened inside the prison than to linger here.

“Time to go,” he said aloud. “I’m sorry, Sarah. But this isn’t the right place for me.”

He’d meant it when he’d said it. He really had. He’d packed his bags and checked out of the hotel and was in the rental car headed out of town when he pulled over and used his phone to find the address of Trapdoor Caverns. The old web page was still active, boasting of boat and walking tours, of unmatched underground grandeur, fun for the whole family!

He thought then of the request, not Ridley’s but Diane Martin’s — You should go there. To Trapdoor. To the place where she died. I think you should see it for yourself — and he told himself that it was a bad idea and he needed to just keep driving. Then he thought, You’ve got the time, and if Diane Martin calls, you can tell her you did that much. You can tell her that you did what she asked. He turned off the highway and headed to Trapdoor Caverns.

Just for a look.

The place deserved a look, at least. It was the crime scene, after all, and even if he was just checking off boxes on his way to turning this one down, he needed to—