Last Words

by Michael Koryta

  “Good news is, I’m making progress here.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.” Mark told him about the conversations with Evan Borders and Danielle MacAlister and then of the reference to ketamine in Brett Leonard’s recent charges.

  “That could go a long way toward helping you,” Jeff said. “They take any blood when you were at the hospital?”

  “They took plenty of it, but all they did was warm it up and give it back to me. There were no drug tests conducted as far as I know. I already talked to Arthur Stewart about it. There’s a chance something might show up at this point, but he thinks it’s slim. Right now, I’ve got another priority.” He told Jeff about the motel surveillance cameras and the license plate. “You get any questions about those cash withdrawals, come up with something good to cover me. Meanwhile, I need that plate run.”

  “Read it to me and give me ten minutes.”

  Mark gave him the number and hung up to let Jeff run it through DMV records. While he waited for the response, he drove to one of the gas stations he’d already visited, grabbed a handful of protein bars, a large black coffee, and a bottle of Advil. The aches and stiffness hadn’t loosened as the morning wore on, and that clammy sweat that signaled a fever had lingered.

  “You strike out, bro?” The guy at the cash register had red eyes, an uneven beard, and blue-ink tattoos on his hands.

  “What?”

  The guy smirked. “You was in here, what, twenty minutes ago, loading up on cash, and now you’re loading up on caffeine and painkillers? You strike out or somebody sell you the wrong shit?”

  “I’ll take a paper bag,” Mark said. “Leave you the plastic ones to put over your head.”

  The kid laughed like that was a hell of a joke and shoved Mark’s protein bars and Advil back across the counter. He put them in his coat pockets and walked out, sipping the coffee and wondering if there was anyone in this town who wasn’t watching him. Back in the car, he looked at himself in the rearview mirror as he prepared to drop a few of the Advil and thought that the kid at the gas station hadn’t made a bad call. With his gray pallor, dark circles under his eyes, a four-day beard, and beads of sweat on his forehead despite the cold, Mark looked every bit the part of someone who would be hunting for a drug buy in the early-morning hours.

  When Mark answered the phone, Jeff began without preamble.

  “Owner is Julianne Grossman, white female, blond hair, age forty-four, of Garrison, Indiana. Previously of West Baden Springs and Evansville.”

  “West Baden Springs. Why does that sound familiar?”

  “Little town with a big hotel. Had a bunch of tornadoes blow through a few years ago. Made national news for, like, a minute. I ran her through a basic profile report once I had her name. No criminal records, nothing in PACER, but there was one interesting detail. Your girl used to have a professional license in Indiana. Doesn’t anymore. Her profession was once recognized and licensed by the state. Now it isn’t. You can just hang out your shingle, apparently.”

  “What profession is that?”

  “She’s a hypnotist,” Jeff said.

  Mark had the coffee halfway to his lips. Now he set it in the cup holder. “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope. I can look for more on her—all I did was a basic preliminary public records search—but that’s what turned up. You think she hypnotized you?”

  “No,” Mark said. “Absolutely not, no chance.” He could see his mother’s face, one of the prettier images he had of it. She’d been leaning against the couch, sitting on the floor close to the fireplace with a blanket wrapped around her, on a night after another go-round with local police that had led to a rapid packing of the car. Her dark-colored contacts were out, so for once her blue eyes actually showed. She’d been staring into the fire with a deeply thoughtful expression when she said, Maybe spirit readings are out, Mark. Maybe I should try hypnotism. It does sound complicated, though.

  “What’s her address?” Mark asked Jeff. He scratched it down on the back of one of the ATM receipts, thanked Jeff, and ended the call. For a moment, he sat there and watched the rain and considered Jeff’s advice about calling the sheriff. Then he entered Julianne Grossman’s address into his GPS and put the car in gear.

  Part Four

  The Truth of Your Sins

  36

  The gray skies opened up again as he drove, but this time it was rain, which helped melt the snow despite the low temperatures. The address for Julianne Grossman led him out of town and a short ways up into the hills, where the trees grew tall and dense. Mark turned into the driveway, a steep gravel track that led straight back down the hill and into the trees. Branches littered the ground, casualties from the recent storms. They crackled beneath his tires. At the base of the drive was a small, narrow house with weathered siding painted a deep red, like an old-time lake cottage. A carport with a sagging roof protected a red Honda Civic.

  When Mark cut the engine and opened the door, a dog slipped out from under the wooden porch and peered at him, and at first he thought it was a fox, with its near-orange coat and upright, pointed ears. Its hackles rose and then it dipped back under the porch, and as Mark walked through the rain and up the steps, he heard a low growl from under the boards, like a troll under a bridge. Welcoming place.

  When he knocked, the growling under the porch went up in pitch. A moment later he heard soft footsteps, and then the dead bolt ratcheted back and the door opened, still secured by a thin chain latch, and Mark saw her face.

  Mark said, “Why, hello, Mrs. Martin. I was hoping we could discuss your daughter’s case again.”

  To see her was startling as hell for him and should have been worse for her, but she simply said, “Hello, Mr. Novak,” as if he were an expected and welcome guest.

  “Mind if I come in?” he said, moving his foot against the door. “Get out of this rain?”

  She unfastened the chain and opened the door wide. She was wearing loose-fitting white pants that billowed around her legs and a pale blue sweater, both of which made her blond hair seem like the darkest part of her. Mark had an eerie flash of the hallucination he’d had of Sarah Martin in the cave. Then, worse, of Lauren underwater.

  “Yes, please come in. The last thing you need is more time in the cold. It’s excellent that you found me. So much better than the alternatives.”

  He stood in the rain, staring at her. “You’re kidding me, right?”

  “Not at all. It’s critical that we speak, but the fact that you found me under your own power is so much better.”

  “You can drive yourself to the sheriff’s department and I’ll follow, or we can call them here to get you,” he said. “I’ll leave that one up to you.”

  “And why would I go to the sheriff’s department?”

  “You impersonated a dead woman, a murdered girl’s mother, and you think that’s viewed as harmless fun? I assure you that the sheriff will be eager to make your acquaintance.”

  “I’m afraid you’re mistaken,” she said, no trace of distress in her voice or face. “I never impersonated anyone.”

  “You called Sarah ‘my baby,’ you lying bitch.”

  “You’re upset, and that’s fine. In your defense, though, I’d like to say that—”

  “In my defense?”

  “—that you were speaking with Sarah’s mother at some points. There was a channel open, a conduit. Just as it was when you talked of your wife. It was extraordinary to see.”

  He pushed through the door, grabbed her by her shirt, and shoved her into the house. She flinched more from surprise than fear, his face inches from hers, and then met his eyes with a questioning look, waiting for his next move.

  “True things,” he said. His voice was a whisper. “That’s all we’re going to talk about.”

  He heard the clicking of paws on the porch floorboards and the growl became a snarl as the dog rushed up the stairs and at him. He released Julianne Grossman and turned as the dog rose up on its hind
legs as if to strike, then hesitated in midair, dropped back to the ground, and danced away, head dipped, chagrined. When Mark looked back at Julianne Grossman, he saw that she had one hand lifted, palm out, a silent command that the animal had obeyed completely.

  Mark was nonplussed, ashamed by both the burst of physical aggression and her calm in the face of it and even by the self-control the dog had exhibited, superior to Mark’s own.

  “Follow me,” she said, and then turned her back to him as if she had nothing to fear from anything.

  As dark as it was outside, with the cold rain falling from an overcast sky, the cottage seemed to trap light. Everything had a bright, airy feel and was clean and ordered, as if not a single dust mote could be tolerated. The living room was small but neatly furnished with a couch facing two rocking chairs; the walls were lined with books. Crystal prisms hung in the window, reflecting light that shouldn’t be there, and there were maybe half a dozen unlit candles.

  “Sit,” Julianne Grossman said, indicating the couch. She took one of the rocking chairs, crossed her legs elegantly, and looked at Mark, waiting. He didn’t sit.

  “You want true things,” she said. “Everything I’ve told you is true. It’s a matter of perception. But I understand your reluctance to believe.”

  “Stop,” Mark said. “Just shut the hell up. I’ve met better frauds, Julianne. I was raised by one. Spare me the psychic bullshit. It’s offensive to the dead and to those who cared for them.”

  “For a skeptic,” Julianne Grossman said, “you entered trance most willingly. I didn’t even really have to work at it. Your unconscious mind seemed almost eager.”

  Mark started to respond but whatever words he’d intended didn’t come. The word trance lingered in his mind, and he found himself coughing instead of speaking. His lungs scorched.

  “We’re going to the police,” he said when he was done, “and we’re going to call a few reporters on our way. They don’t believe I talked to you.”

  “Not true. They don’t believe you talked to Diane Martin. And you’re hardly prepared to prove them wrong by producing me.” She had an eerie calm, and he was reminded of the one tell he should have picked up on—she’d been too composed when she spoke of her supposed daughter. Far too composed.

  “If the police were to search your house today, would they find any ketamine?” Mark asked. “Because I can arrange that search.”

  “They certainly would not. I’m not a fan of narcotics. They make my work far more challenging. It’s harder to reach the unconscious if there are synthetic barriers in play. Would you like to hear a recording of our meeting, Mr. Novak?”

  “I don’t need to hear it. I was there.”

  “Let’s see about that,” she said, and then she stood and walked away, vanishing down a corridor. When she returned, she held a digital recorder in one hand.

  “I don’t need to hear something you’ve had days to tamper with,” he said, but he felt a knot twisting in his gut.

  “I actually think it would be prudent for you to get a sense of what really happened before you begin making calls to the media.” She played with the buttons and then Mark’s voice became audible.

  What’s your concern in the case, Julianne? I don’t understand how it affects you personally.

  There was faint static and background noise, but even so, there was no doubt that it was his voice and that he had called her Julianne. The knot twisting in his gut morphed into a sharp, ice-cold blade.

  Julianne Grossman pressed pause. “Now, I’m not a detective, but it doesn’t sound like you had much confusion over my identity.”

  “How did you alter that?”

  “I didn’t alter a thing.”

  “Slick trick, but I’m the wrong person to try it with. My company has contacts with the best audio forensic experts in the world. It’ll take them twenty minutes to blow that bullshit out of the water.”

  “There’s that option,” she said, “or we could listen to a bit more, and maybe you’ll reach a different understanding.”

  She returned her attention to the recorder, advanced it to the place that she wanted, and then played it. This time it was her voice, that strange cadence even more eerie over the static.

  This has been a good conversation for you, hasn’t it? Yes. Yes, it was beneficial, wasn’t it?

  Mark, sounding as if he’d overdosed on quaaludes, responded: Yes.

  There are ways it might have been an even better conversation. So much better. For you, and for Sarah Martin. You know that there are ways, don’t you? There are always ways. So much beyond what we know. So much beyond what we say. But you feel those ways, don’t you?

  Yes.

  Of course. Of course you do. And the ways that allow you to feel close to her are the best, because it matters so much that you feel close to Sarah, doesn’t it?

  Yes.

  Some of those ways feel out of reach now, don’t they? They feel like something beyond you, beyond your potential. But they are not beyond your potential, Mark. You’re feeling that now, aren’t you? You’re understanding that your potential has changed. That all the old approaches can be improved upon. Tell me what you think about your old approaches?

  They can be improved upon.

  Mark felt like rushing at her again; hell, he felt like hitting her this time, knocking her onto the floor and taking that recorder and smashing it until it turned to fragments and then until the fragments turned to dust. He couldn’t move, though. He stood, frozen, listening to the voice he knew was his own speaking words he didn’t remember saying.

  To feel closer to Sarah, would it have helped you if you had spoken to her family, do you think? Would that have helped?

  Yes. It would have helped.

  Think back on this conversation, then. Recall all that was said and all that was beneath the words. Because you know that there were things beneath the words, and you know that what was beneath the words mattered most, and always does, and always will. The words we say are not what matters most, are they?

  No. The words do not tell the story.

  The words Don’t embarrass me with this shit knifed through Mark’s brain, and he winced. Julianne watched him in silence.

  So you know this. And you know that what was beneath the words you heard today could have come from someone close to Sarah, could they not? They could have come from her mother, perhaps. Do you think that is true?

  Yes. That is true.

  Would you like to remember the conversation that way? So that you can focus on what counts, and you can open your mind to new approaches?

  Yes.

  Then you will. You will remember that you spoke to Diane Martin, Sarah’s mother. You will remember her pain. You will remember her desperate thirst for truth. You will remember that what is beneath the words is what matters, and what was beneath the words came from Diane Martin. Do you remember this?

  Yes.

  Who did you speak with today?

  Diane Martin.

  And what mattered?

  What was beneath the words.

  Exactly. All of this you already know, and so all of this you will remember.

  “Stop it,” Mark said. His voice broke. “Turn that damn thing off, turn it off now!”

  She stopped the recording. Her face was serene.

  “It’s jarring to hear, I’m sure. But if you—”

  “How did you do that? Did you drug me? I’ll have a blood test done, and if—”

  “No drugs. You might do some Internet searches later on something called the Erickson handshake induction. You’ll see some obvious frauds, and some things that once would have made you laugh. But now? Now you won’t laugh.”

  Down in the hotel lobby, she grabbed your wrist. It looked like a handshake at first, but she took hold of your wrist. It was a strange contact.

  But it couldn’t have been that simple. There was no way. You didn’t just take hold of someone’s wrist in an unusual manner and then ask him unusual que
stions and through those means convince him that his reality had changed. It couldn’t be done.

  “It was ketamine,” he said. “You didn’t hypnotize me, and you know it. There was a drug involved, and that’s easy enough to prove.”

  “Then feel free to prove it.”

  “How long have you known Jeremy and Brett Leonard?” Mark asked. “What about Evan Borders?”

  Her face appeared genuinely puzzled, but she was a fine actor. “I’ve heard Evan’s name, but the others are new to me.”

  “Sure they are. I’ll find out where you got the drug and I’ll connect you to them, but it won’t be necessary for that stupid damned recording anyhow. People will hear that and they’ll know that I was set up. You just proved my story with that alone.”

  “But what if they heard this?” she said, and she played another segment.

  I had a snitch in Coleman prison down in Florida. He told me that he’d heard a rumor that someone in there had killed Lauren. And so I offered him ten thousand dollars and free legal assistance for his appeal if he…if he confirmed the rumor.

  And how was he going to do that?

  By any means necessary. And if it was confirmed, he had another hundred grand coming his way, though even he didn’t know that, because we didn’t get far enough along.

  What was the other hundred grand for?

  Killing him.

  You would have arranged a man’s murder? You would have been comfortable with it?

  If I could prove that he was the one who’d killed my wife? Absolutely. Without hesitation, I’d have had him killed. My only regret would be that I couldn’t do it myself.

  Mark couldn’t speak. The plan that he’d had for the inmate in Coleman had existed only in his own mind. He’d had no fear that someone might find out about it, because he’d never voiced the plan to a soul.

  Or so he had believed. They’d talked about it, but he hadn’t said…Even as he thought about it, though, it began to feel familiar. Feel vivid, in fact. He could see that table in the bar, could see her face, the face he’d believed was Diane Martin’s, and could recall her composed acceptance of the news when he’d delivered it. Yes, it had happened. How in the hell had he not remembered it?