Last Words

by Michael Koryta

  The first thing he was aware of was pain in his shoulders. The headache came second, and then a sense of motion. Mark opened his eyes and saw corrugated metal covered with a thin layer of crimson-tinted water. Snowmelt and blood.

  The motion was the van’s—he could feel it swaying as it took curves—and the source of the headache was obvious, but the shoulder pain seemed fixable, the product of awkward positioning. It was only when he tried to shift that position that he felt the rope binding his wrists.

  Someone reached out, put a gloved hand against the back of his neck, and said, “Stay down.”

  He didn’t need that advice; he wasn’t going anywhere. The van bumped over something, then slowed, and a voice said, “Hood,” and Mark was lifted and a bag was jerked over his head. The fabric was coarse. Something was looped around his throat and pulled tight enough to cinch the bag in place.

  Returning the favor, he thought, remembering the look in Ridley’s eyes when Mark had dropped that noose over him.

  The bag smelled of something vaguely familiar, but Mark couldn’t place it. An earthy, pungent smell. So familiar, and yet he couldn’t locate the source in a mind that was swimming with pain and disorientation.

  The van came to a stop and he heard the back doors open, and a rush of frigid air hit him. He was grabbed by his feet and pulled and then hands caught him under his armpits and lifted him easily, as if he were a child. His feet landed on uneven ground and he slipped and would have fallen if the hands hadn’t kept him upright. Nobody said a word. The only sounds were men breathing and a keening wind. It was unbelievably cold.

  “Move those feet, bud. We’re walking.”

  He did as instructed, moving his feet, although they weren’t particularly cooperative. He was being held by the back now; someone had a fistful of his shirt. They were walking into the wind, and he began to shiver. He wasn’t sure how far they’d gone—it felt like a long walk but probably wasn’t—when the same voice that had ordered the hood spoke again.

  “That’s good. You’re all done. I’ve got it.”

  Mark’s shirt was released then, and he stood alone, shivering, hands bound and the bag—What was that damn smell?—over his head.

  “Let’s get to it,” Mark said.

  “You in a hurry?”

  Mark tried to identify some distinct quality in the voice. There wasn’t much of one, though. A man’s voice, not particularly high or deep, with just a trace of the South to it. Not the real South, not a drawl like Jeff London’s, but a hint of hill country.

  “I’m cold,” Mark said.

  “Not dressed for the weather. Should be glad you have that hood on. Cuts the wind.”

  “Let’s get to it,” Mark said again.

  “You in a rush to die, boy?”

  “That’s what’s going to happen?”

  The answer didn’t come in words. Something cold and sharp touched the base of his neck, just below the hood. The point of a knife, applied with just enough pressure to break the skin. A trickle of blood began to work its way down Mark’s collarbone.

  “Still in a hurry?”

  Mark didn’t answer. The point of the knife moved from Mark’s collarbone and sliced down. He could hear his shirt ripping. With his shirt cut, the wind found bare flesh. The blood felt very warm.

  He was pulled forward, and his feet struck something unexpected. The snow was still there but the surface beneath was no longer frozen earth. Whatever it was flexed and bowed as if it was not designed to hold human weight. He shuffled forward, trying not to lift his feet, overwhelmed by the odd sensation that he was walking up and into thin air and that ahead of him the surface would vanish and he would plummet down. Like walking a plank.

  “Stop there.”

  Mark was happy to listen to that, because whatever he was standing on seemed progressively weaker, each step producing more give. There were metallic sounds that he couldn’t identify and then the hand was back on him and the voice said, “Big step now.”

  Mark tried to take a big step but his foot found nothing but air and he started to fall and the other man caught him and pulled him forward with an effort and Mark fell to his knees on a floor. Out of the snow now but still very cold.

  “Who brought you here?” the voice said.

  “I’m going to tell you the truth,” Mark said.

  That provoked a low, dark laugh. “I think that’s the way for you to do it, yeah.”

  “But you’re not going to like it much, I’ll tell you that now.”

  “Why don’t you tell me who brought you to town instead?”

  “The same son of a bitch who sent you after me. So let’s not waste our time pretending we’re confused about that. Ridley called me, and Ridley called you, but only one of us is actually working for him.”

  “Thought you were here for Sarah Martin, not Ridley Barnes.”

  “I don’t care about Sarah Martin.”

  “That’s disappointing to hear from a detective. You’re supposed to care. You’re supposed to solve the thing. Think you’ll be able to do that?”

  “It’s not going real well to this point.”

  “Don’t care about Sarah, huh? Don’t like Ridley and don’t care about Sarah. What in the hell do you want in this town, then?”

  “Not a damn thing. I just want to go home.”

  “Little late for that.”

  There was a pause, a rustling sound, and then another stab of the knife, this time high on his arm, in the flesh of his biceps. Wait. No, that wasn’t the knife. It was thinner and sharper and went too deep with too little pain.

  Mark got it then, understood from touch what he could not see, and said, “What did you just put in me?”

  There was no answer. The needle found him again, the other arm this time, and though he tried to twist away from it, he succeeded only in falling backward as an unknown chemical joined his bloodstream, slipping through his body and carrying a black fog with it.

  14

  The black fog never lifted, but it had shades. For a time Mark thought he was underwater, in the dim depths. He was certain he could see a familiar reef below, and he knew exactly where he was: Saba National Marine Park. Lauren had reached the reef first—she always did, she moved like an eel. She had beaten him there, and that meant she was just to his left. He turned to his left then, eager to see her, and the water rippled like a curtain, and her face was there but hard to see. There was snow in the water now, falling fast and hard between them. He’d never seen snow underwater before. It was beautiful. Lauren was smiling at it, reaching out to catch one of the flakes in her palm, and suddenly Mark felt panic rising, because Lauren didn’t know anything about snow, she’d always lived among palm trees and warm sunsets and blue waters and she was not prepared for the dangers that lurked in harsh winters. That was his fault. He had not done enough to prepare her for that because she was never supposed to see it.

  Mark said, “Baby, be careful,” and then something slapped him in the face and knocked the next words aside. He’d meant to ask her a question, but he couldn’t recall it now, and the snow was falling faster and the curtain of water was rippling like laundry on the line, and Lauren faded out of sight behind it all. Mark blinked and squinted and tried to find her but the snow was gone and then the water went with it.

  He’d come to the surface.

  No, that wasn’t right. He’d never left the surface. His feet were on the ground and his ass was on a chair. These things were real, tangible. It was as dim here as it had been underwater. Some source of light was coming from behind him, painting shadows on a wall of boards in front of him. There was something wrong with the boards. The boards were melting. He tried hard to think of what that might mean, and then he thought Fire and fear overwhelmed him, because he knew that if there was a fire then he had to run, but he couldn’t even get out of that chair.

  “Settle down, damn it,” someone said.

  “The boards are melting,” Mark said. “Look at them. The
y’re melting!”

  Another slap, and the fog that returned was gray, and Mark didn’t mind it so much because at least he didn’t have to see that wall melting in front of him anymore. His fear ebbed away and he became aware of a repeated question. Asked patiently but insistently.

  “What did Ridley tell you?”

  Ridley. That didn’t make any sense. Ridley hadn’t seen the reef. Nobody but Mark and Lauren had. The other divers were scared of going that far. Hell, Mark had been a little scared too. Lauren wasn’t, though. He could see her blond hair fanned out wide in the current, could see those sleek legs in a smooth churn that drove her down effortlessly, and he remembered that he’d been scared of her in that moment. Scared for her, yes, but scared of her too, because nobody can hurt you worse than someone you love. Lauren was reckless in the way that you could be only if you’d never had true cause for fear. Mark didn’t want her to be afraid, but maybe she needed to be. Fear protected you at times.

  “She was just young,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Just too damn young. Came from a different place than me, and I thought that was good. I thought that was perfect. But some people don’t need to be older to understand what the world can do to you. She wasn’t one of those, though. She wasn’t.”

  “Sarah? You’re talking about Sarah?”

  The gray fog parted and Mark saw the melting boards again and felt panic again, but then the boards peeled away and there was nothing but water behind, shimmering curtains of water. Good. They weren’t going to burn after all. You couldn’t burn underwater, could you? Maybe in the right conditions you could. Things blew up underwater. Maybe in the right—

  Another slap, then the voice, louder, and warm breath against Mark’s ear. “What…did…Ridley…tell you?”

  Ridley hadn’t told Mark anything about Lauren. Why would he? He didn’t know her. Wait. Wait one minute. He had said something about her.

  “Dates were the same,” Mark said.

  “What dates?”

  “When they died.”

  Hands fell on his shoulders, their grasp rough, shaking him, and when the voice returned, it had added urgency. Mark couldn’t see anything but shadows now. One large shadow, looming above him. Too tall to be a man. Something bigger than a man, something worse.

  “He knows they died on the same day? He’s sure?”

  “Yeah. Yeah, he’s sure.” Mark didn’t understand the confusion about this. The dates were obvious; all Ridley had to do was read the newspaper. Maybe the shadow should learn to read. Mark started to laugh. The shadow didn’t like the laugh, and he slapped him again. That was getting old. Mark was tired of the slaps.

  “What else? Think hard, now, tell me the truth. What else did Ridley have to say?”

  Mark wanted to please the shadow, which seemed strange because the shadow kept slapping him, but there was something in its voice that was so urgent, nearly desperate, that Mark wanted to provide the right answers.

  “He said…” What had he said? They’d talked, hadn’t they? Yes, they’d talked, and he’d said that the dates were the same, and that had bothered Mark. Mark got upset with Ridley then, he remembered that.

  “He said what?”

  “That I needed to go there.”

  “Where?”

  Good question. Where was there? For a moment he was convinced that the right answer was the reef, but the reef hadn’t involved Ridley, that had been just Mark and Lauren. Why did the reef keep coming to mind, then? Tanks. Tanks and rebreathers. Yes, he’d seen those with Ridley, that made sense. But Ridley didn’t dive, he…

  “Wanted me to go to the cave,” Mark said.

  “To Trapdoor?”

  Mark nodded, happy to have been of help. “Yes, he knows about the cave. It is all about the cave with Ridley. Cave, cave, cave. That’s all he wants to talk about.” He started to laugh again. He got smacked again. He felt like crying. He felt like sleeping. Where was the water? Where was the reef? Where was his wife?

  “Why did he want you in the cave?”

  “That’s what it’s all about,” Mark said.

  The shadow went silent. Mark saw the melting boards again so he closed his eyes and tried to find the water. There it was. Gentle currents pushing and pulling at him, and somewhere up ahead was Lauren. Glimpses of her hair. Here and gone, here and gone. Why wouldn’t she slow down and let him catch up? Going too fast was dangerous. It was reckless. It would get someone killed.

  “Slow down,” he whispered. “Wait.”

  “I’m thinking,” the shadow said from somewhere behind Mark. The shadow had misunderstood; Mark didn’t care if he slowed down. “I’m thinking that maybe Ridley was right. Maybe you need some time down there. It’ll stir things up, won’t it? Let’s stir things up.”

  “Okay,” Mark said agreeably. “Let’s do.”

  Something was pulled over his head then, and the melting boards vanished and so did the water behind them. He’d never make the reef now. Lauren was up there ahead, and she was all alone.

  Part Two

  The World Below

  15

  Full consciousness had been with Mark for a while before he accepted that it had returned. It was difficult to believe that his mind was functioning, because the world he existed in now was stranger than what he’d experienced in the drug haze.

  Blackness was all that he knew, but the hood was off his head, his eyes were open, and he believed he should be able to see. It took some time before he understood that the problem wasn’t with his eyes—there was nothing but darkness.

  What finally put him in motion was the cold. It wasn’t bitter and wind-driven and there was no snow. The cold simply rose up and soaked into him. He ran his hands over his body and found his skin prickled with gooseflesh. He was naked except for his underwear, and at first he’d hoped that was an imagined condition, just as he’d hoped the blackness was. Another hallucination that would pass eventually.

  It wasn’t.

  He extended his hands and swung them around, testing the blackness to see what was out there. His fingers made no contact with anything. He lifted one hand and held it directly in front of his face, then opened and closed it. He saw nothing, but there was a bizarre sensation that he could. He could visualize what the hand was doing, and so his brain seemed to accept it almost as if he had seen it.

  There was a stone wall at his back and a stone floor beneath him but what was in front of him, or even nearby, was unknown.

  Fear seized him then, a swift panic that made him get to his feet too fast, and he almost fell. His legs were numb from the long period of sitting, and all of him ached. He stood in the dark and tried to make some sense of it, of how he’d come to be in this place. Memories came at him in disjointed fragments, and that only exacerbated the panic.

  Slow down, he told himself, slow down and relax. You’re alive, you’re safe.

  Wasn’t he? Maybe he was. How could you know when you couldn’t see a single thing?

  Where the hell are you? How did you get here?

  He remembered the drive through the snow, the truck behind him, the van ahead of him, the men with shotguns. Three of them. Then he’d been in the van. Then he’d been somewhere in the snow with a knife against his throat and questions coming. Then…

  He couldn’t put that together. That was the point where memory turned to fragments and then to dust. None of the memories told him where he was now. Some sort of basement? No. The stone wasn’t smooth like poured concrete. It was rough and smelled of soil and water, no trace of human interference. This was some kind of pit, some kind of…

  “Cave.” He said it aloud, and the sound of his voice made the darkness seem darker, made him feel smaller and more alone, more helpless. He shouted then, yelling “Help!” and “Hello!” over and over.

  There was no response but an echo that made the place feel large and empty, as if he were a long way beneath the earth. He thought of Ridley Barnes, all those ropes and he
lmets and lamps scattered around his house. How far had Mark been taken into this place? And from what direction? Was the exit in front of him, or to the left, or to the right? Or, hell, above? How did you even begin to search for it?

  The panic he felt then was unlike any he’d known before. A sensation of being trapped in someplace small and abandoned in someplace endless all at once. Anything would be better than this blackness—being adrift on miles of empty sea or being caught in a cage; either would be better, because at least it would be known.

  He moved his hands down to the stone floor and spread his fingers wide and dug them in, felt his nails scrape against the rock. He stayed like that, as if he were hanging on to keep from being pulled away, and he closed his eyes, even though there was no point—eyelids shielded you from nothing down here—and he tried to confine his concentration to the physical sensation of touch, to the feel of the stone. It was a known entity here in a world without many.

  “All right,” he said, and his words echoed. “All right, Markus. Go ahead and open your eyes, and know that nothing will change.”

  Talking aloud provided some level of reassurance. He opened his eyes, and while there was another stab of fear when nothing changed, he contained it this time.

  You ought to spend some time down there, Ridley Barnes had said. In the dark. Think about her, think about me.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Mark said, still speaking aloud because sound was comfort. “Let’s go.”

  There was the challenge. Go where?

  Moving in total blackness was daunting even if you had an understanding of where you were. Without any, it seemed impossible. But he had no choice. In this cold, if he didn’t find a way out soon, he never would.

  Right or left? Or straight ahead? Every option seemed the same. The only logic he could imagine was a process of elimination: pick one direction, head that way, and see what happened. Rinse and repeat and eventually he’d be moving in the right direction.

  Unless there isn’t a right direction. Because if this is a pit, and you need to go up…