Bad Things (23 page)

haired waitress from the Write Sisters. Her face was wet, and she

was staring down at the fl oor. I hesitated, decided it was none of my

business. Then took a step toward the door anyway.

“Are you okay?”

Either she didn’t hear me or agreed that her problems were not

my concern.

Cory and Brooke’s car was gone from the parking lot. I was

tempted to drive straight to their house to continue our conversa-

tion. I knew it wasn’t a good idea, however, and once in a while

that’s enough to stop me doing something.

There was a police car sitting in the same row as mine, and as I

drew closer I saw that Deputy Greene, the cop I’d encountered be-

hind the desk at the department in Black Ridge, was sitting inside.

He wound down his window.

156 Michael Marshall

“What are you doing here, sir?”

“Visiting a friend.”

“I don’t think the sheriff would appreciate you interfering in

other people’s business.”

I walked over to his car. “Is that message from you, or from

him?”

“Does that matter?” He looked up at me, his calm, bland eyes

striking against the pale fl eshiness of his face. “I’d just listen, is all.”

He started up his car, and drove slowly out of the lot, probably not

realizing that I’d dismissed him from my mind before he even made

it to the road.

When I turned my phone back on I saw I had voice mail. I lis-

tened to it, forced into a smile by a combination of gratitude, bewil-

derment, and foul language I would have believed impossible within

the constraints of the English language.

I sent a text message in return, saying:

We’ll talk repayment later. Meantime, make sure it

gets to whom it’s supposed to. TODAY. And keep your

boyfriend on a tight fucking leash until I get back.

I sent it to Becki’s cell phone, then got in the car and headed back

toward Black Ridge. As I turned out of the lot onto the main road

I passed a car I recognized, heading into the hospital lot—the dark

green SUV that had pulled up alongside me on my fi rst day in town,

just before I visited my old house. The same man was inside.

My mind, however, was elsewhere.

It was midafternoon by then and I realized I was hungry. I thought I

was, anyhow, though when I started looking for somewhere to eat I

found none held any appeal. In the end I came to rest in the street

opposite the motel in which I had spent several weeks holed up, try-

B A D T H I N G S 157

ing to drink my way through pain and unhappiness. After two nights’

bad sleep my eyes and brain felt desiccated, and for half an hour I did

nothing but sit.

People meanwhile came and went from the motel. Others walked

past on the street. Cars went by, and clouds moved overhead. It rained

for a little while, stopped, and then started again. Slowly it began to

get colder. I fi nally realized that the feeling in my guts was the be-

ginnings of low-level panic. Over what, I wasn’t sure. I found myself

staring at the door to room number 4 of the motel, and after a time it

almost felt as if I was trapped inside, that the world outside that room

had become a vast room in itself, one from which I might not fi nd

an escape. I knew what this feeling meant, though it had been a long

time since I had felt overwhelmed by it. I knew what it signifi ed when

your body begins to feel it is locked inside a place where there are no

doors, as if you are being buried alive. I knew also that the Mountain

View Tavern was comfortable, and that they had a beer on draft that

I liked.

Instead I drove to the coffee shop on Kelly and sat staring out of

the window, trying to work out what there was to learn from what else

Ellen had told me, if anything. I was confi dent that her toothbrush

was somewhere in her house, and that a distracted mind—she had

been clinically distracted every time I’d met her—could lose track of

how quickly she was getting through a bar of soap. The other objects

would have been taken by the Robertsons, as she initially thought, or

simply lost in the undertow of domestic life.

What she needed was counseling, to move away and start again.

To fi nd her own Marion Beach.

Instead she had Cory and Brooke, and that made me angry. I

was beginning to see in her something of the person who—a similar

length of time after someone he cared about had died—had battened

himself into a motel room and made a decent attempt at driving at

the wall. Despite her denial, I suspected the incident on the pass this

morning had not been wholly accidental, and that Ellen was close to

158 Michael Marshall

walking off the edge of her own cliff. If someone had been around to

push
me
at the time, it was likely I wouldn’t still be alive.

There was a quiet knocking sound, and I looked up to see Kristina

standing outside the coffee shop, tapping on the window. Though

just as black and semikempt, her hair looked longer, inexplicably.

She winked, waved hello and good-bye in one motion, and then

turned to walk across the road toward where she worked. I made my

coffee last as long as I could, but eventually I paid for it, went outside,

and headed in the same direction.

The bar was pretty crowded and I was served by some other guy. It

was half an hour before Kristina swung by my seat at the window to

clean up my ashtray. She made a face as she dumped the butts into the

can she was carrying.

“You don’t smoke?”

She shook her head.

“Funny. You look like a smoker. And I mean that as a compli-

ment.”

“Used to,” she said. “When I lived here before. I gave it up when

I left. With other things.”

“Drugs? Alcohol? Polite conversation?”

“All of the above. I heard about Ellen. She okay?”

“Banged up some. Though why would you be assuming I’d

know?”

“I just heard you were kind of close, that’s all. I didn’t—”

“But you saw us in here together the other night,” I persisted.

“Did we
look
like an item?”

“Not really.”

“Yet forty-eight hours later we’re picking out china and booking

a string quartet?”

“Look, whatever, okay? It’s really none of my business. You want

another beer, or what?”

B A D T H I N G S 159

I said I did, and stared out of the window until she returned with

it. She was set to leave straightaway, but I held up my hand.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “But I would like to know why you think there’s

something going on.”

“I don’t, necessarily,” she said. “And I honestly don’t give a crap. I

mean, really, truly. But I was having extensions done across the road

this afternoon and I heard someone saying how it was nice Ellen was

turning the corner. Finding someone new to hang with, that kind of

thing. Even though it’s only been four months, blah blah blah.”

I kept my voice level. “Was it Brooke Robertson?”

“I don’t want to get involved. It’s a small town, people talk. Other

people listen. That’s all.”

“By all means listen to what that woman says,” I told her. “But

don’t believe it. I think there’s something wrong with her.”

“Could be, could be. But I’m wondering if the whole you-and-

me-talking thing is really working out. Ratings are mixed.”

“I’m sorry about before. Again.”

“Copy that. But I’m going to leave now. Find a customer with

more polished social skills.”

“Shouldn’t be hard, even in here.” I waited until she’d started to

turn, and added, “You actually
pay
someone to make your hair look

that way?”

She stuck her tongue out at me and walked off.

Four beers later I had an idea—which is seldom a good way to start a

sentence—and stepped outside the bar to make a call. I got the num-

ber from directory assistance and asked to be put through.

“Pierce,” said a voice, after a short interval.

“It’s John Henderson.”

“You in a bar?”

“No, outside one. You’ve got good hearing.”

“Yes, I do. I talked to Deputy Corliss, if that’s why you’re calling.

160 Michael Marshall

He won’t do it again. He’s also been asked to instruct his sister to be

more discreet.”

“Thank you. But that’s not it. I wanted to ask you a favor.”

“Uh-huh.”

“The woman I told you about—Gerry Robertson’s ex-wife? She

was involved in an accident today.”

“I heard.”

“I visited her in the hospital. It sounds like Brooke and Cory

Robertson are making life tough for her. I wondered whether some-

one in local law enforcement might have a conversation with them,

expressing a hope that a bereaved woman is getting the support she

needs at this time.”

“I’m not sure that’s the kind of thing that falls within our remit,”

Pierce said. “Sorry.”

“Me, too. Would it be easier if the Robertsons weren’t such a big

deal around here?”

“I don’t like the implications of that question.”

“Then I apologize. And I guess I’ll have that conversation with

them instead.”

“I don’t think that would be wise.”

“A polite discussion between responsible adults wouldn’t be any

of your business, thankfully.”

“Mr. Henderson . . .” He sighed. “Look, I spoke with someone

who witnessed the accident this morning. He was talking it up all

over Harry’s, and I asked him to keep it down.”

“People have a real impulse to share information around here,” I

said. “Almost a compulsion.”

“That’s because it’s a real place. You want stony silence and

nobody-gives-a-shit, go over the mountains. This old guy—and I’ve

known him for a long time, he was a friend of my father and he’s not a

person prone to exaggeration—was headed in the opposite direction

and saw the whole thing. He said Ellen’s car was veering erratically as

it came up the hill, so much that he slowed and pulled over as far as

B A D T H I N G S 161

he could. The car kept coming, not fast but all over the place, and he

saw Ms. Robertson inside, gripping the wheel, shaking her head back

and forth. Like she was on drugs, he said.”

“I’m sure the admitting ER doctor has a toxicology report that

you should have no problem getting—”

“Jesus, I know that,” Pierce said testily. “I made the call, and she

was clean. Chemically. But mentally? Does that sound normal to you?

Driving on a wet mountain road throwing your head all over the

place?”

“No,” I admitted.

“Then she suddenly stared straight ahead, and the car went off

the road and into the mountainside.”

I didn’t say anything. Through the window of the bar I saw

Kristina hove in view, realize I was absent but still had beer in my

glass, and wander off again.

“So, yes, could be your friend needs a little help—”

“She not my ‘friend,’ for the love of God. That’s something
else

that—”

He overrode me. “
But
I don’t think the Robertsons are her real

problem, and anyone who tried to take it up with them would be

causing a nuisance that
would
come under my jurisdiction. As a mis-

demeanor. You understand what I’m saying?”

“Loud and clear.”

“Excellent. Good night, and safe fl ight home.”

I snapped the phone shut and shoved it into my pocket. I stayed

where I was for a few minutes, realizing it was midevening and cold

and I still hadn’t eaten that day.

I went back inside and ordered another beer, though the fi re in

my head had gone out. I drank it slowly, as the bar started to empty,

sitting at the counter and knocking it back and forth with Kristina.

Miraculously, we managed not to argue about anything.

C H A P T E R 2 2

I left the car on Kelly and made my way back to the motel on foot.

I would have done this wherever I was, but as I walked through the

town I realized I was also doing it for another reason. I wondered

whether someone might have observed me in the bar, counted the

beers, and when they saw me get in a car, make a call to Pierce

or one of his deputies. Who would have done that? I had no idea.

Neither Robertson had been propping up the counter alongside me,

keeping a tally, waiting for me to go over the limit. I didn’t think

the bar staff was in their thrall, either, certainly not Kristina, who

didn’t give the impression of being easy to boss around. The whole

idea was dumb, and it annoyed me to be giving head space to it. I

walked all the same.

The streets were quiet, and though it was only ten o’clock pretty

much every dwelling I passed was dark enough to seem like it housed

the dead. It wasn’t raining, for once, and the sky was clear and blue

black, but the wind was beginning to pick up.

When I opened the door to my motel room I found something

had been pushed underneath. A thin brown package.

I picked it up, turning to look back across the lot. I’d seen no

B A D T H I N G S 163

one on the way in, but would there really be no one on hand, to

check I’d received this message, whatever it turned out to be?

I went inside and opened the envelope. It contained a single sheet