The map we buy doesn’t have Markerville on it, and I end up asking an old man sitting in a rocking chair outside the store, which is as rural as it gets. He squints his eyes at me—faded gold coins that used to be a dark brown, I think—and shakes his head. “Nobody got no business in Markerville,” he tells me. “Place been gone for years. Even the post office closed up shop back in the sixties. Nothing there but falling-down shacks.”
It doesn’t sound promising, but I get directions anyway. It’s a fair drive, at least a few hours, and it’s already getting dark by the time we hit the outskirts of Nashville.
“You want to keep driving, sleep in the car, or get a room?” I try to make sure there’s nothing in the question to suggest that it’s a come-on, because God knows, this isn’t the time even if there’s some possibility of it. “Two rooms, I mean.”
Gwen’s the practical one. “One room, two beds will do,” she says. “Someplace cheap. No point in getting to Markerville tired and having to wait for sunup, right?”
“Right,” I say. “Cheap. Got it.”
A half hour later, I spot a place called the French Inn, a drive-in motel that saw its best days back in the fifties, at the latest. It’s a plain U-shaped brick affair, slightly raised up a hillside, and it has all the curb appeal of a mortuary. There are two cars parked in the small lot, and a total of about twenty rooms, all first floor.
I give her raised eyebrows. “Norman Bates called, he wants his shower curtain back.”
Gwen laughs, and it sounds real. Warm. “Looks delightful.”
“Bedbug Central it is,” I say, then turn the wheel. We bump into the parking lot, which is just as rough as the paint job on the room doors, and park in one of the many free spaces. “Wait here. If there’s a camera, I don’t want you on it.” Gwen’s more recognizable than I am, and with any luck, Absalom hasn’t got their asses in gear scouring for pictures of my face yet. I add a Florida Marlins cap I found in the last convenience store, pull it low, and head inside. Before I close the door, I give her a straight look. “Doors locked.”
“Always.”
She’s also armed, and a great shot, and I’m not particularly worried about leaving her out here alone. Gwen Proctor won’t go anywhere. Not quietly. And if some random predator decides to take her down, he’s got a surprise in store.
The motel office is as unenthusiastic as you’d expect, and I wonder about the slack-faced man behind the counter; he has the dead-fish eyes of someone who’s seen it all and covered most of it up. I take the greasy plastic-tabbed key and hand over cash, and I’m back out the door in two minutes.
We leave the car where it’s parked, since it’s near a floodlight, and take everything of any value out. We have the third room, and when I unlock the door and swing it open, there’s a familiar smell of bleach and despair that radiates out. Soul-crushing. At least when I flick on the light there aren’t any visible cockroaches scuttling for cover, and everything seems clean enough, though I wouldn’t care to run a black light over the surfaces.
Less than reassuring are the furnishings, which look like the world’s worst garage sale, and the water stains on the sagging ceiling. There are, as requested, two beds, and I motion Gwen to take the one nearest the bathroom for no better reason than it’s farther from the door. I watch as she lifts the drab bedspread, which drapes all the way to the carpet, and bends over to look underneath. She grabs a flashlight from her pack and checks it again.
“What exactly are you looking for?” I ask her.
“Creepy dudes,” she says. “Dead bodies. Stashes of methamphetamines. Who knows?”
Checking suddenly sounds like a damn good idea, so I borrow the flashlight. While I’m down there peering at a mummified condom and at least three beer bottles, and regretting life choices, I use the cover to ask, “Night or morning shift in the bathroom? Because I’m guessing this place only has enough hot water for one coffeemaker and a two-minute shower every few hours.”
“I’ll take night,” Gwen says. “You need in there first?”
I straighten up and shake my head, and Gwen avoids looking at me directly. She grabs her bag and takes it with her into the bathroom, and I hear the door shut and lock.
I can either sit here and listen to her undressing, or I can do something useful.
I choose to go get us some food.
When I come back, Gwen’s done with her shower, the room’s desperate smell has been replaced with a warm, fruity scent, and she’s fully dressed again except for shoes. I approve. Sleeping vulnerable here isn’t a plan I’d recommend. I hand over a bag with a burger and fries, along with a canned soda, and we sit on opposite beds silently refueling for a while.
“I should have asked,” she says. “Was that your FBI friend on the phone? Mike?”
I nod without replying. The hamburgers are a crime against beef patties, but I choke down the last bites anyway. I need the fuel.
“And why exactly is an FBI agent helping us out . . . ?”
“Because sometimes I do him favors. And he owes me at least three right at this moment. Besides, he’s low on bodies to follow up leads, and he thinks I’m probably more reliable than the state troopers.”
“Only probably?”
I shrug. “Mike’s not a guy who trusts anyone completely. He wasn’t really detailed about his tip, so what you saw is what he gave me. Arden Miller, Markerville. He didn’t have an address, and said we wouldn’t need one. If it really is a ghost town, that’s probably true.”
“And how does Arden relate to Melvin?”
“Lustig heads up a task force that investigates dangerous Internet groups. Absalom’s on his radar, and apparently, Arden has something to do with them.”
“So are we dealing with a hermit? A survivalist? What?”
“Not a clue,” I say. “But we will be really damn careful.”
“Yeah, about that. Before we head straight for the town, let’s take time to do some research on Arden Miller and see if we can put together a decent game plan for this place. We can hit the local library in the morning. I’ll take the Internet searches, you take the book searches . . . ?”
“It’s a plan,” I say. We’ve finished the burgers by then, both of us wolfing them down at a speed that meant we were actively trying to avoid tasting them. I take the wrappers to the trash, and while I’m up, I take a good look at the door. There’s a flimsy chain lock that’s clearly been ripped out several times, and neither the door nor the frame looks sturdy enough to resist a stiff breeze, much less a solid kick.
“How’s the bathroom?” I ask her. “Security-wise?”
“There’s a window, but it’s small and barred, and no fire release.”