Michael Koryta - Last Words

“Did you actually have feelings for Sarah?” Mark said.

Borders worked his tongue over his teeth like he was preparing for the taste of Mark’s blood.

“You don’t need to say her name. No more than you needed to say mine to that reporter. Saying too many names in this town will eventually get you in trouble.”

“I’m just trying to put myself in your shoes. If I had feelings for a girl who was killed, last person I’d offer to help — clearing snow, of course, there was nothing more to it — would be the man people blame for her murder. But that’s just me.”

Evan Borders reached in the pocket of his jeans, removed a plastic container of chewing tobacco, and methodically worked a dip onto his fingertips and tucked it between his lower lip and his gums. He sucked on it for a few seconds and spit into the snow, all the while looking patient and thoughtful.

“Listen,” he said, “I could invite you in out of the cold, but I’m not going to. Still, I’m a nice guy, right? Considerate. I’m aware that you’ve spent more time in the cold lately than you probably cared to. So I’ll hustle things along, let you go on back to your car and get warmed up again. Looks like you need it. Don’t mean to offend you, but you should be in bed, my man. Get you some chicken soup and some ginger ale, right? I don’t have any to offer or I would, of course.”

“Considerate,” Mark said.

“Exactly.” Borders leaned his lanky body against the door frame and crossed his arms over his chest. The muscles bunched against his skin. “And out of consideration, I’m going to save you time. I’m going to answer the rest of your questions with one word. That word is—”

“I don’t have any other questions.”

Borders raised his eyebrows. “No?”

“Was hoping you could do me a favor, though.”

“A favor, he says. No shit? You toss my name around, stirring up old shit that you don’t know a damn thing about, getting people to look sideways at me all over again, getting whispers started again, and then you come to me for a fucking favor? That’s bold, brother.”

“It would take only a few seconds of your time,” Mark said.

“Well, let’s hear it, my man. What favor can I do you?”

Mark reached into the pocket of his jacket, pulled out the black wool ski mask, and unfolded it methodically. He extended it to Evan Borders.

“Try this on, please. Just for a few seconds.”

Borders stayed where he was and though his expression didn’t change, one of the muscles in his arm trembled.

“Get the fuck off my porch,” he said, his voice low. It was a classic threatening line, the get-out-of-my-face type of thing that a million assholes who thought they were hard would utter in a million situations, but it felt different coming from him. It felt real.

“Won’t even try it on?” Mark said. “A considerate guy like you?”

Borders straightened, took the mask in his hands, and then, in a blink-fast flash, pulled it down over Mark’s head. He’d turned it around so the eye- and mouth holes were at the back, leaving Mark blind again, just like he had been with the hood over his head. He tensed his abdominals, expecting a punch, but none came. He reached up and grasped the mask but didn’t pull it off. Instead, he rotated it until it was in the proper place and he could see Evan Borders again.

“Feels good,” Mark said. “Nice and warm. The last time I asked you for one, you weren’t as generous.”

Evan Borders leaned close to him and said, “You walk your ass back to your car now. You get in it, and you leave. And the next time you feel my name on your lips? You keep them shut. Garrison hears enough lies from Ridley Barnes. Don’t need to add yours to the mix.”

“If he’s a liar, then why are you his cavalry when trouble comes?”

Evan Borders stepped back into his house and slammed the door.

Mark kept the mask on as he walked to his car.

This world? It’s run by pressure.

The dials were beginning to tighten down in Garrison, and Mark was going to keep tightening them. He’d see Ridley Barnes again, but there was no need to rush for him. When he did see him, he wanted Ridley to have had plenty of time to consider Mark’s presence back in town.

They made him wait an hour for the sheriff, at which point he began to whistle. Mark wasn’t much for whistling these days. Uncle Ronny had been great at it, could imitate a harmonica if he chose, but most of that had been lost on Mark. Still, he had volume, and although it took all of “The Battle Hymn of the Republic” and the beginning of the marching song from The Bridge on the River Kwai, folks eventually decided the sheriff could see him after all.

Blankenship opened the door, gave Mark a sour look, and said, “I thought you were supposed to be back where the sun always shines, Novak.”

“‘Sun don’t shine on the same dog’s ass every day,’” Mark said.

The sheriff blinked at him.

“You don’t know that line?” Mark said. “Son of a bitch, sheriff, that’s Catfish Hunter’s finest material, borrowed in the movie Hoosiers. I’d have expected more from you, being from Indiana.”

“Get in here,” Blankenship snapped, “so you can get the hell out faster.”

Mark followed him back to the same office where he’d started this thing. The last time, he’d cruised through the department without noticing it, but now, with his labored breathing and heavy stride, he had the chance to take a good look at the place and all of the hostile, watching eyes. It was like the diner only with everyone in uniform.

“Why are you back?” Blankenship said when they were in his office.

“Because a very serious crime occurred in your county. A felony. A handful of felonies, in fact. You don’t seem to be aware of it.”

“This would be the tale you told about how you ended up in the cave? I spoke with your boss. He gave me your, um, take on that.”

“You heard about a kidnapping and attempted murder in your county and didn’t so much as bother to check in with the victim?”

“I also heard from a member of your board of directors. A Greg Roche? Name familiar?”

Mark said, “I know Greg,” and hoped his face didn’t show more than that. Greg was the reason Innocence Incorporated existed. A well-known prosecutor who’d worked high-profile cases and was appointed U.S. district attorney for Florida, Greg Roche had had one of the more famous change-of-heart moments in American law after he’d been presented with evidence that one of the death-row cases he’d prosecuted had resulted in the execution of an innocent man. He’d formed Innocence Incorporated then, bringing Jeff London on as his first investigator. Greg had also been Lauren’s moral guide, a man she respected more than anyone else in the profession. The board of directors operated, theoretically, on majority rule, but Greg’s vote counted the most.

“He was very interested to know my take on you, what your conduct had been, how you were representing the organization.” Blankenship inserted a pause. “I got the impression that you’re in a little bit of trouble with your own team.”

“You got the right one. That’s exactly why I’m back. I can’t afford to leave here without the truth. I need your help proving it.”

Blankenship shook his head. “I gave you the benefit of the doubt with your story about Diane Martin. I’m not wasting time on you again unless you have some evidence.”

Mark nodded. “Understood. I don’t have the evidence yet. I intend to gather it.”

“Terrific. You step wrong here, and I mean at all, and I’ll arrest you. To tell the truth, if it had been anyone other than Ridley Barnes that you’d bloodied up, I already would have. Ridley, though? He deserved what you gave him.”