Michael Koryta - Last Words

When he knocked, the growling under the porch went up in pitch. A moment later he heard soft footsteps, and then the dead bolt ratcheted back and the door opened, still secured by a thin chain latch, and Mark saw her face.

Mark said, “Why, hello, Mrs. Martin. I was hoping we could discuss your daughter’s case again.”

To see her was startling as hell for him and should have been worse for her, but she simply said, “Hello, Mr. Novak,” as if he were an expected and welcome guest.

“Mind if I come in?” he said, moving his foot against the door. “Get out of this rain?”

She unfastened the chain and opened the door wide. She was wearing loose-fitting white pants that billowed around her legs and a pale blue sweater, both of which made her blond hair seem like the darkest part of her. Mark had an eerie flash of the hallucination he’d had of Sarah Martin in the cave. Then, worse, of Lauren underwater.

“Yes, please come in. The last thing you need is more time in the cold. It’s excellent that you found me. So much better than the alternatives.”

He stood in the rain, staring at her. “You’re kidding me, right?”

“Not at all. It’s critical that we speak, but the fact that you found me under your own power is so much better.”

“You can drive yourself to the sheriff’s department and I’ll follow, or we can call them here to get you,” he said. “I’ll leave that one up to you.”

“And why would I go to the sheriff’s department?”

“You impersonated a dead woman, a murdered girl’s mother, and you think that’s viewed as harmless fun? I assure you that the sheriff will be eager to make your acquaintance.”

“I’m afraid you’re mistaken,” she said, no trace of distress in her voice or face. “I never impersonated anyone.”

“You called Sarah ‘my baby,’ you lying bitch.”

“You’re upset, and that’s fine. In your defense, though, I’d like to say that—”

“In my defense?”

“—that you were speaking with Sarah’s mother at some points. There was a channel open, a conduit. Just as it was when you talked of your wife. It was extraordinary to see.”

He pushed through the door, grabbed her by her shirt, and shoved her into the house. She flinched more from surprise than fear, his face inches from hers, and then met his eyes with a questioning look, waiting for his next move.

“True things,” he said. His voice was a whisper. “That’s all we’re going to talk about.”

He heard the clicking of paws on the porch floorboards and the growl became a snarl as the dog rushed up the stairs and at him. He released Julianne Grossman and turned as the dog rose up on its hind legs as if to strike, then hesitated in midair, dropped back to the ground, and danced away, head dipped, chagrined. When Mark looked back at Julianne Grossman, he saw that she had one hand lifted, palm out, a silent command that the animal had obeyed completely.

Mark was nonplussed, ashamed by both the burst of physical aggression and her calm in the face of it and even by the self-control the dog had exhibited, superior to Mark’s own.

“Follow me,” she said, and then turned her back to him as if she had nothing to fear from anything.

As dark as it was outside, with the cold rain falling from an overcast sky, the cottage seemed to trap light. Everything had a bright, airy feel and was clean and ordered, as if not a single dust mote could be tolerated. The living room was small but neatly furnished with a couch facing two rocking chairs; the walls were lined with books. Crystal prisms hung in the window, reflecting light that shouldn’t be there, and there were maybe half a dozen unlit candles.

“Sit,” Julianne Grossman said, indicating the couch. She took one of the rocking chairs, crossed her legs elegantly, and looked at Mark, waiting. He didn’t sit.

“You want true things,” she said. “Everything I’ve told you is true. It’s a matter of perception. But I understand your reluctance to believe.”

“Stop,” Mark said. “Just shut the hell up. I’ve met better frauds, Julianne. I was raised by one. Spare me the psychic bullshit. It’s offensive to the dead and to those who cared for them.”

“For a skeptic,” Julianne Grossman said, “you entered trance most willingly. I didn’t even really have to work at it. Your unconscious mind seemed almost eager. ”

Mark started to respond but whatever words he’d intended didn’t come. The word trance lingered in his mind, and he found himself coughing instead of speaking. His lungs scorched.

“We’re going to the police,” he said when he was done, “and we’re going to call a few reporters on our way. They don’t believe I talked to you.”

“Not true. They don’t believe you talked to Diane Martin. And you’re hardly prepared to prove them wrong by producing me.” She had an eerie calm, and he was reminded of the one tell he should have picked up on — she’d been too composed when she spoke of her supposed daughter. Far too composed.

“If the police were to search your house today, would they find any ketamine?” Mark asked. “Because I can arrange that search.”

“They certainly would not. I’m not a fan of narcotics. They make my work far more challenging. It’s harder to reach the unconscious if there are synthetic barriers in play. Would you like to hear a recording of our meeting, Mr. Novak?”

“I don’t need to hear it. I was there.”

“Let’s see about that,” she said, and then she stood and walked away, vanishing down a corridor. When she returned, she held a digital recorder in one hand.

“I don’t need to hear something you’ve had days to tamper with,” he said, but he felt a knot twisting in his gut.

“I actually think it would be prudent for you to get a sense of what really happened before you begin making calls to the media.” She played with the buttons and then Mark’s voice became audible.

What’s your concern in the case, Julianne? I don’t understand how it affects you personally.

There was faint static and background noise, but even so, there was no doubt that it was his voice and that he had called her Julianne. The knot twisting in his gut morphed into a sharp, ice-cold blade.

Julianne Grossman pressed pause. “Now, I’m not a detective, but it doesn’t sound like you had much confusion over my identity.”

“How did you alter that?”

“I didn’t alter a thing.”

“Slick trick, but I’m the wrong person to try it with. My company has contacts with the best audio forensic experts in the world. It’ll take them twenty minutes to blow that bullshit out of the water.”

“There’s that option,” she said, “or we could listen to a bit more, and maybe you’ll reach a different understanding.”

She returned her attention to the recorder, advanced it to the place that she wanted, and then played it. This time it was her voice, that strange cadence even more eerie over the static.

This has been a good conversation for you, hasn’t it? Yes. Yes, it was beneficial, wasn’t it?

Mark, sounding as if he’d overdosed on quaaludes, responded: Yes.

There are ways it might have been an even better conversation. So much better. For you, and for Sarah Martin. You know that there are ways, don’t you? There are always ways. So much beyond what we know. So much beyond what we say. But you feel those ways, don’t you?

Yes.

Of course. Of course you do. And the ways that allow you to feel close to her are the best, because it matters so much that you feel close to Sarah, doesn’t it?

Yes.