“There’s an old building over there. Used to be a hotel, I think. God knows what it is now, and I’d advise not explorin’ much into that. There are some dark things that have gone on over there through the years, but there’ve been miracles, too. You know, special things. Maybe they really do have healing water. Maybe it’s all just folklore. I don’t know. I’ll leave what you do for you to decide. Like I said, I haven’t had much to do with the place, and I’m not sure I ever want to.”
Chris looked over at Katrina, pale and motionless in the bed as steady beeps pulsed from the heart monitor.
“Not much she can say to stop me, right? I’ll go check it out. Oak Hollow District, you said? Old hotel?”
“Yeah. I think it’s all boarded up now. For all I know, the joint might even be for sale. Wait until it’s good and dark, and snoop around a bit. Riverton PD’s got better things to do than torment some coma patient’s husband hopin’ for a miracle. Godspeed.”
“I don’t see a career in social work for the likes of you. Thanks for the encouragement, guy.”
Despite Livewire’s collectedness during the conversation, addiction called his name.
I need another drink.
He walked down the hall toward the broom closet and took another gulp of his Old Tymer’s.
About time I replace this old flask. Never cared much for the Mardi Gras symbol on it anyhow. Pitiful thing’s discolored from years of blood, sweat, and tears.
Livewire wrapped his lips around its curved top as he inhaled the drink in a rush. Footsteps approached.
Who’s there?
He pulled the closet door closed, chugging the last of the whiskey. The handle turned to open, and he pitched the flask in the corner.
Somethin’s not right.
“Livewire, you in there?” the voice called out.
He fell to the floor unconscious.
CHAPTER FIVE
CHRIS WILKERSON exited the hospital as it turned dusk, and he walked a few blocks toward the Oak Hollow District. He and Katrina had dined on the block a few times at the Bridgewater Restaurant, the area’s last hope for a revitalization of any sort.
I guess this is it. Chris Wilkerson, I hope you know what you’re doing.
Walking toward the extensive building, he peered up at it, catching glimpses of silhouettes engaged in questionable behaviors. He moved toward the entryway and noted an etching in the stone of the building’s outer wall.
THE OAK HOLLOW HOTEL — ERECTED 1926 BY DON WASSERMAN… MAY OUR FOLLY NEVER LEAD US ASTRAY. FOR W.W.
Never stepping into the building, Chris opened the door and looked around a moment.
What a sad decline. This place must have been so much more.
A voice called out from behind, “Not going to get very far, sir. You can’t just come snoop around over here. Can’t you respect the hallowed ground you’re standing on?”
Who is this guy? Give me some space.
“What are you talking about? Hallowed ground? This place is a dump.”
“Watch yourself. I’ve managed a pawn shop down the block for a while. There’s something that just ain’t right about it. I best get back over there. I was just on an evening stroll.”
“It’s a good night for that. I’m Chris Wilkerson.”
The man extended his hand to shake Chris’s, “Steve Renzell. Nice to meet you. Steer clear for your own good. I can’t put my finger on why I feel implored to tell you this. Call it an intuition. I get ‘em from time to time. I ain’t no caretaker or wet nurse, though. I don’t want you to get the wrong idea.”
“Thanks for your concern. Have a good night,” Chris said as Steve strolled the block toward Bridgewater. He walked away from the building in misdirection. Steve turned around to assess his whereabouts.
Go on now. Get out of here, Steve. I’m a grown man. Leave me be.
After Steve was out of sight, Chris moved back toward the door and entered the building’s lobby. An older black woman draped in loose fuchsia-colored fabric approached Chris. She spoke in a Cajun accent, “Can I help you with somethin’, honey? You look lost.”
“I don’t know. Maybe… I was told this building might help me…”
“Darlin’, this place will do whatever you need it to if you treat it right. You hear me? Smoke one with me, will ya?”
“Sure. I could use a drag.”
Let’s see where this takes me.
“Oak Hollow. It’s an area of many successes and failures. People grade a place based on its surroundings. I know the verdict on this joint may not be that great in your social circles, but there’s a whole ‘nother thing going on here behind the scenes. You know what I mean?”
Chris studied the room in enchantment. Despite mediocre maintenance through the years, it had good bones. The ground floor possessed an open layout with dried out fountains, worn tapestries, weathered pool tables, and red felt chairs. Clusters of people hovered in each corner. Some had fires lit and burning near busted out windows. Others hummed and chanted incantations. The peculiar place captivated Chris.
It’s like another world in here.
“Did you hear me, honey?”
“I’m sorry. I was just looking around. Can I rent a room?”
“By the hour?”
“No. I’m a married man. What about for the month? What would it cost?”
“We own this place,” she said. “The Wasserman’s built it, and now it’s mine. Daddy didn’t last long in here. It was too hard on him after everything that happened.”
“Riverton City Council hasn’t shut you down yet? Looks like the place could use a major facelift. You must be failing auditor regulations a mile long.”
“You don’t know Precinct Three very well, mister.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t follow.”
“We run Oak Hollow, man. The Wasserman’s made a slew of deals back in the 20s and got us zoned in our own special way.”
“You still haven’t answered my question. Can I rent a room?”
“No, you can’t rent a room. If you want to buy me out, I’m easy.
