An Empty Hell Page 5

  “I’ll call,” he said.

  Rettig smiled. “Have a nice day.”

  Herrick nodded and checked his watch. Almost time for practice. He had to stop cutting it so close. He jogged to his Camry.

  MARIO NEVER picked up the phone. Tennant spent the evening calling and then even walked down to the motel, but it was dark. His gut was knotted, but calling the police wasn’t an option for him. Not last night. Hopefully, not ever.

  The following morning, Joe Tennant made his way back down the hill. The wind came up at him, cutting through the skin on his face. The air smelled of snow, and the sky was a pale gray. It was only November. The pebbles on the road crunched beneath his feet with each step.

  The motel parking lot was empty. Some police caution tape flapped off the handle of the door, snapping against the stone wall next to it. The rooms were dark. The place didn’t feel like it was ready to open up in a week, it felt abandoned. Then again, it pretty much was abandoned. But maybe Mario left something behind that could be important.

  The remnants of last night’s two Heady Toppers rattled around Tennant’s brain, trying to force the pressure out through his eyeballs. Two beers and he had a hangover. He was getting old. Ignoring the pain, he crossed the parking lot and headed right toward the caution tape. He held his jacket closed tight against the wind.

  When he got to the front door and put his hand on the knob, he heard a voice.

  “Joe?”

  Tennant turned around at the sound of the woman’s voice. It was Doris Terwilliger, an older woman who brought Mario coffee every morning. She had two cups in her hand at that moment.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked. “Why isn’t Mario here yet?”

  Tennant walked over to her. The wind was blowing her hair hard to the left, but she barely seemed to notice. Wind like this was nothing to the natives. The other thing that was nothing to the natives was current events. It was perfect when Tennant settled here. They rarely spoke about the past, and they worried more about local issues rather than national ones.

  And, a lot of times, they actually even missed the local ones. Too worried about bringing in skiers in the winter and hikers in the summer.

  Beyond that? Everything else was small potatoes.

  “A man came to talk to him,” Tennant said. “Mario got worried and told me to leave through the back door. Said life was catching up to him. Or something to that effect.”

  For an instant, it looked like Doris was going to drop the coffee cups. She took a step back and her hand lowered a few inches. She sputtered some words that Tennant couldn’t make out, and then steadied herself. After glancing at the now safe coffee, she handed one cup to Tennant. He took it.

  “Sorry,” she said.

  “What’s going on?” he asked.

  Doris looked down at her coffee cup. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

  “To who?” Tennant took a sip of the coffee. No sugar. He tried not to scowl. “I didn’t want to come running into town panicking in the middle of the night.”

  The trees rattled in the wind. Beyond that Tennant could hear the bustle of four or five cars making their way into the business district of town. People were hitting the small convenience store for food, or grabbing a late breakfast. Most people left town and headed to Burlington or Montpelier for work. But around this time of day, there was usually a bit of action downtown.

  Tennant almost always stayed away.

  “Me,” Doris said. “You know he means something to me.”

  “You don’t seem shocked.” Tennant took a breath. The steam from his mouth shot out and then dissipated. “You seem scared.”

  Doris drank some coffee.

  “I am,” she finally said.

  “What is this all about?”

  “Mario was a good man.”

  “There are a lot of good men out there, Doris.” Tennant finished his coffee. The liquid warmed his cheeks and chest. “They don’t disappear.” The words stung as soon as they came from his mouth.

  “Whatever he did, it was a long time ago. He never told me. He just told me it was over. That I shouldn’t worry about it.”

  “But you did.”

  Doris shook her head. Steam rose out of the hole in the lid on her cup. “I always worried. He told me that wasn’t him anymore. You know he was originally from New York?”

  Tennant shook his head, but the warmth in his cheeks and chest faded fast.

  “Something he did there, it hung over him. Made him run. I never pushed. It wasn’t any of my business. He was just such a nice man. We’d both lost people. Me? I lost my Herbert. And Mario—”

  “The picture. The woman skiing?”

  Doris nodded.

  “What do they have to gain by coming for him now? Whatever he did, he made up for it. In spades. He was so good to people, Jackson. He hired you when you needed help.”

  At first, Tennant didn’t even catch it. Images of Mario were flashing through his head, the day he got hired. The times Mario would watch him chop wood during lunch break. And when he gave the advice of the easiest place to find Heady Topper. Mario looked out for him.

  But Doris’s words cut through his reverie.

  “What did you call me?”

  Doris said it again. The name he kept trying to forget. “Mario told me. He liked you. Whatever you did, he said, you probably did it for the right reasons.”

  Tennant dropped his cup. “Jesus Christ.”

  “Don’t worry. Your secret is safe with me,” Doris said. “That’s how Mario wanted it. No one else knows.” She took another sip of coffee.

  “Maybe,” he said. He backpedaled. Gravel kicked up beneath him.

  Doris must have seen something in his face. “Don’t worry,” she said again. “People like you here. They’ll protect you. You’re the only person in town who can get a case of that stupid beer every single week. Do you know how rare that is?”

  Tennant just shook his head.

  “But you did stuff like this for people when you were in New Jersey, didn’t you?”

  “What stuff?”

  “Solve problems?”

  “Not in a long time.”

  Doris shook her head. “I think it’s time to start again. Maybe you can help me. Help me help Mario. Find him. Bring him back.”

  He didn’t answer.

  Not immediately.

  Joe Tennant wanted to run back to his cabin and lock the doors.

  Jackson Donne wouldn’t let him.

  DAN FABER got on the bus after practice. Herrick gave him a wave and said a silent prayer. He always did when the last kid left, hoping they’d get home safely. In this neighborhood, even the kids coming in from out of town could be in trouble if they looked at someone the wrong way. He put his right hand on the hood of his Toyota Camry, wishing he could get in the car and drive home now. Instead, he had to change and collect his stuff.

  Long day.

  He shrugged his shoulders against the cool air, the remaining sweat from practice sticking to his neck and sending a shiver down his spine. Turning back toward the double door that led to the gym, Herrick exhaled and saw his breath for the first time since last winter. Meant the season was about to begin. He smiled.

  And then the door slammed shut in front of him, and something hard smacked off his shoulder. Herrick tried to spin further out of the way, but lost his balance. He fell back first onto the pavement. A tall, scrawny man wielding an aluminum baseball bat stood above him. For an instant, the bat was over his head, then it wasn’t—the glare of the streetlights gleaming off it as it arced in his direction.

  Herrick rolled left, into the wheel of his car. The bat clanked off the ground next to him. He rolled back and kicked his leg out. His assailant groaned as Herrick’s foot crunched into anklebone. But the attacker didn’t go down. He took another swing with this bat, this one like a golf swing. It breezed an inch over Herrick’s chest and thunked into the metal of the Camry. Before the attacker yanked it out again,
Herrick kicked his foot out again and connected. There was a snap, and the assailant went down to one knee. He screamed. The bat clattered away.

  Using only his abs, Herrick sat up and swung a right cross, connecting with the guy’s temple. The guy fell back and Herrick got to his feet. The attacker scrambled to his knees and started to crawl away. There was no way he was going to escape this easily. Herrick bounded forward about to reach for his jacket, when he heard a familiar click.

  It was impossible for Herrick to switch his momentum quickly enough. The attacker whirled, and stabbed. The switchblade tore through his T-shirt, and there was fire against his ribs. The attacker tried to make another stab at Herrick, but his ankle gave again. He fell forward, the blade digging itself into the front tire of the car.

  Herrick ignored the pain in his side and reached for the bat. He grabbed it by the handle and got to his feet. His shirt was wet, warm, and sticky, and his left arm didn’t want to help lift. That wasn’t good.

  Back in Afghanistan, a sergeant standing next to him once caught two pieces of shrapnel from errant grenade debris. They didn’t embed themselves in Sarge, instead slicing through his skin and getting stuck in the jeep behind them. The sergeant bled out in something like twenty minutes.

  Basically, Herrick felt like he needed to end the fight now. He hefted the bat in his right hand and whipped it at the attacker. The guy ducked and the bat clanged off the brick school wall.

  The attacker stared at Herrick. They were both frozen, wondering who’d make the first move. The eyes in the ski mask made their way down Herrick’s side. Instinctively, Herrick reached across his body to cover the wound. His hand was immediately slickened. The attacker tested his ankle, holding the knife out in front him like he was Errol Flynn.

  The ankle would not hold. As Herrick’s vision blurred a bit, he caught the attacker losing his balance.

  “Stalemate?” Herrick tried.

  The attacker didn’t answer.

  “I can give you money if that’s what you need.” Herrick grinned. “But drugs aren’t the answer.”

  A puff of steam from the attacker’s mouth.

  “Yeah. I didn’t think that’s what you wanted.”

  The attacker didn’t make a sound. He turned and limped away. Herrick tried to pursue, but it wasn’t happening. Fire burned up his left side, and his breathing was shallow. He reached in his pocket, found the master key, and pulled the door to the gym open. He walked the sideline, using the bleachers to hold himself upright. He went into the locker room and stood in front of the mirror. His SPHS shirt was torn nearly in half. It was stained a deep red. A red so deep it was almost brown.

  Grunting, he pulled the shirt over his head. Stars appeared before his eyes and he looked down, waiting for it to pass. When it did, he looked back up; he could see the wound, gaping. It wasn’t as bad as it felt, but he definitely needed to stop the bleeding, and get stitches. He was so exhausted from the brawl and blood loss, there wasn’t any way he could drive.

  He made his way through the locker room to his locker and found his cell phone. He couldn’t call for an ambulance. Even if they got here, they didn’t have a key, and Herrick didn’t trust himself to stay awake waiting for them.

  Sarah Cullen picked up on the second ring.

  “I know you turned me down for a drink the other night,” he spit out. “How about spending the night in the emergency room with me?”

  “Matt? What the hell happened?”

  “I’m in the gym locker room. I’m bleeding, so you might want to put a towel down on your front seat.”

  “What—?”

  Herrick took a deep breath, despite the protest from his ribs. It wasn’t a peaceful protest. The cops would have fired tear gas.

  “I’ll tell you later. Just get here.” Herrick chuckled. “It’ll be a treat. You can see the men’s locker room.”

  “Shut up and don’t die,” she said. Then disconnected.

  Herrick stumbled over to the sink and grabbed a handful of paper towels. He pressed them against his wound. Certainly not sanitary.

  The wooden bench was comfortable. He lay on it, pressed the towels hard against his ribs, and closed his eyes.

  Sarah’d better hurry.

  DONNE STEPPED under the caution tape, kicked the door in, and walked to the front desk. He pulled the handkerchief he’d brought with him from his pocket and opened the first drawer.

  Emptied.

  He opened another.

  The same.

  The check-in book, which always rested on top of the counter—even when closed for the season—was gone as well. The cops had cleared this place out well. Donne wondered if they were even going to bother to come back. They probably came in, cleaned the place out, took photos, and left. Who the hell wanted to be in Vermont that long anyway?

  But then again, maybe they missed something. The pictures of the woman skiing were still hanging on the wall. Donne took them down and felt along the frame. Nothing was hidden there, or, if there had been, it was gone as well. There were four numbers written on the frame of the skiing picture—2978. Could be a date. Could be nothing. Donne put the pictures back up on the wall, straightening them out. They were important to Mario, so they deserved respect.

  Next Donne went into the back office. Here’s where the police sped up. Papers littered the floor, pictures had been knocked over. A computer monitor rested perilously on the edge of Mario’s desk. The hard drive was gone. Donne got to his knees and started sorting through the papers.

  They were receipts, some more than ten years old. Handwritten on carbon paper, other than the dates, they were meaningless numbers. No names. No phone numbers. Donne wondered how Mario was able to even do business. If Jon Taffer or Robert Irvine had gotten ahold of these, there’d be a lot of screaming going on.

  Donne kept digging, kept sifting. Nothing caught his eye. If it didn’t catch his eye, it certainly didn’t catch the cops’ eyes. He went over to the desk. The drawers hadn’t been replaced, still half hanging out of their sheaths and balancing on the floor. Most were empty. The ones that weren’t had more receipts. Donne looked at a few more, took a deep breath, and gave up.

  There wasn’t anything here that could help him.

  He left the office and went back into the lobby. His chest felt heavy and his cheeks burned. Donne leaned against the wall and tried to settle himself down. How long had he been looking through those different receipts? His eyes weren’t focusing right, and he blinked a few times to clear them. In his peripheral vision, he caught it. A blinking red light.

  Donne walked past the desk over to the corner window. It was Mario’s office phone, the exact same kind he had in each hotel room. The blinking red light indicated there was a message. Donne lifted the receiver and pressed the red button under the light.

  “Please enter the passcode,” a robotic voice said.

  Donne stared at the keypad and thought, It couldn’t be that easy. He typed in 2978 and waited.

  “There is one new message in your mailbox. Press one to listen to that message.”

  Donne obliged.

  “First message.”

  Donne steeled himself, expecting it to be someone asking when they opened up for the season.

  It wasn’t.

  Mario’s voice rang over. “Joe, I’m pretty sure you’re going to find this.”

  Donne exhaled.

  “You’re a good guy, but I’ve always known that about you. Maybe most people in this town do. But they just mind their own business. They’re treating me pretty well, but they also think I’m dumb. I’m not in a prison, this isn’t a jail.” A pause. Some mumbling. “Shut up. I’m not an idiot.”

  Donne smiled despite the snake slithering through his intestines.

  “I made a mistake a long time ago, Joe. And this is how I’m paying for it. Do not come looking for me. Do not try to help. This guy—he wants to find Jackson Donne. They don’t know what he looks like, seems they only have old pictures.
Tell Jackson to run. Get away. Can you do that for me, Joe? Please.”

  There was a pause. Then a gargle. Donne gripped the phone so tight, the skin on his palm pinched together. Something on the other end clattered.

  Followed by a voice.

  “Tell Jackson Donne we’re looking for him. And if we don’t find him soon, this guy—this Mario is dead. He’s a sinner anyway. He deserves it. So does Jackson Donne. Okay, Joe? Or whoever gets this message? Get us Donne. It’ll be worth your while.”

  Click.

  “To repeat this message press one. To erase it press—”

  Donne listened to the message again. The warmth in his cheeks had migrated and turned to sweat at his brow. His teeth were gritted together like a ’90s comic book character.

  When the message ended this time he deleted it. He walked out of the room into the cold air. The sweat on his face cooled and steam rose off his head. His beard, the scars, and age on his face had hidden him yesterday. The only thing that saved him.

  But now—did he want to be saved?

  And if the cops weren’t after him, who was?

  Doris was gone and the parking lot was empty again. Donne stood there for a few moments, almost expecting the cars that rushed the lot would show up again, kicking gravel and squealing brakes. It’d all be over.

  And he would probably welcome it.

  But that wasn’t fair to Mario, or Doris. There was still work to be finished. And if the cops weren’t after him, whoever was would have to pay anyway.

  SARAH GOT to Herrick before he could pass out, and drove him to the hospital. She did make him sit on a towel, and gave him the silent treatment the entire way. Except for this:

  “You know, if you’d called nine-one-one, an ambulance would probably get you quicker treatment in the emergency room. Also, a police report.”

  Herrick grunted. The fire in his side hadn’t subsided. “How was your date last night?”

  Back to complete quiet.