“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.”
Mark looked up, and now she seemed flustered.
“I researched you, of course,” she said. “It seemed prudent, after you’d trespassed on our property. I had to see who I was dealing with, that’s all.”
“Sure,” Mark said. He wanted to know what he had said to Lauren in his sleep, what had been so sweet, but he couldn’t bring himself to ask. He rose unsteadily, each bruise taking the opportunity to announce its presence. “I’m sorry. I can’t believe I fell asleep here. This was embarrassing.”
“Where are you going now?”
“I’ll find a hotel.”
“It’s past midnight, it’s snowing again, and you’re ill. All things considered, I think you should stay here tonight. There’s a blanket and another pillow next to the couch. Just so you’re aware, I will be in the room at the far end of the hall. I keep the door locked, and I have a handgun, and I’m accurate with it.”
She spoke with a firmness that suggested she believed in her capabilities to protect herself, and no doubt she did. The young often believed in their own capabilities and their own safety. Too often.
“You won’t need any locks or guns,” Mark said.
“I’ll make that judgment, thank you.”
She left him then, and a few seconds later he heard the door close and the lock engage. He turned and looked out of the window behind him and saw nothing but blackness and a skein of ice on the glass. The wind came in shrieks and howls. He knew he should leave but the thought of that long walk through the snow and up the hill to his car seemed exhausting, and the motel where he’d paid for surveillance videos that morning held no more appeal. He took his boots off, stretched out on the couch, and didn’t even bother to look for the blanket or pillow she’d mentioned. He was asleep again almost immediately, and though she’d said he’d dreamed sweet things of his wife, all he was aware of dreaming of now was Ridley Barnes, Ridley sitting in a straight-backed chair with his eyelids fluttering, then Ridley with a smile like a deranged clown and endlessly dark eyes. I told you, he said, all you needed to do was spend some time down there. In the dark. Let’s go back. Let’s go back to where we both belong.
And Mark followed, because in the dream he had no other choice. He knew that it was the wrong path, the dangerous one, and yet he followed Ridley out of the light and into the darkness. He was cold immediately, and then his clothes were gone and he was crawling in the dark again, crawling once more in an endless room, and though he was alone, he knew that Ridley was still with him, invisible but watching, always watching.
42
Mark woke before Danielle MacAlister. He rose from the couch and went into the kitchen, poured a glass of water, drank it gratefully, then chased it with another. In the pale light of dawn he could see that maybe two or three new inches of snow had fallen overnight. He’d slept deeply and he felt physically better and more mentally in control than he had when he’d arrived. That thought disturbed him more than it comforted him, though, as if his coming to Trapdoor hadn’t been his own idea.
If you can get Danielle MacAlister’s cooperation, Julianne had said, her unseen clock ticking loudly, and then Mark had driven to Danielle’s house.
There was a laptop computer on the dining room table, and Mark went to it and opened it and got on the Internet and began to search for information on Julianne Grossman. He found no criminal or civil charges, but Garrison County and Orange County did not strike him as places where local records would be picked up by the major search databases. Small towns required local searches, even in the computer age. In general searches, all he found was that she had a website advertising her services and that her professed specialties were just as she’d claimed: help with addiction, anxiety, confidence building. She identified a number of hypnotherapy certifications that meant nothing to Mark but neglected to add any formal educational history. She appeared to be a local girl who’d gotten very interested in hypnosis very early. As an agent for positive change, I will help you rewire your brain to transform! she promised on the site.