Bad News Read online

  He pauses for a moment.

  “You hope what?” I ask.

  “This stuff can't get into the media,” he says, sounding worried. “I guess what I mean is that I'm trusting you here, Maggie. Please, don't take photos of anything. Don't even tell anyone that you were in here. Letting you into my office is a sign of desperation. Please don't take advantage of that.”

  “I would never do that,” I tell him, and I mean that.

  100%.

  Unless there's something really juicy, in which case I might need to have a rethink.

  Suddenly the door behind Malone opens, and one of his deputies stops in the doorway as soon as he sees me.

  “It's okay, Mark,” Malone says, turning to him, “Maggie's just... a friend.”

  “Right,” he replies, clearly a little shocked. “Um, anyway, I just wondered whether you wanted a coffee while I'm out.”

  “Sure, Mark,” Malone replies. “I'll have my usual.”

  The deputy turns to go.

  “And get one for Maggie, too,” Malone adds, before glancing at me. “If you'd like one.”

  “Sure,” I reply, slightly taken aback by what seems like a genuine moment of generosity. I guess he's starting to trust me. “I'll take it black, please. No sugar. Thanks.”

  The deputy hesitates for a moment, and then he leaves.

  “I'm not going to regret letting you in here, am I?” Malone asks me. “Everything in those files is confidential, and I can't let it get into the public domain.”

  “Of course,” I reply.

  “I really shouldn't be doing this,” he adds. “I could lose my job and -”

  “I won't leak anything,” I tell him yet again. He's really laboring his point. “Seriously, I don't even have a job right now, so I have no-one to leak it to. But I wouldn't anyway. I wouldn't do that to you.”

  “Thanks,” he mutters, before coming over to the desk and starting to look through some of the files. “Most of this is pretty routine paperwork,” he explains, “and I'm really not sure that you're going to find anything of interest. I got it all out mainly so that you'd see how little we've got to work with. There are interview transcripts, and I can pull out the tapes if you want. Nobody saw anything, though, and all you're going to find is a whole series of nothings.”

  “It's still good to get my head around the case,” I tell him.

  “And is that really all you want?” he asks, before setting a couple of files in front of me and then taking a step back. “Are you really, truly just here because you want to help find Kimmy?”

  “Is it so hard to believe that someone like me would care?” I ask.

  “I guess I'm just used to seeing people like you as...” He pauses.

  “The enemy?” I suggest.

  “Yeah, basically. I guess there's still a part of me that expects to see all this stuff splashed on some website in the next day or two. Along with a story about how the incompetent local police didn't manage to crack the case. Maybe a picture of me, and some quotes about how I failed the town.”

  “That's really what you think I'm going to do?”

  “It's a concern.”

  “Then I look forward to proving you wrong,” I tell him. “Not all of us are monsters. Just most of us.”

  “I guess you could say the same about my profession,” he replies.

  “So let's get on with this,” I say. “How about we take half the stack each, and we go through and make sure that nothing was missed. I know I must sound like a broken record, but I still find it hard to believe that there's not one thing in all these files that doesn't hint at what happened to Kimmy Duchette. Even if it's just a line, just a word, there has to be a link. And we just need to find it.”

  He's right. But, as we focus on the paperwork, I can't help feeling a little restless. I've basically managed to talk my way into seeing confidential police documents. I should be – inwardly – jumping for joy. In that case, why do I feel so bad?

  ***

  Eight hours – and several coffees – later, optimism is a little harder to conjure up. We've made a good dent in the files, but so far I've found nothing that even hints at a clue. Every so often I glance over at Malone, and it's pretty obvious that he's faring no better. Are we still expecting a breakthrough, or are we both just going through the motions so that we can honestly say we did everything that was possible?

  Finally I glance at my watch and see that it's a little before 10pm.

  “I think I might have to finish this tomorrow,” Malone says with a sigh, as he sets another file down. “My eyes are stinging.”

  Agreeing with him, I lay a file flat on the desk and lean back, and I feel a twinge of pain in my spine. At least my wet right foot is almost dry, although I'm sure the sock will feel wet as soon as I stand up again.

  “Do you have anything for the 'maybe' pile, at least?” Malone asks.

  I turn to him.

  I want to say that I have at least some idea of what to do next, but I'm starting to feel as if this whole trip has been a waste of time. Meanwhile, I think I'm about to use my least-favorite word in the whole world. A word that makes me grimace every time I use it. A word that gives me the shivers, the same way that the f-word or the c-word might horrify a Sunday school teacher. A word that I've used maybe half a dozen times in my entire life.

  “Sorry.”

  He raises a skeptical eyebrow.

  “I'm sorry I gave you such a hard time before,” I continue. “I guess I bought into the idea of an incompetent investigator missing obvious clues, not really trying to solve the case. I really bugged you and hounded you last year, and now I'm starting to see how hard your job was at the time. And for that, I'm truly sorry.”

  He stares at me for a moment, before shrugging.

  “You had every right,” he says, and then he gets to his feet and lets out a faint gasp as he stretches his back. “And you're not the only one. I swear, people round here seem to think that all criminals leave massive clues all over the place. They think it's like Scooby-Doo, and the clues are there if I just open my eyes.”

  “You really might not ever find Kimmy, huh?”

  He doesn't answer. Instead, he heads over to the door.

  “They didn't find the other girl, ten years ago,” he points out. “I spoke on the phone to one of the team who investigated the disappearance of Esmee Waters. I could hear that it haunted him, the idea that she'd gone missing and never been seen since.” He turns to me. “For all we know,” he continues, “the two cases could be completely unrelated, they could just be a big coincidence, but right now I can't shake the worry that maybe you're right. Maybe there's someone out there, someone who took them both.”

  Standing, I feel another twinge of pain in my spine as I start making my way around the desk. After just a couple of steps, however, my right sneaker lets out a squelching sound.

  “Hole your shoe?” Malone asks.

  “It's nothing.”

  “Those things look pretty old.”

  “Some women have more pairs of shoes than chromosomes,” I mutter, as I take another step and feel more muddy water between my toes. “Others, like me, wear one pair until they wear out. Like, until they literally fall apart. Although, to be honest, I should probably get around to replacing these. Even by my standards, they're looking pretty awful.”

  He holds the door open, and I make my way out into the main office. The lights are low, and the computer screens show what I believe to be Windows 98 screen-savers. Nice touch.

  “We still have the rest of the files to go through tomorrow,” Malone points out, taking a moment to lock his office door and then leading me across the room, toward the exit at the far end. “We might find something. Stranger things have happened.”

  “Stranger things, sure,” I reply as we head out into the cold night air. I turn and watch as he locks the main door. “Miracles are rarer.”

  We walk down the steps in silence, making our way toward our vehicles. Hi
s truck is parked right next to my battered old car; the only two cars left in the parking lot, and they're heading for the same motel tonight.

  I want to say something profound, something uplifting, but as I reach my car and start fishing for my keys, I come up with nothing. It's cold out here, and windy, and I keep feeling spots of rain in the air. I still can't think of anything to say, and at the same time I want this evening to end on a slightly more uplifting, more positive note than a chat about our failure to come up with anything.

  “I dream about them,” Malone says suddenly.

  I turn to him.

  He's staring at the hood of his truck, as if he's lost in his thoughts.

  Is he talking to me, or -

  “I dream about the missing girls,” he continues finally, “almost every night. Don't worry, I know that's all it is. Dreams. But I still...”

  His voice trails off for a moment.

  “My little boy is seven,” he adds, and now he looks at me. “If something happened to him, I'd tear the universe apart looking for him. At least, that's what I tell myself. But what if something like this really happened to him? What if he vanished into thin air, like Kimmy and like Esmee Waters? And what if there was nothing, nothing in the whole of existence, that I could do to find him?”

  “You don't have to think like that,” I tell him.

  “You tell yourself as a parent that you're unstoppable,” he continues. “When it comes to protecting them, I mean. But you're not. You're pretty hopeless, actually. You do your best, but there's a whole vast world out there just waiting to gobble them up. And it's not even very far away. It's on your doorstep, it can even come into your house. And despite all the tough words and the rhetoric and the determination, you're not match for it. It can just take them and you can't do anything. And that's so terrifying, so horrifying, that honestly I can only really accept it for a moment or two at a time.”

  “We have tomorrow,” I reply, somewhat awkwardly.

  “I've been telling myself that for a whole year now,” he replies, before pausing for a moment, silhouetted against the starless sky. “But, hey, you're right. There has to be something in the files, we just haven't reached the right one yet. You're totally right. We'll find something tomorrow. We'll get there.”

  I'm not sure that's exactly what I meant, but I figure it's better to not contradict him.

  “Listen,” he adds, “I'm going to stop by and get some dessert before I head back to the motel. It's no big deal, but if you'd like to join me, I'd be happy to tell you what's good and what's not so good on the menu.” He pauses. “Only if you want to.”

  “I...”

  For a moment, I'm honestly not sure what to say.

  “Yeah, maybe,” I say finally. “I'll be right behind you. I'm pretty tired, but I might see you there. If not, I'll be back here first thing in the morning, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, ready to get going again.”

  Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed? Did I really just say that?

  Malone gets into his truck, and I start once again searching for my keys. The truth is, I already know that I'm going to drop by the bar and get something with Malone, even if desserts have never really been my thing. I don't understand why I didn't just tell him that I'd see him there, but I guess I didn't want to seem too eager. And as he drives out of the lot, I figure I'll give him a head-start for a few minutes and then I'll surprise him by showing up. He probably thinks I'm too gloomy for dessert, anyway.

  Maybe I'll surprise him.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Damn thing,” I mutter, as I feel more cold water squelching between my toes. I watch the road ahead for a moment, as my headlights pick out the tarmac and the trees on either side, and then I briefly glance down toward my feet.

  For a moment, I consider pulling over and just taking the damn sneaker off, but then I realize that I might as well wait until I get to the motel. I was originally going to drive straight to the bar, whereas now I'm taking a detour to the motel so I can quickly change my socks and try to dry my right sneaker a little.

  Damn it, by the time I get to the bar, Malone'll be pretty much through with his ice cream. I'm screwing this up, and all because I was too cheap to get new sneakers before I came down to Ridge Falls. And now I'm halfway to the motel and I'm getting this all wrong, and Malone's probably already thinking that I've decided not to join him. I guess I could still change my plan, and stop to take the sock off and then just have my bare foot in the sneaker when I go to the bar.

  Why didn't I do that from the start?

  Muttering a few curses under my breath, I try to work out what to do now. I'm still barreling along the dark, remote road that leads to the motel, but I really could turn around and just get to the bar as fast as possible. Then again, what if my foot starts to smell?

  I watch the road for a moment, before glancing down at my feet and carefully starting to kick the offending sneaker off.

  I check the road, then I look down again and remove my other sneaker, so that I can use one foot to get the other sock out of the way. I don't smell anything so far, so maybe this plan is going to work, but I can't quite manage to get a proper grip on the wet sock and I'm worried that my other sock will get soggy in the process so -

  Suddenly a bright light flashes against the windshield. I look ahead just in time to see that I've missed the turn of the road, and that another vehicle is racing straight toward me. I manage to turn the wheel, missing a head-on crash by inches, but then my car races straight off the side of the road and down into a ditch, before slamming into something in the darkness and then flipping.

  I scream, and then the windshield shatters, spraying me with glass, and then there's a loud crunching sound from above and everything goes black.

  Chapter Seventeen

  My eyes flicker open, and the first thing I realize is that I'm really, really comfortable. Then I realize that the back of my neck feels really warm, and I start to turn, only to find that I'm flat on my back. Finally, as my vision becomes less blurry, I see bare wooden beams crossing the ceiling high above me.

  “What the -”

  I sit bolt upright, only to find that I'm on a fur rug in front of a large, roaring open fire. There are no other lights nearby, and when I look around I see that I'm in some kind of big, sparsely-decorated room with bare wooden walls on all sides. There's a sofa just a few feet away, and a table in the distance, and a single door on the far side of the room.

  For a moment, I don't dare move. I glance around, still trying to make sense of this madness and to figure out where I am and how I got here. And then, in a flash, I remember the bright lights of an oncoming vehicle, and the brief few seconds of absolute terror as my car ran off the road.

  I crashed.

  I was paying too much attention to my feet, and I crashed my car.

  I relive that moment over and over again, but it always plays out the same. I went crashing off the road, and I think maybe I hit something in a ditch, and then everything went black. I have a strange feeling that I wasn't unconscious for too long, maybe just a few hours, but that feeling could also be wrong. And even as I look down and see that my clothes are scuffed but mostly undamaged, I can't help relieving the crash again and again.

  Fine, but that doesn't explain where I am now, because this sure is no hospital.

  The fire is crackling loudly as I slowly get to my feet. I'm sore all over, but nothing seems to be broken. After a few seconds I feel my bare feet pressing against something soft, and I look down to see my toes mixed in with the fibers of this huge rug that was under me when I woke. Something about this whole situation feels so surreal, as if I got knocked out in my car and ended up in some kind of lumberjack paradise. I glance around again, half expecting to see a moose head mounted on a nearby wall, but mercifully this place isn't quite that cliched.

  In fact, there isn't much here at all. Apart from the sofa and the table, the room is strangely bare. There are no pictures on the walls, and no real s
igns of life. It's as if I'm in a show-home that somebody forgot to finish decorating.

  Somebody who really, really likes bare pine.

  I take a few cautious steps forward, and then I stop as a floorboard creaks under my right foot. I have no idea who brought me here after the crash, but I'm already starting to think that most normal people would have taken me to a hospital. I reach down to my pocket, hoping against hope to find my cellphone, but of course it's not there. Was it in my pocket while I was driving, or did I place it on the dash? For a moment, I figure that maybe I left it somewhere, but then I distinctly recall slipping it into my pocket as I climbed into the car.

  Which means that, after the crash, someone deliberately took it out.

  That's not worrying at all.

  That's not horror movie material.

  Heading to the nearest window, I realize that it's definitely still dark outside. I can only really see my own reflection, but there don't seem to be any lights out there, so I guess I'm well out of town. I reach down to try opening the window, only to see that it's screwed shut. In fact, as I examine the edges more carefully, I start to realize that someone has really gone all-out to make sure that the window can't be opened.

  Again, that's not concerning.

  I try the window a few more time, until it starts rattling in its frame and I suddenly worry that I might be making too much noise. I freeze, terrified that some hulking murderer is lurking somewhere nearby, and slowly realizing that now he'll know that I've awake. It's only been a few minutes since my eyes opened, and already I've made a classic dumb horror movie mistake.

  I step back, and then I think to turn and look for cameras. I don't see anything so far, but that doesn't mean there couldn't be something hidden away. I pause to consider my options, and then I look at the door and realize that I should at least check to see whether it's locked.

  I glance around one more time, and then I make my way over to the door and try the handle. And to my surprise, I find that not only does it turn, but the door actually clicks open to reveal another large, mostly bare room.