Rage Against the Dying

Twenty





I knocked at the door of room 174 first, and when there was no answer, I used the second key I’d gotten when I checked Zach into the Sheraton. He hadn’t killed himself, but he wasn’t around. Where was he going, how was he getting there (even at his lowest Zach wouldn’t use a bus), and what was he doing? I took a brief pass over the room, nothing but his small canvas bag that contained a couple of shirts still in their plastic wrappers, another pair of chinos, and some underwear. Also the neatly laminated five by seven of Jessica balanced against the bed lamp. Electric razor, toothbrush, and travel-size toothpaste in the bathroom.

I wrote a note on the hotel pad next to the phone on the desk, nothing long or heartfelt, just “I was here looking for you. Return call, you idiot.” And my cell phone number. I tore off the top sheet, rewrote it leaving out the you idiot and adding please. I was frustrated. What with Coleman pressuring me about Lynch, my fears that the body in the wash would be discovered, and my own intuition that someone would still try to kill me, I didn’t need this. But then I thought, suck it up, none of that is as bad as losing a child. Nothing is as bad as losing a child.