Michael Koryta - Last Words

“That’ll do,” he said. “Thanks for the help.”

“Sure thing,” she said, and when he was back on the other side of the counter and had his hand on the door, she added, “Good luck chasing dead women.”

He turned and stared at her, and she gave him a wide smile. “I’m not quite the yokel you want me to be, mister. But I do appreciate the cash.”

Mark opened his mouth to speak, but she waved him off with those bright red nails. “Don’t you worry about me, honey. It’s an interesting little story, but I know how to run my business. Two things I’m real familiar with: cash and keeping my mouth shut. You go on your way now, and try to stay aboveground.”

Jeff had called three times the previous night, but Mark had slept through them all. When Mark called him back, Jeff was on his way into the courthouse in Austin, and the concern in his voice was evident.

“The last time you started missing calls, they had to chopper you to a hospital, Markus.”

“Sorry. I was asleep. Doctor’s orders.”

“Where are you?”

“Garrison.”

“Shit, you went without me?”

“You’re still in Texas. I can’t really afford to wait. You’re the one who made that clear. It became even more clear to me when I learned that Greg Roche is calling around. Not having someone do it for him — making calls himself.”

He could hear Jeff take a deep breath. “Greg’s concerned, yes.”

Mark closed his eyes. If Greg was concerned now, that meant Mark’s firing was imminent. But Greg couldn’t know what had really happened in Coleman, the full scope of Mark’s visits there and the offers he’d made, or Mark would already have been fired. Even Jeff didn’t know all of that. The organization was dedicated to the opposition of capital punishment, and if its executives ever learned that Mark had been trying to arrange a prison hit — even if the target was guilty of murder — he’d be fired, and he’d face charges. Greg would see to that; he’d have to. The integrity of his organization would require it, and neither Jeff London nor anyone else would be able to prevent that train from running Mark down. The only saving grace was that nobody on earth knew what he’d really been after in Coleman. He was counting on that to save his job at least long enough for him to make one more pass through the prison. The one that counted.

“Good news is, I’m making progress here.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Mark told him about the conversations with Evan Borders and Danielle MacAlister and then of the reference to ketamine in Brett Leonard’s recent charges.

“That could go a long way toward helping you,” Jeff said. “They take any blood when you were at the hospital?”

“They took plenty of it, but all they did was warm it up and give it back to me. There were no drug tests conducted as far as I know. I already talked to Arthur Stewart about it. There’s a chance something might show up at this point, but he thinks it’s slim. Right now, I’ve got another priority.” He told Jeff about the motel surveillance cameras and the license plate. “You get any questions about those cash withdrawals, come up with something good to cover me. Meanwhile, I need that plate run.”

“Read it to me and give me ten minutes.”

Mark gave him the number and hung up to let Jeff run it through DMV records. While he waited for the response, he drove to one of the gas stations he’d already visited, grabbed a handful of protein bars, a large black coffee, and a bottle of Advil. The aches and stiffness hadn’t loosened as the morning wore on, and that clammy sweat that signaled a fever had lingered.

“You strike out, bro?” The guy at the cash register had red eyes, an uneven beard, and blue-ink tattoos on his hands.

“What?”

The guy smirked. “You was in here, what, twenty minutes ago, loading up on cash, and now you’re loading up on caffeine and painkillers? You strike out or somebody sell you the wrong shit?”

“I’ll take a paper bag,” Mark said. “Leave you the plastic ones to put over your head.”

The kid laughed like that was a hell of a joke and shoved Mark’s protein bars and Advil back across the counter. He put them in his coat pockets and walked out, sipping the coffee and wondering if there was anyone in this town who wasn’t watching him. Back in the car, he looked at himself in the rearview mirror as he prepared to drop a few of the Advil and thought that the kid at the gas station hadn’t made a bad call. With his gray pallor, dark circles under his eyes, a four-day beard, and beads of sweat on his forehead despite the cold, Mark looked every bit the part of someone who would be hunting for a drug buy in the early-morning hours.

When Mark answered the phone, Jeff began without preamble.

“Owner is Julianne Grossman, white female, blond hair, age forty-four, of Garrison, Indiana. Previously of West Baden Springs and Evansville.”

“West Baden Springs. Why does that sound familiar?”

“Little town with a big hotel. Had a bunch of tornadoes blow through a few years ago. Made national news for, like, a minute. I ran her through a basic profile report once I had her name. No criminal records, nothing in PACER, but there was one interesting detail. Your girl used to have a professional license in Indiana. Doesn’t anymore. Her profession was once recognized and licensed by the state. Now it isn’t. You can just hang out your shingle, apparently.”

“What profession is that?”

“She’s a hypnotist,” Jeff said.

Mark had the coffee halfway to his lips. Now he set it in the cup holder. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope. I can look for more on her — all I did was a basic preliminary public records search — but that’s what turned up. You think she hypnotized you?”

“No,” Mark said. “Absolutely not, no chance.” He could see his mother’s face, one of the prettier images he had of it. She’d been leaning against the couch, sitting on the floor close to the fireplace with a blanket wrapped around her, on a night after another go-round with local police that had led to a rapid packing of the car. Her dark-colored contacts were out, so for once her blue eyes actually showed. She’d been staring into the fire with a deeply thoughtful expression when she said, Maybe spirit readings are out, Mark. Maybe I should try hypnotism. It does sound complicated, though.

“What’s her address?” Mark asked Jeff. He scratched it down on the back of one of the ATM receipts, thanked Jeff, and ended the call. For a moment, he sat there and watched the rain and considered Jeff’s advice about calling the sheriff. Then he entered Julianne Grossman’s address into his GPS and put the car in gear.

The gray skies opened up again as he drove, but this time it was rain, which helped melt the snow despite the low temperatures. The address for Julianne Grossman led him out of town and a short ways up into the hills, where the trees grew tall and dense. Mark turned into the driveway, a steep gravel track that led straight back down the hill and into the trees. Branches littered the ground, casualties from the recent storms. They crackled beneath his tires. At the base of the drive was a small, narrow house with weathered siding painted a deep red, like an old-time lake cottage. A carport with a sagging roof protected a red Honda Civic.

When Mark cut the engine and opened the door, a dog slipped out from under the wooden porch and peered at him, and at first he thought it was a fox, with its near-orange coat and upright, pointed ears. Its hackles rose and then it dipped back under the porch, and as Mark walked through the rain and up the steps, he heard a low growl from under the boards, like a troll under a bridge. Welcoming place.