How to Start a Fire (23 page)

“What if I left a deposit of five hundred dollars? You could inspect the room when I check out.”

“Five hundred, you say?”

She pulled several bills from her stuffed wallet.

“A girl shouldn’t be carrying all that cash around.”

“Just a minute ago I was a grown woman.”

“Be careful, ’s all I’m saying.”

“Do we have a deal?”

She placed the cash on the counter, right next to the bell. Hank picked up the bills, folded them in half, and put them in his pocket.

“How long will you be staying?”

“Two nights. I’ll let you know tomorrow if my plans change.”

“What is the nature of your visit, business or pleasure?”

“Business,” she said.

Room 214 was exactly what she’d expected. Mahogany baseboards set off walls the color of creamer gone bad; tracks of luggage scrapes accented the entryway. The forest-green carpet, once a proud shag, was now almost smooth, greased down like the hair on a balding man’s pate. There were also the obligatory matching pressed-wood nightstands, atop which sat gold lamps with dust-colored shades. A dresser of similar tone and design, but not part of the set, faced them. But the contents of the room were all second-class citizens, invisible really, next to the king-size bed, which was adorned with a once–bright orange comforter and a bamboo headboard.

She opened every drawer in the room to be sure the previous occupant had fully departed. Once, years ago, she was staying at a hotel—a few notches up from this one—and some glitch in the computer system put two people in the same room. Had she checked the closet, she would have seen a man’s suit and luggage. But she didn’t; she threw her small bag on the bed and immediately hopped into the shower. A businessman entered the room as she was blow-drying her hair. He had the common sense to call the front desk when he saw women’s garments strewn across the room. If you think you’re truly alone, safely locked in a twelve-by-fourteen-foot space, it’s terrifying to learn otherwise. The sharp knock on the bathroom door then still shook her when she thought about it. The manager finessed the situation with profuse apologies, a decadent room-service spread, and two free nights for each inconvenienced party. Still, now she always searched the room, turned the deadbolt, and put the door chain on without fail.

After her inspection was complete, she grasped one end of the orange monstrosity and shucked it off the bed, then rolled it into an untidy ball and shoved it in the corner. She took a quick shower under a drizzle of water that barely had the power to wash out her shampoo. She wished she were staying at that other motel a few miles down the road. But it looked like the kind of establishment that wouldn’t bend policy.

She sent a quick text to Colin:
I’m alive.

He responded,
Where are you?

In a motel
, she texted back.

He would ask
Where
again, and she would turn off her phone. She wasn’t sure why she didn’t want him to know her precise location, and, in truth, she had grown tired of the tall tales she told. But he didn’t need to know how many places she had been, places with nothing to see but crumbling blacktop and cheap motels, and since he got her credit card bills, she always paid with cash.

One month earlier, Kate had solicited the services of Marvin White, PI.

“Mr. White?”

“Call me Marvin.”

Files and magazines towered over his battered wooden desk. Coffee rings dotted the surface in a halo around the blotter. White was in his sixties, but his skin hung with a few more years. He wore his clothes with an effort at professionalism. A blue pin-striped suit; a tie gone slack; a jacket that was a little too snug, so it killed most of the day on the back of his chair. Faded coffee stains spotted his beige shirt. Kate thought it was a good color for someone prone to spillage. She’d found his name in the phone book: Marvin White, PI. His logo was a silly fedora, but his credits included twenty years in the Denver PD. He never mentioned what division.

The office was a single room in an old brick building a few miles from downtown. His door had one of those prism windows with his name lettered across it, just like Sam Spade’s in
The Maltese Falcon.
Kate smiled when she saw it. Her eyes darted around the room when Mr. White opened the door for her. It was so classic, it felt like a movie set. He had to clear off the chair for her to take a seat. A couple of bowling trophies tagged the corners of the room. Several framed photos were mounted on the wall: White shaking hands with presumably important people Kate didn’t recognize.

“Have a seat, Ms. Smirnoff.”

“Call me Kate.”

She hadn’t used her real name in a long while. It felt like a comfortable old coat. Kate had wanted to use a pseudonym, but that didn’t seem wise when one was meeting a private investigator.

“Now, Kate, on the phone you said you were looking for a particular individual.”

“I’m looking for information about a man named Roger Hicks.”

“You want me to track him down?”

“That would be impossible.”

“Why is that?”

“He’s been dead seven years.”

“Kate, where are you now?” Colin asked as he answered the phone.

“Nebraska,” she lied. Although if he’d asked her a week ago, it wouldn’t have been a lie.

“Why Nebraska?”

“It’s centrally located.”

“Are you enjoying yourself?”

“Yes.” Her affirmation carried no conviction.

“What have you seen?”

“I’ve been through six different states so far. I’ve seen lots of things.”

“I think you should come home,” Colin said.

“I don’t have a home anymore,” Kate said.

“Then I think you should go to a city where you know some people, or at least stop wandering.”

“This was your idea, remember?” Kate said. “You practically kicked me out of Boston.”

“I think that might have been a mistake.”

“It wasn’t. I’m being very productive.”

“Kate—”

Colin, like many litigating attorneys, had a remarkable ability to speak ad hoc in the most persuasive manner. Since Kate wasn’t open to persuasion, she interrupted, shutting down any chance for opposition.

“I need to start a corporation,” Kate said. “If you could handle that, I’d appreciate it. I’ve looked into the matter and I think an S corp. is best. I want it incorporated in Delaware and I’ll need you to be the treasurer so that you can write checks for me periodically. I’d like you to move seventy-five percent of the money in my personal investment accounts into the corporation. Let’s call it Golden Retrieval Incorporated. How quickly can you set this up?”

“Golden Retrieval? Like the dog?”

“Yes, like the dog.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I’ll pay your usual fee.”

“It’s not about the money, Kate. You’re not making any sense.”

“I would rather not put my money and trust in the hands of a complete stranger, but I will if I have to. Can you set this up for me? My battery is about to die.”

Colin’s pause was perhaps one of his longest telephone pauses ever. He ran his fingers through his hair, answered another clue in the morning’s crossword puzzle, took a sip of coffee, then another. He cleared his throat and finally spoke.

“If that’s what you want, Kate.”

“I’ll send you the details in an e-mail.”

“How can I get in touch with you?” he asked.

“You have my number.”

“Where are you going, Kate?”

Boston, Massachusetts

“Where am I?” Anna asked.

“You’re in the hospital,” the nurse said.

“How did I get here?”

“You were brought by ambulance two days ago,” the nurse said.

“Two days?”

“Do you know what year it is?” the nurse asked.

“It’s 2001?”

“Do you know what month it is?”

Colin’s wedding had been May 19, a date that had been drilled into her head for nine months. Hadn’t she just been at the wedding?

“May?” Anna said.

“Yes,” said the nurse.

“What am I doing here?” Anna asked.

Consciousness had come slowly, her senses clicking in one at a time. First it was hearing. Voices, muffled, incomprehensible, layered on top of one another. The squeak, the knock, the shuffle of shoes on the linoleum floor. And the constant beeping of the heart monitor, toggling between steady and erratic. Then it was smell, the distinct antiseptic odor of a hospital. Kate used to say it was the smell of blood being drawn. The next sense that took hold was touch, specifically pain, but a disguised version, cloaked in morphine. Anna kept her eyes shut even when she knew she could open them. She listened for familiar voices but heard none; she steeled herself for what would come next.

Her inchoate memories were like camera stills. A picture of her brother dancing with his bride; he appeared beleaguered and numb, but a comic smile was plastered on his face. Of her mother traversing the room, like a mad scientist’s crossbreed of a security guard and a debutante. Of her father holding court in the corner, ice clinking in his bourbon glass. And of so many privileged men in suits swilling booze, erupting in Tourette’s-like noises, all desperate attempts to signify celebration. She saw an image of herself in the mirror trying to rip off a shiny pink, strapless gown, a straitjacket for a princess. Then Malcolm. Then the images dissolved, and she recalled an unshakable memory. Under the unforgiving fluorescent lights of the roadside diner, she was the happiest she had ever been. She never wanted to leave. She could have sat in that booth for the rest of her life. Malcolm. French fries and an apple pie. Fuck everything else.

Anna had opened her eyes slowly, as if her lids were weighted. She’d thought about closing them again and keeping them that way, but it was time to surface. The obstinate glare of the lights and white walls caused her eyes to tear and blink in flutters until her pupils adjusted. Several get-well-soon bouquets punctuated the bland and sterile furnishings. It wasn’t until much later, after Anna noticed the lack of cards, that she learned they’d come from the patient in the adjacent room, who suffered from allergies.

Anna had tried to move, dislodging the pulse oximeter on her finger. A solid beep alerted the nurse, who’d entered the room and returned the clip to Anna’s index finger. And that’s when their conversation had begun.

“I’ve been out two days?” Anna asked again.

“You were in a lot of pain. The morphine kept you unconscious most of that time.”

“Where’s Malcolm?” Anna asked.

The heart monitor beeped faster, like a truck backing up. The nurse looked at Anna’s vitals.

“I don’t know. Let me find your family. I think your mother went to the cafeteria for a cup of coffee. And I’ll get the doctor.”

The nurse swiftly departed. Anna took an inventory of her injuries. A bandage on her forehead suggested a concussion or a brain contusion; a broken leg, probably an ankle, since the cast stopped at her knee. A few broken ribs, based on the tightness in her chest. An IV taped to her hand delivered morphine and fluids. She could feel the Foley catheter. She would tell them to remove it as soon as possible.

A few minutes later, Lena entered the room with a cup of coffee. As a med student, Anna had spent a lot of time in hospitals witnessing the state of family members under comparable circumstances, and she was alarmed by how coifed her mother appeared. Perhaps a bit tired. But shockingly, almost disconcertingly, normal. Lena sighed, put her coffee on the end table. Her brow wrinkled—as much as it could—in disappointment.

“What have you done?” she said.

Lena was under strict instructions to phone Colin as soon as Anna regained consciousness. She was not to tell Anna anything until he arrived at the hospital. Before he entered Anna’s room, he found her doctor in the corridor and asked him if he would sedate Anna. The doctor refused. She was on morphine. That should be enough. Colin entered the room, which was Lena’s cue to depart.

“What happened?” Anna asked. It seemed as if she had been asking that question from the moment she’d opened her eyes.

Colin delivered the facts as plainly as possible. At 3:46 the morning after the wedding, a man driving an SUV had had a stroke and veered into oncoming traffic, hitting Malcolm’s VW at forty-five miles per hour. The VW spun in a full circle and crashed to a stop against a light pole. Malcolm had likely died on impact, although the paramedics made attempts to resuscitate him. Anna was taken to Mass. General. She’d suffered a brain contusion, a broken ankle, three broken ribs, and several lacerations, one of which had slashed open her forehead and required twenty-seven stitches to close. Lena made a scene demanding a plastic surgeon, but her demands were ignored, given Anna’s critical condition.

Anna listened carefully but managed not to hear the part of the story where Malcolm died.

“What happened to Malcolm?” Anna asked.

“He died,” Colin said.

“How?”

“He died in the car accident you were in.”

“We were in the car together?”

“Yes. You were together.”

“No,” Anna said.

“Yes.”

“Malcolm’s dead?” Anna asked again. She sat up, trying to figure out how many tubes and needles she would have to extract from her body before she could escape the room.

“Anna, you’re severely injured. You need to stay in bed.”

“I don’t understand what happened,” Anna said.

Her rapid heart rate made the monitor sound like a bus backing up. She shook the clip off her finger, which caused the alarm to go off. One solid beep.

“Turn it off,” Anna said, pointing to the machine.

“No,” Colin said. He took her hand and put the clip back on her index finger. “Please stay calm.”

The beeping resumed. The sound rattled her and she tried to reach for the switch. She felt a stabbing pain in her ribs as she righted herself.

“You need to stop that and do what they tell you, Anna. You almost died too.”

Anna had no memory of the accident or of anything after sitting in the diner with Malcolm. But she knew, without a fraction of a doubt, that it was her fault. She cried for two hours straight, until Lena convinced the doctor to order a sedative. Then Anna slept for two more days.