Mark shook his head and said, “No, it’s not yours,” but he’d never convinced himself to believe that either.
“Then whose is it?” Diane Martin asked.
“The police.”
“And when they can’t do anything? When they don’t do anything?”
“Then you need help,” Mark said. “Then you need...”
“Someone like you,” she said when he didn’t finish.
He drained his beer and put some cash on the bar. “I appreciate your time, Mrs. Martin. I truly do. You had every right to be angry with me, and yet you heard me out.”
“So you’ll help?”
“I’ll do what I promised. I’ll evaluate things, and the rest is up to my boss.”
“You should go there.”
“Pardon?”
Her face was intense; she was leaning close to him now, one hand on his arm. “To Trapdoor. To the place where she died. I think you should see it for yourself.”
“People keep telling me that,” he said, and he was afraid she’d ask who else had said it, but she didn’t.
“People are right. You should go down there and think about your wife, and then make up your mind.”
“My wife has absolutely nothing to do with this. That has to be understood.”
The silent smile she offered in response was impossibly kind.
6
He didn’t feel that he’d had that much to drink, but by the time they left the bar and walked into the wind-whipped cold, Mark had a shakiness and disorientation that suggested he’d had a few more than he remembered. Diane Martin was rock steady, though, walking briskly through the parking lot and toward the hotel. She stopped in front of a row of cars and turned back to him and offered her hand. The parking lot was poorly lit and he couldn’t make out her eyes in the shadows and was grateful for that.
“Consideration,” she said. “That’s all I’m asking for. If you believe you can help, and you wish to, then you should allow yourself to. It’s all up to you.”
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.”