I could see nothing there in the dark other than vague hints and outlines. But I imagined I could see the shadow of her smile. That I imagined it was of no consequence. I knew that I had pleased her and that was suddenly the most important thing to me.
As we lay there, sipping the rest of the champagne, giggling out of unsuspected joy, we heard several fire alarms sound in town and in the hills surrounding Riversborough. We didn’t pay them much mind, but when a small fleet of fire trucks rolled past the inn, we couldn’t help but pause to wonder what the fuss was all about.
“Do you think its the school?” Kira sounded worried.
“I don’t think so. The school’s in the opposite direction from where those sirens were headed. Do you live on or off campus?”
“That’s right,” she said, “you don’t know where my apartment is.”
“Or your phone number.”
“If you ask me to marry you again, I might be persuaded to tell you.”
“You’ve already said yes once, I’m not giving you a chance at second thoughts. I’ve got other means of persuasion.” And with those words, I moved quickly to coat my tongue with the taste of her and to fill my head with the scent of jasmine in the snow.
It was still quite dark out when I stirred. After finishing in the bathroom, I was restless with panic and nervous energy. I turned the TV away from the bed and hit the remote’s power button. I muted the sound and clicked merrily up and down the channels. On one of the local channels I spotted a graphic of a fire truck. I stopped surfing and turned up the sound ever so slightly:
“. . fifteen volunteer fire companies, some as far away as Blue Sky Lake, joined Riversborough firefighters in their efforts to bring the blaze under control. As of yet, their efforts have met with little success. Now, for a live update, here’s Linda Di Corona at the scene.”
Linda Di Corona’s audio feed wasn’t up and running, but the caption beneath the live picture of her standing in front of a fire truck told me all I needed to know. The ski resort at Cyclone Ridge was burning down. Given the presence of the woman sleeping in my bed, I wasn’t about to question the power of coincidence, but a fire at Cyclone Ridge was just too damned convenient. I shut off the TV. I paced for a few minutes, tried reading, surrendered, at last, to fitful sleep.
I don’t remember what ring it was when I got to the phone, but I was glad to see Kira was undisturbed from the depths of her dreams.
“Klein?” It was MacClough.
“Who were you expecting, Chancellor Bismarck? Christ, MacClough, it’s 2:30 in the morning.”
“He can write books and tell time, too. I know what time it is. I just wanted to tell you that I’ll be back up there in a few hours and we’ve got to move fast.”
“Why’s that?” I was worried. “Did something go sour with Zak?”
“Calm down, Klein. It’s just that I’ve established a definite link between all the parties involved. It seems that Detective Caliparri used to do a little moonlighting as a private investigator for a certain lawyer we both know.”
“Jeffrey!”
“None other. I had a chat with Caliparri’s widow this afternoon. From what I can piece together, your brother didn’t blow off the Valencia Jones case at first blush like everybody seems to think. Back when Zak asked him to take the case, your brother hired Caliparri to have a look. But the case looked like a dog. I mean, she does look guilty as hell and her family tree doesn’t help. So Caliparri must’ve warned Jeffrey off. Then,” MacClough stopped to clear his throat, “a few days ago, Caliparri’s wife says her husband took another trip up to Riversborough. It was right after your nephew disappeared.”
“Shit!”
“We gotta get a look inside those buildings at Cy-”
“Forget it,” I cut him off. “They’re two steps ahead of us.” I began to sing to the tune of “London Bridge”: Cyclone Ridge is burning down, burning down, burning down. Cyclone Ridge is burning down, my dear detective.”
“Fuck!”
“My feelings exactly.”
“You know,” he said, “it means we’re close, real close. Did you say anything to the girl?”
“The girl’s not our problem. That’s the good news. I’ll tell you all about it when I see you. You want me to pick you up at the airport?”
“No, not worth the risk.”
“Listen, John, I know this sounds weird, but I think we should also stop meeting in our rooms. I’m not sure about this, but it could be the desk clerk is our mole.”
“Where then?”
I thought about that. It’s tough to think of a secure meeting place when you don’t know an area all that well.
“Mens room of the Manhattan Court Coffee House. Check there for me every few hours. Coffee’s good, poetry sucks, but you’ll live.”
“Every few hours?” he puzzled. “What are you doin’ tomorrow.”
“Getting a marriage license.” I hung up.
Now I was really wound up. I peered over at Kira. She sort of half smiled at me.
“Is everything all right, Dylan?”
“Sure is,” I lied. I kissed the corner of her eye and stroked her hair until she fell back asleep.
I got up and took a shower to occupy some time. A few minutes later, I heard Kira stirring about in the room. I cursed myself for making too much noise, but I figured there was great potential for fun in making it up to her. As I shaved around my beard, I could no longer hear her and figured she’d gone back to sleep. I laughed at my reflection and vowed to make it up to her anyway.
Stepping from the bathroom, I hesitated. There it was again, that feeling someone uninvited was there in the dark. And this time, I was certain. Exposed by the light spilling out of the bathroom, I caught the faint reflection of a man in the mirror hung above the bureau. He was trying to hide himself in the corner and his body was partially obscured by shadows and the drapery. But I recognized his face: the desk clerk. My eyes shifted to the bed. Empty!
I pushed the panic down as far as I could, trying to think of what I might be able to use as a weapon. I figured I could take the guy in the corner, but I got the sense that he didn’t have the balls to try a stunt like breaking into my room alone. I was right again. To my left, I could hear a muffled voice, Kira’s. I’ll always think she was trying to warn me, but I won’t ever know. She was gagged or there was a hand covering her mouth. The muffled cries ended abruptly.
Acting as if I’d forgotten something, I took a step back into the bathroom and began to close the door. I wasn’t quick enough. The door pushed in on me, knocking me off balance. A strong fist, aimed at my chin, caught me on the point of the shoulder and sent me sprawling on the tile floor. My temple banged into the claw foot of the cast-iron tub. Dazed, I tried standing, but the owner of the strong fist had other ideas.
I caught a glimpse of him just before his left hook introduced itself to my ribs. He was taller than me, about 6’2”, blond, and built like a linebacker. Dressed in a shiny lycra suit that highlighted the cut lines between his muscles, he moved effortlessly. I guessed he was the ski dude MacClough said had followed me from the airport. I remember him smiling at me as his knuckles tried their best to make a tunnel through my thorax. It’s always a pleasure to see a man who enjoys his work.
I dropped an elbow to block his punch, but I only deflected it to the worst possible spot. It hit right under the center of my rib cage in the solar plexus. My body gave up on the notion of standing. The air couldn’t rush out of my lungs fast enough and once out, I couldn’t get any back in. I rolled on the tiles trying to force myself to breathe. Somehow, I managed to do that, but I can’t tell you how.
Ski dude stopped me from writhing by grabbing me by the throat. That got my attention. At that point, I was pretty well prepared to die. I don’t know what made me do what I did next-maybe it was the Brooklyn in me-but I smiled back at him and tried spitting in his face. He didn’t like that too well.