“I hope so for your sake. Do you know we’ve been twelve hours on the road?”
“You keep forgetting, this is America. Some folks drive a couple of miles to their mail box, or do a thirty mile detour just to reach a place that sells good bagels. Seven hundred miles is not such a big deal.”
Patrick shut the door and stepped in front of her, noticing the way her eyes managed to look bright even when drained of all liveliness.
“You look tired even if you’re not,” he said.
“I’m not.”
“No?”
“No. I’m fucking exhausted.”
There was a knock at the door.
“Too tired to eat?” Patrick said.
Beth shrugged. “I’ll force myself.”
Patrick opened the door again and was handed a plate of sandwiches.
“You kitchen staff as well as desk clerk?” he said to the man.
“And waiter,” the man replied. “And concierge. I’m the staff till 7am. You’ll find drinks in the machine in the corner. Enjoy.”
“Great,” Patrick said. “Thanks for knocking these up at short notice.”
The man gave him a queer look and left.
Patrick placed the plate of sandwiches onto the small table between the beds and turned to Beth. “Did I say something wrong?”
“I think the ‘knock up’ reference threw him. And if you think they’re freshly made, you’ll change your mind when you taste them.”
Patrick grabbed one and took a tentative bite. He nodded slowly. “Not bad.” He crammed the whole sandwich in and spoke while he chewed. “Not sure whether it’s cheese or meat, but it tastes okay.”
Beth kicked her shoes off, eased herself onto the bed nearest the bathroom and dropped a deep, almost terminal, sigh. Patrick got a couple of drinks from the vending machine and leapt onto the other bed.
A little over ten minutes later only one sandwich remained on the plate. Patrick fumbled around in his bag and brought out his small brown bottle.
Beth watched as he opened it, threw a couple of pink tablets into the back of his throat and took a swig of water. Then he picked up the last sandwich.
“You not inquisitive?” he said.
“Huh?”
“About the tablets.”
She shrugged. “I assume it’s not polite to ask.” Then she lay back on the bed and let out a long groan. “We’d better get some shuteye,” she said, pulling the bedcovers over her still-clothed body. “Big day ahead.”
Patrick got up to switch the light out. “God, this is odd,” he said, untying his shoelaces.
“What is?”
“What’s odd?” he said, laughing. “Well, when I was a kid…” He got into bed and bounced his shoulder up and down a few times, testing the mattress. “When I was a kid growing up in Manchester I never dreamed I’d be in a Wichita motel room with a strange woman preparing to murder another woman I fell in love with but haven’t ever met in the real world.”
“You surprise me. You have the strangest dreams. I wouldn’t bet against you having had weird dreams back in Man-chest-er.” The last word was gnarled and twisted. It made Patrick laugh and almost choke on his mouthful of food.
He recovered, then said, “So do you go back home to Tennessee much?”
“I spend a weekend there once a month.”
“Just to see your mother?”
Beth nodded. “And I sometimes check out the old boathouse by the lake.”
“Really? You still go back there?”
“When I’m troubled. I know it sounds perverse, but whatever else life has to throw at me it can’t be as bad as all that shit I remember. Going back to old Lake Chikasaw helps me put things into some kind of perspective, I guess.”
“Lake Chikasaw?” Patrick said. “Sounds like an accident at a chicken ranch.”
Beth laughed, then straightened her face up instantly. “Hey. Don’t. I think it’s a lovely name.”
Patrick repeated the name quietly a few times. “Actually, yeah. I like it.”
For a few moments all they had to listen to was the hum of the distant traffic.
“Beth?”
“Only I’m tryin’ to sleep here. What?”
“Oh, nothing. Sorry.”
“Go on, shoot.”
“Your dad. Do you really not see him just because of what he did to your mom?”
“What d’you mean, ‘just’?”
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked. You go to sleep.”
Beth shifted in the bed to glance over to Patrick. “I’ll go sleep when I’m good and ready.”
“Sorry. Forget I asked. It’s just that I miss my dad. I couldn’t imagine why anyone would cut themselves off.”
“Okay, listen.” There was a long pause before Beth drew breath. “I’ll say this once. No questions. We went out boating on the lake – just the two of us – on that emerald green boat I loved. I was fifteen at the time and it split the family apart.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah, you join the dots.” The words were drawled, as though she was drugged or hardly cared about what she was saying.
“What a bastard.”
“Mmm.”
“That’s something I can’t get my head around,” Patrick said. “I just don’t understand why…” His words dissolved into the darkness as he became aware of Beth’s slow and rhythmic breathing. He silently stepped out of bed, leaned over, and pulled the bedcovers up and around her neck.
He got back onto his bed and for a few minutes considered fighting the urge to sleep, fearful of the images his slumber might bring. In his semi-conscious state, where the rational parts open to show glimpses of the absurd, he thought of the possibilities. The dreams he feared most were those of Rozita. Would it be better to have one last evening with her? If so he could warn her, even keep her awake so she didn’t sleep and this senseless episode wouldn’t happen. Then again, he’d never had any control over Patrick the physician, so why would this time be any different? If he dreamed of her, knowing he was about to kill her – kill the woman he now loved – wouldn’t he simply be torturing himself?
The confused half-thoughts faded away as Patrick eventually gave in to sleep. And when he did dream the images were the comforting ones: flames deliciously licking the ceiling, leaving their dark trail on the paintwork; frantic shouts for help that he knew were futile; locked doors rattling like a fast ride on an old train; even the occasional scream, a record of hopelessness that lodged in the ears.
As always, Patrick found these dreams as homely as a warm country cottage in the depths of winter, and the sleep he had was deep and soothing.
27
The click of the bathroom door opening woke Patrick up. He eased himself up onto his elbows to see a white fog drifting towards him, and then Beth’s figure ghosting out from its cloak.
It wasn’t a dream; she’d got up, showered, and reapplied a light make-up while he slept in.
“Impressive,” he said, coughing the sleep from his throat.
“What is?”
“Being up so early after your mammoth drive yesterday.”
“I don’t need much sleep. Life’s too short – today especially. We got two or three hours before those kids start filing into the hall.”
Patrick showered and changed while Beth phoned reception for some breakfast.
Just over an hour later they drew up a discreet distance from the main entrance gates of the school. Beth grabbed the map and started poring over the details of the rear of the building.
“You don’t think we could get in the main gates?” Patrick said.
Beth shook her head. “The event’s already started. They’ll have security, invite checking, all that shit.”
“That leaves the perimeter fence.”
“Are you serious?”
Patrick squinted to take a closer look. The metal fence was made up of closely spaced vertical poles, with only two horizontal supporting sections – top and bottom. T
hat gave precious little opportunity for purchase and each pole was topped off in a nasty looking fork splayed out in spikes to each side. The fence stretched as far as they could see.
“Perhaps not,” Patrick said.
“Okay.” Beth traced her finger along a blue line snaking below the southern edge of the school grounds. “The only thing left is the Arkansas River. We need to work out the most accessible part.”
Patrick leaned over and poked his finger in. “What about that?” He pointed to a black line that started on the main road on the other side of the river and led right back to the river. “Is that some sort of road?”
“Hmm.” Beth gave a nod of agreement. “Perhaps a dirt track. Sometimes these old roads have footbridges that aren’t on the maps.”
Soon they’d crossed the river, found the “black line”, which was indeed a single lane dirt track, and were standing where it met the river, next to a locked up old boathouse. Across the river, way up from the bank, were the grounds of the school. The grounds were bordered along their sides by more fencing stretching down to the river. But on the side facing them there was only one thing by way of security: the river.
They took a few minutes to assess the river. It was wide – about thirty yards across, Patrick reckoned, but seemed to be gently drifting rather than free-flowing.
Patrick cast glances left and right then down to the emerald flora waving in the current. “A little blue line doesn’t really do it justice.”
Beth stood by his side and looked around too. “I don’t know what I expected,” she said. “But this wasn’t it.”
“Shallow, though,” Patrick added.
“No,” Beth said. “Shallow at the banks. You don’t know about the centre. Could be deep and fast there.”
“From what you said in the car, I just thought we’d be able to wade across or something.”
Beth frowned at him.
“No, really, look.” He ripped up a handful of grass and threw it in the water. “It’s hardly breakneck speed.”
“Jeez. You never heard of laminar flow?”
Patrick gave her a blank look.
“Much, much faster in the middle, not to mention deeper. Don’t even think about it.” Beth peered along the riverbank again, straining to follow its twisting course. “I thought there’d be a little footbridge – perhaps some stepping stones.”
Patrick looked in the opposite direction, and set off for a bend they couldn’t see beyond. He walked for sixty or seventy yards, then returned, shaking his head.
“How the hell were we ever expected to get across here?” Beth said.
“You say that like it was planned.”
“No, no,” Beth said. “I mean, it was planned, I guess. It was planned by us – just badly.”
Patrick looked in all directions, his eyes finally settling on the boathouse, and gave his chin a pensive rub. “There is one other possibility.”
“What?”
He hooked his thumb back to the car. “Have you got any tools in there? Say, a wrench?”
Patrick stood back from the boathouse door, a large tyre lever swinging from his hand. The third swing was a bull’s-eye, crashing down onto the padlock and hasp straddling door and doorframe. The wood around the screws distorted, but it took another two strikes to break the hasp from the frame.
Patrick opened the door and stuck his head inside.
“Bingo.”
“Bingo?” Beth said.
“Yes, bingo.”
A dark rectangle of water dominated the centre of the boathouse, still and eerie in comparison with the bright and lively rush of water at the river end of the structure.
Patrick tried to swat away the cloud of flies that congregated in the mustiness, then sat down on one of the rickety benches that lined the walls.
“That’s getting across sorted,” he said.
And as soon as he said it he knew he was one step closer to having the big question posed to him. What would he do when he got over there? Was he really going through with this?
Beth held her hands up and clasped the sides of her face. “I just thought there’d be a bridge or something.”
“There is,” Patrick said.
“Huh?”
“There’s a something – three somethings to be exact.” He pointed to the boats moored in front of them – two rowing boats and a larger, motorized, green craft with a tarpaulin cover at one end by way of rudimentary shelter from the elements.
Beth cast a glance back to him. Only a few strands of light broke their way through the cracks in the wooden-slatted walls, but enough for Patrick to see the deep frown on her face.
“Oh,” he said. “I forgot. You don’t do boats, do you?”
Beth didn’t answer but made her way to the far end, where noise of the rushing water dominated. She leaned out over the water and looked left and right. Then she gave a sigh and returned to Patrick.
“I guess I’m just going to have to do them today,” she said. Then she pointed to the green boat. “As long as it’s not that one.”
Patrick stood up and gave all three boats a visual examination. “The big one? That’s okay. We need the stealth of a rowing boat.”
“Good.”
They picked the sturdier of the two rowing boats, then stepped in and untied it from its mooring.
The river seemed even wider to Patrick as he rowed out into its flow. The current might have been slow but it was strong, almost gripping the craft and pulling it away from their target. Patrick rowed strong and fast at right angles to the current, at one point performing a complete turn. Reaching the centre was the easy part; as Beth had said, the flow was faster there. Getting to the other side before the perimeter fence sailed past them was going to be more difficult. As strongly as Patrick rowed, he was no match for the current, and within seconds they shot past their target. Patrick strained more to cut the loss and eventually they clattered into a rock-filled gully some twenty yards down from where they wanted to be.
“Shit!” Patrick said, clambering out of the boat. He held onto the mooring rope with one hand and held out the other for Beth. She ignored it at first, only grabbing for it as she stumbled on the muddy rocks. As she jumped up onto the bank there was the briefest of embraces between them before Beth broke away and strode towards the fence, leaving Patrick to tie the boat up.
“This isn’t so bad, you know,” she said when Patrick had caught up. “I’m sure we could climb around that.”
Keeping low along the grassy banks they eventually reached the railings separating them from the school grounds. They looked formidable. It was the same design as the rest, close vertical poles with spikes atop pointing out to both sides, leaving no obvious method of climbing over. They extended past the riverbank and over the water with horizontal spikes welded onto the end pole.
While Patrick stood looking up, assessing the options, Beth stepped right over to the last part of fence on dry land and stretched both hands up.
“Hold on,” Patrick said. “What are you doing?”
But she was away, her feet half dangling, half scrabbling for purchase on the poles, at first doing little more than scraping the green slime off them. But she persevered, nothing but gasps and spittle coming from her mouth, and step by step moved out over the water. She eventually reached the end pole, where she grabbed one of the horizontal spikes – dangerous but more convenient for support – and paused.
Patrick went to speak again – to tell her to be careful – but the words became unnecessary.
With a few deep breaths and a grunt Beth reached out for another spike and swung herself round, swapping her grip to grab the vertical spikes from the other side. She swore as one of the spikes caught on her jacket and ripped a large hole, but recovered her composure and crabbed her way back along the railings to reach the riverbank inside school grounds. She allowed herself a small whoop as she jumped down onto dry land.
“College Mountaineering Club,” she said, grinning at Pa
trick through the railings. “I’d forgotten how much fun it was.”
Patrick still didn’t speak, but stepped up to the same spot Beth had launched herself from. He grabbed the railings, lifted himself up and edged out over the burbling water. He used the same method to swing himself around to the other side of the railings. He stopped there, glancing over to Beth, and to the rip in her jacket, before moving on. As he approached the riverbank a foot slipped, and the vertical poles of the fence lacked the grip for him to hold himself up. Both feet dunked a few inches into the water before his hands tightened their grip on the fence and he managed to pull himself up onto the riverbank.
“And that was the easy part,” Beth said.
Patrick shook the water from his shoes. “I don’t believe I’m doing this.”
“Down!” Beth hissed suddenly, dragging him onto his knees. “People at the back of the house.”
Patrick sighed. There was an increasingly large part of him that wouldn’t have minded being seen, or even arrested. That would have made the decision for him.
“Over there.” Beth pointed to a bush near the riverbank. They crawled over to it, and Beth got the map out. Twice she glanced over to a clump of laurel bushes on the opposite side of the school rear grounds, then checked the map again and said, “That looks like our ice-house.”
“That?” Patrick pointed. Beth nodded confirmation.
“What if she’s in there?” Patrick said.
“She won’t be.”
“How do you know?”
“Because people are arriving now, the place is swarming round the front. So she wouldn’t leave it until now to get into the storeroom.” Her hand jumped into her jacket pocket. “And…” She locked her eyes onto Patrick’s.
“And what?”
She brought the gun out and handed it to him. “And if she is in the ice-house, you kill her.”
Patrick took the gun, a pistol with a ceramic white handle which contrasted against its dark grey polished barrel. He held it in front of his face. “Jesus, Beth,” he said. “I really don’t think I can do this.”
Slow Burning Lies - A Dark Psychological Thriller Page 13