Never Coming Back

VIKING

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Published by Viking Penguin, a member of Penguin Group (USA) LLC, 2014

Copyright © 2013 by Timothy Weaver

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First published in Great Britain by Penguin Books Ltd.

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

Weaver, Tim, 1977-

Never coming back / Tim Weaver.

pages cm

ISBN 978-0-698-15443-8

1. Missing persons--Investigations--Fiction. 2. Private investigators--Fiction. I. Title.

PR6123.E2245N48 2014 823'.92--dc23 2013048534

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

For Erin

When the night came, it came fast. The sky yellowed, like a week-old bruise, and then the sun began its descent into the desert floor, dropping out of the clouds as if it were falling. The further it fell, the quicker the sky changed, until the sun was gone from view and all that remained was a smear of red cloud, like a bloodstain above the Mojave.

The city limits emerged from the darkness about twenty minutes later: to start with just small, single-story satellite towns, street lights flickering in the shadows either side of the Interstate; then, as the 15 carved its way through the Southern Highlands, a brighter, more persistent glow. Housing estates, strip malls and vast tracts of undeveloped land, illuminated by billboards and the orange tang of sodium lights; and then the neon: casinos, motels and diners, unfurling beyond the freeway. Finally, as I came off the Interstate at Exit 36, I saw the Strip for the first time, its dazzling, monolithic structures rising out of the flatness of the desert, like a star going supernova.

Even a quarter of a mile short of its parking garage, I knew the Mandalay Bay would be a step up from the last time I'd stayed in Las Vegas. On my first trip to the city five years before, the newspaper had taken care of the booking and left me to rot in a downtown grind joint called The George. “George,” I later found out, was casino lingo for a good tipper. Except the only people doing the gambling at The George were the homeless, placing 25c minimum bets on the blackjack tables out front so they could scrape together enough for a bottle of something strong. This time, as I nosed the hired Dodge Stratus into a space on a huge rooftop parking lot, I passed eight-story signs advertising a televised UFC fight at the hotel in January, and I knew I'd made the right decision to book it myself: last time out, the only fighting I'd seen anywhere close to The George was of the fully drunk kind.

I turned off the ignition and as the engine and radio died, the sound of the Las Vegas Freeway filled the car; a low, unbroken hum, like the rumble of an approaching storm. Further off, disguised against the sky except for the metronomic wink of its taillight, was a plane making its final approach into McCarran. As I sat there, a feeling of familiarity washed over me, of being in this city, of hearing these same sounds, five
years before. I remembered a lot from that trip, but mostly I just remembered the noise and the lights.

I opened the door of the Dodge and got out.

The night was cool, but not unpleasant. Popping the trunk, I grabbed my overnight bag and headed across the lot. Inside, the hotel was just as loud, the cars and planes and video screens replaced by the incessant
ding, ding, ding
of slot machines. I waited in line for the front desk, watching as a young couple in their twenties started arguing with one another. By the time I was handed my room card, I was ready for silence—or as close as I could get.

I showered, changed, and raided the minibar, then called Derryn to let her know I'd arrived okay. We chatted for a while. She'd found it hard to adapt to our new life on the West Coast initially: we had no friends here, she had no job, and in our Santa Monica apartment block our neighbors operated a hermetically sealed clique. Gradually, though, things were changing. Back home, she'd been an A&E nurse for twelve years before giving it up to come out to the States with me, and that experience had landed her a short-term contract at a surgery a block from where we lived. She was only taking blood and helping doctors patch up wounds—much more sedate than the work she'd been doing back in London—but she loved it. It got her out meeting people, and it brought in a little money, plus she got weekends off too, which meant she could go to the beach.

“You going to spend all our money, Raker?” she asked after a while.

“Not tonight. Maybe tomorrow.”

“Do you even know how to play cards?”

“I know how to play Snap.”

I could tell she was smiling. “I'd love to be a fly on the wall when you sidle up to the blackjack table pretending you know what you're doing.”

“I
do
know what I'm doing.”

“You can't even play Monopoly.”

“My biggest fan talks me up again.”

She laughed. “You'll have to take me with you next time.”

“I will.”

“I'd love to see Vegas.”

I turned on the bed and looked out through the window. Millions of lights winked back through the glass. “I know. I'll bring you here one day, I promise.”

•   •   •

At one-thirty, I was still awake, even if I didn't understand why. I'd been up until four the previous night filing a story, was fried after the five-hour drive down from LA—but I just couldn't drop off. Eventually, I gave up trying, got dressed and headed downstairs.

When the elevator doors opened, it was like time had stood still: the foyer, the sounds of the slots, the music being piped through speakers, it was all exactly the same as I'd left it. The only thing missing was the couple screaming at one another. This was the reason casinos didn't put clocks up: day, night, it was all the same, like being in stasis. You came in and your body clock disengaged. I looked at my watch again and saw it was closing in on two—but it may as well have been midmorning. Men and women were wandering around in tracksuits and shorts like they'd just come from the tennis courts.

I headed to a bar next to the hotel lobby. Even at one-fifty in the morning I had plenty of company: a couple in their sixties, a woman talking on her phone in a booth, a guy leaning over a laptop, and a group of five men sitting at one of the tables, laughing raucously at something one of them had said. Sliding in at the stools, I ordered a beer, picked at a bowl of nuts and flicked through a copy of the
Las Vegas Sun
that had been left behind. The front-page story neatly echoed the one I'd been sent down to follow up: Las Vegas, the bulletproof city. While some analysts were predicting a recession inside the next twelve months, America's gaming capital was set to make a record eight billion dollars.

About ten minutes later, as I got to the sports pages, a guy sat down beside me at the bar and ordered another round of drinks. I looked up, he looked back at me, and then he returned to his table with a tray full of shots. A couple of seconds later, a faint memory surfaced, and—as I tried to grasp at it—a feeling of recognition washed over me: I knew him. I turned on my stool and glanced back over my shoulder. The man placed the tray down on the table—and then looked back at me.
He knows me too.
There was a moment of hesitation for both of us, paused at each end of the room—but then it seemed to click for him, a smile broke out on his face and he returned to me.

“David?”

As soon as he spoke, the memory became fully formed: Lee Wilkins. We'd grown up together, lived in the same village, gone to the same
school—and we'd left the same sixth-form college and never spoken since. Now, almost twenty years later, here he was: different from how I remembered, but not that different. More weight around his face and middle, hair shaved, dark stubble lining his jaw, but otherwise the same guy: five-ten, stocky, a scar to the left of his nose where he'd fallen out of a tree we'd been climbing.

“Lee?”

“Yes!” An even bigger smile spread across his face and we shook hands. “Bloody hell,” he said. “I thought when I saw you, ‘He looks familiar,' but I just never figured . . .”

“Are you on holiday here?”

“No,” he said, perching himself on the stool next to me. “I live here now. Been in Vegas for two years; been in the States for seven.”

“Doing what?”

“You remember I wanted to be an actor?”

“I remember that, yeah.”

He stopped; smiled. “Well, it didn't work out.”

“Oh.”

“No, I mean it didn't work out in the way I thought it would. I spent my first five years in LA trying to catch a break, waiting tables and turning up at auditions. Got some minor roles here and there but nothing anyone would have seen me in. Then I started compering at this comedy club in West Hollywood, and things got a little crazy. Ended up going down so well, I
became
the act. That went on for a year, then I was offered a job down here in Vegas, as the main compere at this big comedy club just off the Strip. A few months back, I was offered an even
better
job by the guy who runs the entertainment in the MGM hotels, so now I travel between here, the Luxor, New York, the Mirage, the Grand, all of them. It's been pretty amazing.”

“Wow. That's incredible, Lee. Congratulations.”

“Right place, right time, I guess.”

“Or you're just really good at it.”

He shrugged. “I can't believe it's you.
Here.
”

“I know.”

“So what are
you
doing in Vegas?”

“You remember I wanted to be a journalist?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, that
did
work out.”

“Fantastic. Are you working now?”

“Yeah.” I looked around me. “Well, I'm working tomorrow.”

“You live here?”

“No. I'm just down from LA for the night.”

“Doing what?”

I tapped the front page of the
Sun.
“Writing about money.”

“Are you a correspondent or something?”

“Just until the elections are over next year, and then I head back to London. The paper's pretty excited about the idea of Obama, which is why I'm out here so early.”

“Anyone's better than Bush, right?”

“I guess we'll see next year.”

“How come you're based on the West Coast?”

“I was based in DC last time I was out, but this time I'm here for much longer. So, I'm spending six months in LA to cover the buildup from California, and then I move to DC to cover the last six months from Capitol Hill.” I nodded at the
Sun
again. “Thing is, at the moment, it's still early days, so there's nothing to talk about. Which is why I'm down here trying to justify my existence.”

“Not a bad place to come for a night.”

“Noisy.”

He laughed. “Yeah, I guess it is.”

We ordered more beers and sat at the bar and talked, covering the nineteen years since we'd left home. I'd grown up on a farm, in the hills surrounding our village, but when I headed to London and it dawned on my parents that I wasn't going to be taking over the running of it anytime soon, they started winding it down and paying into a cottage.

“And then Mum died.”

Lee gave a solemn nod of the head.

I shrugged. “It was pretty much all downhill from there: I helped Dad get the farm sold and moved him into the village, but he could never really handle it on his own.”

“Is he still around?”

“No. He died almost two years ago.”

I hadn't been back home since.

The conversation moved on and got brighter, Lee telling me how his mum had remarried and now lived in Torquay, how his sister was a teacher, how he was still single and loving it, even if his mum wanted him to settle down. “They flew out earlier in the year, and Mum
basically asked me when I was going to get married, once a day for three weeks.” He rolled his eyes, and then asked, “So how long have you been married to Diane?” He was busy polishing off his fifth bottle of beer, so I forgave him the slip-up. We were both a little worse for wear: him—two bottles ahead of me—on alcohol, me on a lack of sleep.

“Derryn.”

“Shit.” He laughed. “Sorry. Derryn.”

The bar was quieter now, all the men he'd been drinking with earlier off in the casino somewhere. “It'll be thirteen years this year.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah, it's been good.”

He nodded. “I admire you, man. Envy you too.” He nodded a second time and then sank the rest of his beer. “And now I've got to use the can.”

He rocked from side to side slightly as he shifted away from the bar, and patted me gently on the shoulder as he passed. Then he headed to the toilets.

And I never saw him again.

•   •   •

A couple of minutes later, after picking up where I'd left off with the
Las Vegas Sun
, I looked up in the direction Lee had gone and saw a man standing next to me. I hadn't seen him approach. His body was facing the bar but his head was turned toward the paper, reading one of the stories on the front page. A second later, he glanced at me and realized he'd been caught out. “Oh,” he said. “Sorry. That's incredibly rude of me.”

He was English.

I looked over his shoulder, in the direction of the toilets. No sign of Lee. When my eyes fell on the man again, his head had tilted—like a bird—as if he was studying me.

I pushed the paper toward him. “Here.”

“That's really good of you,” he said. “Thanks.”

“No problem.”

He smiled. “You're English.”

“Yeah. Looks like we both are.”

He was in his late forties, thin and wiry, with a tan and a smooth, hairless face. As he smiled, I could see he'd had his teeth done. They had an unnatural sheen to them that you could only get away with on the West Coast. He perched himself on the edge of one of the stools, still smiling. “Are you out here with work or something?”

“Just for a couple of days.”

“Ah, I didn't think you looked like a whale.”

“Whale” was what casinos termed the world's biggest gamblers. He was dressed smartly: pale blue open-necked shirt, black jacket, denims, black leather shoes polished to a shine. His dark hair was slicked back from his forehead and glistened under the lights.

“You wouldn't be sitting here for a start,” he said.

“If I was a whale?”

“Right. You'd be living off your complimentaries—your free flight and free suite and free food from the restaurant—not drinking alone in the bar at the foyer.” He seemed to realize what he'd just said. “Wait, I didn't mean that how it sounded. Sorry.”