Michael Koryta - Last Words

“It’s the word you use when you’re in a state of trance.”

Once again, he found himself disliking her. Trance had been an intriguing gambit once upon a time, and certainly they had reached interesting places and had fascinating conversations. Lately, though, he wondered if she believed she had more power over him than she truly did.

“Nothing will go wrong,” he said.

“Your subconscious disagrees. Your subconscious has disclosed, on multiple occasions, that you fear a return to Trapdoor will provoke a return to violence. That you may harm people.”

She said all of this flatly, as if reading information off his driver’s license. That was part of her approach with him, always had been — she listened to the discussion of violent deeds and the potential for worse and responded to them with detachment — but still, it unnerved him.

“I fear harming people?” he said, and he smiled in the firelight. “Well, that is troubling news, isn’t it?”

“It isn’t news to you. I came here because I wanted to tell you what had happened with Novak and tell you what I think.”

“Which is that I should trust him.”

“Yes.”

Ridley nodded, and the motion cast rippling shadows along the wall. “I’ve trusted you. With Novak, I am only willing to wait. He’s seen what he needs to see. There will be no further contact between you. Not until I’m convinced that he can, in fact, be trusted.”

“We’ve already agreed that—”

“What was agreed to has been done. What he does from here, we’ll just have to wait and see. He must come to me now. Not you. Only me.”

“That may be out of my control, Ridley. He could return. He could return with the police.”

“And you will send him away.” He turned from the stove to face her. “Is this understood?”

Her expression didn’t change. “I’ll send him away. Until you’re ready. And you will need to be ready.”

“I lack many things, Julianne. Readiness is not one of them.”

Mark drove to Trapdoor with air vents angled onto his face, blowing cold air into his eyes to help him stay alert. The road seemed to swim at times. Twice he looked at the GPS for guidance and realized that he’d never put in an address. He made the turns with confidence, though, as if the route were familiar.

The gate at the top of the drive was closed and locked. Mark left the car and walked down the slushy drive. The rain was beginning to mix with snow.

Cecil Buckner didn’t spot him this time, or if he did, he didn’t care to stop him. Mark made it all the way to the front door. When Danielle MacAlister opened it in response to his knock, her eyes went wide. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing’s the matter. I just need some help.”

“Well, get inside.”

Once he was inside, dripping water onto her hardwood floors, he realized that her concern wasn’t over his presence so much as his condition.

“I’m a little under the weather still,” he said.

“You look awful. Sit down.”

He sat on her leather sofa without removing his jacket. If there was a more comfortable couch in the world, he couldn’t imagine it. Lord, he was tired.

“Did Cecil let you in?” she said.

“I walked down.”

She didn’t seem pleased to hear that.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Coming in like this. But I need some help.”

She was looking at him with a mixture of sympathy and caution. “What can I do?”

“I need a copy of a map. One of the maps that Ridley drew.”

“Why?” She folded her arms over her breasts in a protective fashion, and Mark observed that she wasn’t wearing a bra and that she was in sweatpants and a T-shirt, and he wondered what time it was and why he didn’t know that.

“I’m sorry,” he said again.

“Do you need me to call someone, Mr. Novak? You don’t look well.”

“Just tired,” he said. “I’m on my way back to a hotel, but I needed to stop here first. I’d like to have a copy of one of those maps. I need to get a sense of where I was. At the time, in the dark, it was hard to get my bearings.”

“The maps won’t show where you were found.”

“But Ridley would know. Ridley could show me, because he’s the one who found me, and he’s the one who made the map.”

“I suppose.”

“I’ll just make a copy,” he said. “You can come with me, never let it out of your sight.”

“You can have the original for as long as you need it.”

He thought that she would have offered him just about anything as long as it ensured that he left her house in a hurry.

“I’ll find the maps,” she said. “Wait here, please?”

She went to a door that led to a staircase, but she passed through the kitchen first and picked up a knife with a long, shining blade. She was afraid of him. He wanted to tell her that wasn’t necessary. He meant no harm. He just needed to get a sense of Trapdoor. Down there alone in the dark, it hadn’t been possible. He’d get a sense of it, and he’d ask Ridley to show him, and he would watch Ridley. He wanted to watch Ridley with those maps, and maybe — maybe — he’d ask what Ridley would think of giving him a tour, of showing Mark exactly how he’d gotten lost.

Danielle closed the door behind her and he heard her footsteps on the stairs and then he leaned back against the plush leather couch to wait. When his head settled against the cushion, he closed his eyes despite himself. With a couch like this, a man would never need a bed. Speaking of which, he was going to need a bed. His lungs hurt and his throat was sore and his body ached. He listened for her footsteps on the stairs and hoped that they wouldn’t come too fast, that she wouldn’t hurry. He just needed a few minutes with his eyes closed. It had been a long day.

When he woke, the room was dark except for a soft lamp in the corner, and he had no idea where he was. He closed his eyes again, wanting to retreat, but then the reality of his situation intruded and he straightened up fast, hoping that he’d been asleep for a minute or two, no more.

From the corner opposite the lamp, Danielle MacAlister said, “I’ve been debating whether to call the police or a doctor. I’m really not sure. In the end, I just let you sleep.”

“You don’t need to call anyone.” He rubbed a hand over his eyes and felt radiant warmth from clammy skin. “I’m sorry. I’ll get out of here.”

“It’s past midnight, Mr. Novak.”

“You’re kidding.”

She shook her head. She was still wearing the sweats and had her auburn hair pulled back and tied loosely so that it fell over one shoulder, and the formidable, authoritative quality that she’d had before was gone and she looked very young. There was a tenderness in the way that she watched him that should have been sweet but instead was unsettling, because it had been a long time since anyone had looked at him that way.

“You’ve slept for a long time. It was obvious that you had a fever. You slept like a dead man until about an hour ago, and then your fever broke and you were covered in sweat. You started talking in your sleep a little. I think your dreams were awful until then. Then, when your fever broke, they changed.”

He swung his legs around and put his feet on the floor. The room seemed to keep swinging when his own motion was done.

“Sorry,” he said. “It’s been a long day. I pushed it when I shouldn’t have. You didn’t need to let me sleep, though.”

“You talked about your wife.”

Mark retied a boot lace that was already tied just to give him an excuse to look away from her. “Did I?”

“Yes. It was actually very... sweet. You talked to her as if she were here. I know that she’s not. I mean, obviously she’s not here — I’m saying that I know what happened to her.”