"People tend to assume the worst when they see the police. We are running a business here, one that does not benefit from panicked guests. Our staff has been tasked with convincing our guests that they shouldn't worry."
"Shouldn't they?" Jack said.
The plaque-free grin fell away as he folded his hands across his desk. "I told you, Mr. Markle, your friend checked out late last night. Of her own accord. If you saw somebody driving off in a car similar to her own…"
"Her car."
"She had been gone hours before you saw that car leaving our grounds. Mr. Markle, please be reasonable. Isn't there a possibility that you were mistaken?"
Jack sighed and glanced around Davies’ office. It sat in the lobby's rear, opposite a utility closet. It wasn't overly furnished and to scrutinize it said very little about the man who operated out of it. Save for a beached sailboat painting on the wall, the room was devoid of personal touches. No family photos, no trinkets or indication of a hobby.
He got the impression that either Davies hadn't had this job very long, or that people were shuffled in and out of here so often they never bothered unpacking.
"Let me ask you this, Assistant Manager Balthazar Davies..."
If he noticed the sarcasm in Jack's tone, he wore a hell of a shit-eating poker face."
"What in the hell was happening in Molly's cabana when I went by there? Two guys fixing a door that was shattered to pieces. Everyone tells me she checked out and then I see someone driving off in an Audi that just so happened to have the same bumper damage as her...damage that happened while I was with her."
"Regrettable coincidence." The answer dropped so quickly that Jack could tell he had been waiting to say it.
"Then I guess there isn't much left for us to talk about. Have a good night."
Jack shook Davies's leathery hand—his grip surprisingly firm—and thanked him for his time. The assistant manager said nothing more, watching him leave without expression.
The elements didn't gel: the broken door, the bald driver and the apathetic police. Jack felt wholly stumped over what to do next.
He walked around the fenced-in tennis courts, abandoned most nights after dark, on the way back to his cabana. A string of low-wattage lights lined the path alongside the tennis patio, but they failed to do much except illuminate the path for his next few steps. Beyond the last court fence was the cavernous woodland of Greifsfield Forest. A canopy of trees dimmed the walkway further. Soon he was moving through blackness, his only confirmation that he was still on the path was the scraping gravel beneath his feet.
To his relief, the trail spilled into the light soon enough. He followed the path, choosing the shortest distance to his room. Suddenly, he didn't feel like thinking out here.
Though he didn't think the cabana would help, either. Its contemporary over-design was a reminded that he was staying in a glorified hotel. The one his friend had disappeared from.
He opted to continue his walk, keeping to the resort's most public confines. The Big East's grounds pulsed with sporadic activity. A young couple hurried past, pushing through the gate and into the pool area. They were laughing and whispering in one another's ear.
Jack made his way back to the main building, eager to speak with another of the Big East's employees. The lobby was nearly vacant, save for the middle-aged woman sitting behind the reception desk, eyes planted firmly in a romance novel. She didn't even look as Jack passed.
The Black Diamond restaurant was closing for the night. Only the furthest corner table was occupied. Beyond that, employees mopped the floor and stacked chairs on top of tables.
He ducked down the corridor leading to Rory Eastman's office, unsure of why he was even checking. Rory wouldn't be here and, if he was, what was there to say?
You could knock him out and spend the rest of the summer in Greifsfield's jail.
The door to his office was locked and a shade blocked the window. He couldn't see inside but it appeared clear.
Jack's mind danced in circles. Each time he worried about Molly, his rationale introduced the possibility that she had engineered this whole thing as the ultimate ploy for attention.
Allen had always said she was crazy and if she really had to run away to prove a point, the resort probably wouldn't lose too much sleep over it.
And if that's the case, screw her for making me worry.
He started back down the hallway, stopping in front of the door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY. Jack twisted the knob without knowing why. It was the stairwell Lucy had led him up a few days ago. He didn't know what he was looking for, but it couldn't hurt to poke around.
Get caught and he had an excuse: "Oh, I'm just looking for Lucy. She told me to meet her here. You know her, right? Lucy Eastman."
They'd give him a slap on the wrist, but nothing he couldn't handle. And if word got back to Lucy, she'd cover for him.
He stood on the landing and looked down. The lower levels seemed most interesting. Above them was several floors of hotel rooms, meaning this stairwell likely doubled as a fire escape.
Going down.
He followed the stairs with curiosity, descending as far as they allowed. He passed three landings only to reach the bottom, and an unmarked security door. It was metal and lacked any sort of depression or knob.
Impossible access deepened his curiosity. What was behind there that warranted tight-knit security? The resort's power-source? That deduction didn't sate his curiosity. Something about the metal slab was sinister. If it did lead to the resort's power, shouldn't there be signs warning of electricity?
He ran his hands over the smooth metallic surface. His fingers worked to the edges, attempting to pry it away from the jamb. A frivolous effort.
He explored the landing behind him, finding only a mop bucket and a broken broom handle.
Figuring that Lucy should know what was down here, Jack dug his cell phone out of his pants.
No signal.
"Son of a bitch."
This was the natural culmination of the day's events. The anonymous nature of the door was another confirmation that the Big East was hiding something. He had to get past this door and see what was inside. And there was only one way to do that.
He knocked. Repeatedly.
It looked to be the only way. There wasn't a keyhole or doorbell that he could see, and guessed that anyone coming had to get in with a knock.
So he did it again, then again.
So much for that.
Defeated, he started the return climb, cell phone in hand. Lucy was going to have to tell him everything she knew about this. If she didn't know, they were going to find out.
She was likely to be as curious as he was.
He reached the first landing, his footsteps echoing throughout the empty stairwell, and hooked around to the next set of steps. He was halfway up when a heaving sound of grinding metal froze him solid. Hushed and urgent chatter followed, and then came rapid footsteps—running that hit the stairs and refused to slow.
The urgency startled Jack and he was running too, skipping steps as he climbed. He leapt onto the next landing and pulled the doorknob. Locked. He was climbing again, the next flight. Behind him, pounding footsteps approached too quickly for his liking.
He wouldn't turn around. Didn't want to find out what the hurry was, because he felt like he knew. Someone was pissed that he was poking around. Someone fixing to take care of the problem Jack was beginning to post.
He grabbed the landing banister and flung around to the next flight of stairs, pushing his legs as fast as they went. His peripheral focused on an approaching man on the lower landing, gaining ground fast.
Jack grabbed the next door.
Locked.
He pushed off it, taking the boost of momentum it offered. The stalking footsteps were almost to him.
The next landing had been his starting point. He stumbled across the way and lunged for the knob. It was sedentary, and his fingers slipped off it.
Th
e footsteps were right behind him.
Jack couldn't look. He pounded on the door, panicked. He might've cried 'fire,' but he was too scared to recall the hysteria coming out of his mouth. His opened palms slapped against the door while the fast approaching steps slowed.
Was that laughter?
Unbelievably, the door swung inward. Jack dodged it with a quick sidestep, and then pushed past the custodian who looked at him with a wrinkled brow that silently accused him of being an asshole.
He didn't try explaining. He patted the guy's arm and then hurried off down the familiar corridor. His fingers were pins-and-needles numb, and he was sure his pulse was seconds away from bursting through his neck. The lobby was nearly empty, but with just enough activity for him to find comfort.
An obese woman complained to guest services that the complimentary drinks in her room were not being adequately stocked.
"There were four Cokes in there the first two nights. And now they're only putting two."
Jack took a seat on the sofa near her, finding comfort in her trivial complaints. His legs stuttered as he looked for his composure, watching the hallway's entrance to make sure there was no further pursuit.
The woman's complaint shifted to a whirring noise coming from the room's ceiling, keeping her and her husband awake at night.
"Why do you think I'm here complaining at this hour?"
Jack's shaky fingers navigated to Lucy’s contact info. He tried calling on his hurried trek back to the cabana. It rang several times before dumping into voicemail. He left a polite message asking her to call him back, but offered no definitive reason. He didn't want to freak her out over the phone. She'd been going through some horrendous shit of her own lately.
The cabana was empty when he got back.
He pulled the closest chair beneath the doorknob and went to the sliding door to ensure it was locked up tight. He pulled the blinds shut and slid the kitchenette table in front of it. Then he poured a glass of Wild Turkey on ice, not because he wanted it, but because it was the only thing that might tame his erratic nerves.
With a few swallows, Austin Nichols 101 set fire to his throat. He closed his eyes and hoped to hear the Lucy-specific ringtone (LoveGame by Lady Gaga) any minute.
That minute turned to unconscious hours. He awoke with sandpaper tongue. It was so coarse that Jack thought the roof of his mouth was bleeding. The room was dark but it had to still be night, since there was no light bordering the drawn curtains.
Jack fumbled for his cell phone.
4:34.
Groggy, he made his way into the kitchen for a glass of water. Moisture returned to his throat, cleansing dry mouth. He leaned against the kitchen counter and downed the entire glass in a few gulps.
There was movement amongst the solid blacks of the darkened cabana.
Jack stared at the affected area so to make sure he hadn't imagined it. Moments passed in complete silence and Jack felt no additional presence.
Regardless, it was the last straw for him. His hand touched his back pocket, making sure he still had his wallet. His keys and phone sat atop the table beside him. He was done with this place today.
He was at the door when the darkness shifted in the doorway to Allen's room. Whoever it was made no sound.
In a swift motion, Jack brushed aside the barricading chair and flung the door open. The uninvited guest simply raised its arm and pointed.
Jack was already outside and on the run.
He didn't stop until his feet hit the concrete of the Big East’s parking lot, his hands fumbling through his key ring as he ran toward the Cavalier.
He pulled out of the parking space and navigated to the gatehouse where they waved him through. Things had gone from sketchy to downright bad in a matter of hours and if he hadn't suspected something being severely wrong then, he was positive now.
Disappearing people, psychotics and burglars. What the hell was happening in this supposed vacation town?
His gut was in knots as he sped away from the Big East, imagining his options. With Lucy and Allen missing in action, he decided there was only one alternative remaining.
The sheriff's office wasn’t far from here.
***
Trever Ingram swatted the green spider that crawled across his desk. It squished beneath his balled-up fist and he ground the arachnid into paste. Then he brushed the massacred contents aside and returned his attention to the computer monitor, to where he was embroiled in a less-than rousing round of solitaire.
He didn't much like the game, and it certainly didn't have the suspense or payoff of, say, poker, but it was a shitload better than being out there on arbitrary patrol.
Some of Greifsfield's citizens had been vocal regarding his lack of lawman presence over the last couple months, but those ingrates were easy enough to ignore. It only troubled him when he thought about it, preferring to do his rounds in the midnight hour. That was the easiest way to minimize the disappointed glances of town regulars.
The thing was, even those glances were less and less these days. That's what scared him. Over the last two months, Trever Ingram hadn't felt like heading out into the dark mountain nights. Things were happening here. Things he couldn't control.
There was plenty he couldn't control these days. Massachusetts' Bureau of Forest Fire Control, for starters. Sons of bitches were doing a stellar job of drumming up panic all over the western part of the state on the count of this heat wave. Their last rainfall was back in April, and the forest was a might susceptible because of that. They warned that one smoldering campfire was all it was going to take to create an inferno, as if his men didn't know how to take precautions.
Trouble was, he didn't have many men left.
His eyes fell to a pile of folders against the edge of his desk—a collection of missing persons cases that had been opened within the last few months. He sifted through them every so often, when the guilt wasn't too much to bear. When it was, well, that was when the bottle of Southern Comfort locked in the bottom drawer came out.
He was going through that stuff much faster than usual these days.
"Not like I can help the poor sons of bitches," he said aloud. He was going to need more convincing than that.
He glanced up and, through the opened office door, frowned at the sight of the empty police station. It was just about five, an hour or so 'till sunrise, and about two hours left in his shift. Time to go home and sleep off another miserable day. Once he saw the coast was clear, he rifled a crumpled soft pack of unfiltered Pall Malls from his breast pocket and pressed a cigarette to his lips, immediately filling his mouth with potent tobacco.
One of the few things left to enjoy.
The men wouldn't start filtering in here until seven. The family guys appreciated having their nights free and since he'd been a bachelor for all of his fifty-six years, he sure didn't see the fuss in working nights. As sheriff, there was a responsibility to keep the morale of his men as high as it would go. Allowing them nights off to be with their wives and children meant the world to them. At least, it had. Before something wicked this way came.
But the men seemed happy still. If anything, it kept him safe, even if this job felt more like a prison camp these days. The irony was not lost on him.
A pair of headlights sliced through the darkness. A car pulled into the spot in front of the door.
Trever, Pall Mall pursed between his lips, shot upright, and looked down the length of the station, into the parking lot. His hand fell to his holster, curling around his Glock's handle.
The car's engine went silent and a slamming door followed. Someone trotted up the stairs and pulled the doors apart, storming through.
"Hello?" The voice was decidedly shaken. Trever felt bad because the poor son of bitch had come here looking for help.
"What can I do for ya, boy?"
"Are you the officer on duty?"
"Sheriff Trever Ingram." He took a lengthy puff on his Pall Mall and approached the visitor with
trepidation. This son of a bitch wasn't here because he needed help changing a tire.
They usually don't get as far as the police station.
"Okay, the sheriff," the guy said with a gust of relief. “Good. Sheriff…Ingram is it? I'm staying at the Big East. My friend, Lucy Eastman, had a few of us up for the summer. I called the police earlier today when one of our friends disappeared."
Trever listened to this guy, Jack Markle, weave a yarn featuring missing friends, sinister pursuits and a bit of trespassing on his part, and the part of someone much more sinister. He thought back to the folders on his desk, but didn't exactly have the heart to tell him that his missing friends were gone for good.
The new law of the land.
The guy was concerned for his friend, a younger twenty-something named Allen Taylor who'd been screwing around with that nympho Luna. The same broad who made a willing infidel out of every husband in town, if only in their minds. Rumor was she wasn't much for giving up her goods.
Goddamn cocktease.
He tried paying her no mind when she'd saunter into town for groceries. Bitch knew full well she was spinning heads as she banged by and didn't want to give her the satisfaction.
Markle had other questions, too. Asked about that Perkins girl. The boys had responded to a call up at the Big East earlier today, but they weren't planning on doing much investigating. The mop flopped that way most days.
Trever waited until he was finished speaking and then lit another Pall Mall, offering one to the drowning man before him.
He waved it away.
"Suit yourself."
This was a bad situation, one that needed glossing over. The boys had been more than clear about looking the other way—a condition of the deal.
It left Ingram with an impending sense of dread that continued to mount. What would they do with him once he outlived his usefulness? It wasn't the only worry that gnawed his innards like goddamn dysentery. What happens if Markle does the smart thing and leaves town? Sooner or later, someone would, but his boys didn't seem too concerned about that. If Markle made a scene about missing friends, it was over. All the news needed was one word about missing tourists in Greifsfield, Massachusetts and they'd swarm like buzzards, asking questions and uncovering missing persons cases by the ton.
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