Joe walked up the cracked cement walk, crunching dead leaves that were curled together like fists. Three red strips of crimescene tape sealed the door to the jamb. A letter from the Teton County sheriff was taped inside the screen door, warning visitors that the house was sealed pending the investigation.
What would it be like to live in a house where the previous occupant had shot himself in the head? Joe shivered and tried to shake off the thought.
He found a cheap motel that honored state rates and checked in. The bedspread was green and thin, there was a single thin plastic cup and a bar of soap on the sink, and the television was locked to a stand and mounted to the wall so no one could take it. The tiny desk was just big enough to hold his briefcase.
Sitting on the bed, he put the spiral notebooks in front of him. He would start with #1 tonight, maybe get through #2.
Tomorrow, he would begin the search for #11, Will’s last notebook.
But first he needed to call home. He looked at his watch.
It was 11:30, an hour past when they usually went to bed.
He debated whether to possibly wake her, simply to tell her he had made it. Then he pictured Marybeth up and awake, maybe reading, upset he hadn’t called, possibly worried that something had happened.
He picked up the telephone. The line was dead. The receptionist, a sleepy woman with bloodshot eyes, must have forgotten to turn on his phone when he checked in. Should he rouse her? He decided not to. He pulled out his cell phone from his daypack, then punched the speed dial button. Marybeth answered in four rings.
“Joe?” He could tell she wasn’t happy. She sounded tired, and there was an icy edge to her voice. “You were supposed to call when you got there.”
“I didn’t get a chance,” he said. His speech was slurred, as much from exhaustion as the bourbon. “I was too busy getting reamed by the assistant director and then I got called out.”
“It’s nearly midnight.”
“I know,” he said lamely.
“Why didn’t you call this afternoon, then?”
“I told you. I hit the ground running over here.”
“I just fell asleep. What are you doing up?”
“I just got in.”
His cell phone chirped. It was about to run out of battery power, and he needed to recharge it, he told her.
“You sound like you’ve been drinking, Joe. And why are you calling me on your cell phone?”
“I tried to call from my motel, but the phone wouldn’t work.”
“Where are you staying?”
Joe looked up. What was the name of it? Jesus . . . One of those old western television series names.
“You don’t know?”
“The Rifleman,” he said finally, feeling stupid.
“Okay . . .” There was an edge of suspicion in her voice, and Joe didn’t like it.
“Marybeth, I couldn’t call earlier, all right? I’m sorry.
There’s a lot going on here and I got wrapped up in it. I’ll call tomorrow and we can catch up, okay?”
“I’m wide awake now, Joe,” her voice hostile.
His cell phone blinked off. He cursed and stared at it as if that would make it come back on. The charger was in his truck, and he started to get up, but stopped at the door. He wasn’t exactly sure where he’d put it, and looking for it would take a while. He was tired, and resentful of her again. What was she accusing him of ? Didn’t she know he had a job to do? Why was it necessary to pile on the guilt?
He got lonely, just like she did. All he wanted was for her to say she loved him, she missed him, and that everything was going to be fine.
He sighed. He’d call tomorrow, when he had some time, when he’d gathered his thoughts. Maybe before the funeral.
He picked up notebook #1 and began to read. Soon, the writing began to swim off the page.
Joe awoke to the sound of gunshots. He sat up quickly, disoriented for a moment. He glanced around, remembering where he was, surprised that he was still dressed and the bedside lamp was on. The opened notebook was on his lap.
No, it wasn’t a gun. It was something on the other side of the motel room wall. Joe stood, rubbing his eyes. He looked at his watch: 4:45 a.m. He heard rustling in the next room, then another bang. The sound was coming through his closet. He opened the closet door, where he’d hung his uni
form shirt and jacket on hangers that couldn’t be removed from the rod.
He sighed, knowing now what had happened. Someone in the next room was packing up their clothing from the closet. Because the hangers couldn’t be taken off the rod, as each piece was removed the rod swung back and banged into the wall.
Cheap motels, Joe thought. Staterate motels. Marybeth probably imagined him in someplace much finer. Maybe he should call her now and tell her how great it was.
He shook his head, ashamed at his thoughts, while he gathered up the notebooks and papers on the bed and
