Authors: Michael Koryta
Again
he lifted his hands, making a slashing motion this time. "That was the
back wall. Two stories of glass, all these windows looking out on the creek and
the pond and the woods. It was only from the back that you could see the house.
From the front, it was just the door in the hillside. Alexandra wanted it to
feel that way. She wanted it to be a place where you could escape from the
world."
I had
a strong sense that he was no longer seeing me, that I could stand up and do
jumping jacks and he wouldn't blink. He was back at this place, this house in
the earth, and from watching his face I knew that he recalled every detail perfectly,
that it was the setting of a vivid movie he played regularly in his head.
"I
helped them grow vegetables, and I kept the grass cut and the trees trimmed and
the creek flowing and the pond clean," he said. "In the fall I
cleared the leaves; in the winter I cleared the snow. No power tools, not even
a mower. I did it all by hand, and at first I thought they were crazy for
requiring that, but I needed the job. Then I came to understand how important
it was. How the sound of an engine would have destroyed what was there."
"Who
were they—" I asked, and the interruption seemed as harsh to him as a slap
in the face. He blinked at me a few times, then nodded.
"The
owners were Alexandra and Joshua Cantrell, and while I was not close to Joshua,
I became closer to Alexandra in a year than I would have thought possible. She
was a very spiritual person, deeply in touch with the earth, and when she
learned I had Shawnee ancestry, she wanted to hear all of the stories I'd
heard, was just fascinated with the culture. I learned from her, and she
learned from me, and for that one single year everything in my life seemed to
have some harmony."
He
paused, lifted his head, tilted it slightly, and looked me in the eye.
"They
left that place, that beautiful home they'd built, without any warning, just
drove away and left it all behind. I never saw them or heard from them again.
That was twelve years ago."
It
was quiet, and I let it stay that way. One of the reasons I didn't speak, truth
be told, was that I could feel a sort of electric tingle, and I wanted to hold
on to it for a moment. It came not from his story, which was intriguing but
could also be total bullshit, but from the way he told it. The light in his
eyes, the energy that came from him when he spoke, had an almost rapturous
quality. There was a depth of caring in what he said that I hadn't seen often
before. The depth of caring you could probably develop if you spent more than a
decade in a cell and then were released to the place he'd just described.
"I'm
sure there's a simple explanation," I said. "One you could probably
find with a little computer research. Maybe they overextended when they built
that house, and the bank foreclosed. Maybe they moved to be closer to family.
Maybe they decided to go overseas."
"You
think I haven't done computer research—" he said. "You think that's a
new idea to me— I've researched, Lincoln."
"You
didn't find anything—"
"Nothing.
I turned up some addresses for people with the same name, wrote some letters,
never got a response unless the letter bounced back to me.
"Not
all of them did— Then you probably got through to them and they didn't care to
respond. No offense, Harrison, but correspondence with a murderer isn't high on
most people's list of priorities. I can see why they'd ignore your letters. I
tried to do the same."
He
spoke with infinite patience. "Alexandra would never have ignored my
letters. She was a better person than that."
"People
change."
"I
have six thousand dollars," he began again.
I
waved him off. "I know, Harrison. You've told me."
He
looked at me sadly, then spoke with his eyes on the floor.
"I
need to know what happened. If it takes every dime I have, I won't feel that it
was wasted. What I told you in my letters came from the heart. I see you as a
storyteller. You take something that's hidden from the world, and you bring it
forward, give us answers to our questions, give us an ending. It's what you do,
and you seem to be very good at it. I'm asking you, please, to do that for me.
Give me those answers, give me the ending."
I
didn't say anything. He shifted in his chair, looking uneasy for the first
time, and I had an idea of how badly he wanted me to take this job.
"You
just want to know where they went—" I said. "Is that it—"
He
nodded. "I'd like to speak with her."
"I
won't facilitate contact for you. I believe there is a very good chance that
one of your letters got through, and they did not wish to hear from you. If
that's the case, I'm not going to pass along any messages or give you their new
address. I'll simply tell you what I can about why they left."
"The
address is important to me, though, because I want to send a letter. I have some
things I need to say."
I
shook my head. "I'm not doing that. The most I will do is tell them where
you are and say that you'd like to be in touch. If they want to hear from you,
they can instigate it."
He
paused with another objection on his lips, then let it die, and nodded instead.
"Fine.
If you find her, she will be in touch. I'm sure of that."
"You
said you weren't close with her husband," I said. "Perhaps you should
consider the possibility that he didn't think highly of you, and that he's one
of the reasons you haven't heard from her."
"He's
not the reason."
"We'll
see."
It
went quiet again, both of us realizing that the back-and-forth was through,
that I had actually agreed to do this. I'm not sure who was more surprised.
Harrison shifted in his chair and began to speak of the six thousand again, to
ask me what retainer fee I would require.
"None,
Harrison. Not yet. I expect this won't be hard. What seems altogether
mysterious probably won't be once I dig into it. Now, you gave me their names,
but is there any chance you remember the address of that house—"
"It's
3730, Highway 606. just outside of Hinckley."
Hinckley
was less than an hour south of Cleveland. I took a notepad out of the desk
drawer, then had him repeat the address.
"There's
a stone post at the end of the drive that says Whisper Ridge," he said.
"That's the name Alexandra gave to the place, and it was a good choice.
Appropriate. It's the quietest place I've ever been. Alexandra said one of the
contractors told her it was built in an acoustic shadow. Do you know what that
is—"
I
shook my head.
"I'd
never heard the phrase, either, but apparently in the right terrain you can
have a situation where the wind currents keep sounds from traveling the way
they should. I have no idea if that's true of Whisper Ridge, but I can tell you
that it's an unnaturally quiet place."
"The
house will give me the start," I said, not interested in hearing another
spiel about the property. "I'll be able to tell when they sold it and
whether there was a foreclosure involved. Sudden departure like that, one could
be likely."
He
shook his head. "That's not going to be your start."
"No—"
"Well,
the house will," he said. "The house absolutely should be. I'd like
you to see the place before you do anything else, but there won't be any
details in a sale that will help you."
"You
say that with confidence."
"That's
because they never sold it."
You’re
sure.
"Yes."
"Then
who lives there—"
"No
one."
I
cocked my head and studied him. "Positive about that—"
"I'm
positive. I've had correspondence with the sheriff out there. The house is
still owned by the Cantrells, the taxes are current, and according to him, it's
empty."
"It's
been twelve years," I said.
"Yes."
"The
house has just been sitting empty for that long—"
"That's
my understanding."
"A
house that is worth—"
"Several
million, for the house and the property. I know you expect this to be easy, but
I have a different sense than that. I think it will be anything but easy."
I
left the office a few minutes after Harrison did. I stood on the corner waiting
to cross Rocky River and walk over to Gene's Place for some lunch, trying to
enjoy the warm breeze and the sun and not dwell on the fact that I'd just
agreed to work for a murderer. Not even an accused murderer, which was the sort
of thing defense investigators did regularly, but an admitted murderer, a guy
who'd sat across the desk from me and talked about the man he'd killed with a
knife.
I'd
had him on his feet, headed toward the door, and now I was working for him. So
what had changed— Why, after ordering him to leave, had I agreed to his
request— I could pretend part of it was the story, the intriguing question he'd
presented, but I knew that wasn't enough.
You're
looking at me with distaste,
he'd said, and he'd been right. I was
disgusted by him when he walked into the office, disgusted by him when he wrote
the first letter back in the winter. He was a killer. He'd ended a life, shed
innocent blood. I was entitled to my disgust, wasn't I— Then he'd looked at me and
asked if I believed in his potential for rehabilitation, asked if I believed in
the work I'd done with the police, and somehow in those questions he'd
guaranteed himself my help. I didn't want to refuse him on the grounds that he
was a lost cause. Didn't want to walk out of the office feeling like a smaller
man than when I'd walked in.
The
light changed, and I crossed the street and cut through the parking lot to the
restaurant, thinking that Harrison was a clever son of a bitch. It had been a
nice play, that final question about rehabilitation, and in the end it got him
what he wanted. Part of me felt honorable for my decision; another part felt
manipulated. Played.
Maybe
I'd made a mistake. This wasn't the sort of client I wanted on the books. Granted,
we hadn't signed anything, and I could always back out…
"Joe
will be furious," I said aloud, and then I managed a laugh. No, my partner
was not going to be impressed with this story. I could hear him already, his
voice rising in volume and exasperation as he explained to me the hundreds of
obvious reasons why I shouldn't have taken this case. That alone could justify
taking it. I had a hell of a time getting under Joe's skin now that he was in
Florida. This one just might do it, though. This one just might have enough
annoyance to bridge the miles.
It
should be simple, too. I added that to the pro side of the list as I walked
into Gene's Place and down the brick steps beside the old popcorn machine that
had greeted people just inside the doors for years. Honestly, it should take me
no more than a day or two to determine where this Cantrell couple had gone. I'd
give them a call or drop them a note and explain where Harrison was and what he
wanted. If they agreed to contact him, fine, and if they didn't, I would still
have held up my end of the bargain—and, hopefully, would have satisfied
Harrison into silence.
I ate
a turkey club and drank black coffee and listened as people around me discussed
what a beautiful day it was, how nice the sun felt. It had been a i old, angry
April, with a late-season snowstorm that canceled the early baseball games and
then settled into a few weeks of gray sky and chill rain. I hat looked to be
behind us now, finally. Today's weather seemed to be an official announcement,
winter waving a going out of business sign at the city, closed for the season
sign, rather. It'd be back soon enough, as everyone in Cleveland knew.
Still,
today it was gone, and staying indoors seemed like a crime, unappredative. I
had no real need to make the drive to see the Cantrell house—this thing could
probably be wrapped up without leaving the office—but the day called for an
outing of some sort, and this was the only one that had offered itself. I
finished my lunch and left, walked back to Lorain and past the office and a few
blocks down until I got to my building. I own a small twenty-four- hour gym and
live in the apartment above it. The original plan when I got kicked off the
police force was to make a living on the gym. Then Joe retired and coaxed me
into the PI business, which was fairly easy to do based upon the meager profits
the gym had been turning. A few short years later, Joe was gone indefinitely,
and I was running the agency by myself. Man plans, God laughs.