did not, and the soda machine didn’t work. After establishing these facts and becoming resigned to them, Oz let himself into his room, first noting that the strip of scotch tape he’d laid across the bottom of the door had not been disturbed.
Once inside he stood irresolute. It was late. He should go to bed. Get on the road early. Keep on the move. But he still felt hopped up from the meeting, and knew that if he lay his head down it would get locked in a long spiral that would leave him exhausted and headachy in the morning.
He turned instead to the ancient console television next to the room’s shabby desk. The huge screen warmed slowly, to reveal a re-run of a show so old Oz barely remembered it. Perfect. A little background noise, the kind that creeps inside your head and tells you everything’s all right. Comfort sound.
There was a knock on the door.
Oz turned fast, heart beating hard.
The television wasn’t on loud enough to provoke a complaint. It was hard to imagine why else someone should be outside. The bedside clock said it was 2:33 a.m.
The knock came again, more quietly this time.
Oz knew the flickering of the television screen would be visible around the edges of the curtains. He went and stood behind the door. This was the moment he’d feared, the prospect that kept him awake at night, and he realized suddenly that he’d never really come up with a plan for when it came to pass. So much for the Lone Horseman of the Unknown.
‘Mr Turner? It’s Mr Jones.’
The person outside had spoken very quietly. Oz stared at the door for a moment, put his ear closer. ‘What?’
‘Could you let me in?’
Oz hesitated, undid the lock. Opened the door a crack, to see Jones standing shivering outside.
‘What the hell do you want?’
Jones kept well back from the door, didn’t crowd him. ‘I got a few miles down the road and realized there were a couple things I forgot to say. I turned around, saw you walking through town, followed you back here.’
Oz let the man into the hotel room, annoyed at how careless he’d been to allow someone to spot him on the street.
‘You scared the fucking life out of me, man,’ he said, closing the door and locking it. ‘Jesus.’
‘I know. I’m sorry, really. It’s just I came all this way. And, you know, I think meeting up was kind of a big deal for both of us. The start of something bigger.’
‘You could say that.’
‘Right. So I just wanted to make sure we got everything said.’
Oz relaxed, a little. ‘So what was it?’
The man looked sheepish. ‘First thing, well, it’s embarrassing. It’s just that Jones isn’t my real name.’
‘Okay,’ Oz said, confused. He’d already assumed the other guy might have given a false one. ‘No big deal.’
‘I know. Just, you were going to find out later, and I didn’t want you to think I’d been jerking you around.’
‘That’s okay,’ Oz said, disarmed, wondering if he should offer the guy a drink and realizing he didn’t have anything. The motel didn’t run to coffee-making facilities. It barely ran to changing the towels, and didn’t fudge the issue with cheery crap about saving the environment, either. ‘So – what is it? Your name.’
The man moved slightly, so he was farther from the door.
‘It’s Shepherd,’ he said.
Oz held his gaze, noticing for the first time how dark the man’s eyes were. ‘Well, mine really is Oz Turner. So we’re straight on nomenclature. What was the other thing?’
‘Just this,’ the man said. He pushed Oz in the chest.
Oz was caught off-guard. He couldn’t maintain his balance against the calm, firm shove, especially when the man slipped his right foot behind one of Oz’s. His arms pinwheeled but he toppled straight over backward, catching his head hard against the television.
He was stunned, and barely had time to slur a syllable of enquiry before the man quickly bent down over him. He grabbed handfuls of Oz’s coat, careful not to touch flesh, and yanked him halfway back to standing.
‘What?’ Oz managed. His right eye was blinking hard. He felt weak. He realized the man was wearing gloves. ‘What are you …’
The man put his face up close. ‘Just so you know,’ he said, ‘They do exist. They send their regards.’
Then he dropped him, twisting Oz’s shoulder forward just as he let go. Oz’s head hit the side of the television again, at a bad sideways angle this time, and there was a muffled click.
Shepherd sat on the end of the bed and waited for the man’s gasps to subside, watching the television with half an eye. He couldn’t remember the name of the show, but he knew just about everyone on it was long dead. Ghosts of light, playing to a dying man. Almost funny.
When he was satisfied Turner was done, he took a fifth of vodka out of his pocket and tipped most of it into Oz’s mouth. A little over his hands, some on his coat. He left the bottle on the floor, where it might have fallen. A diligent coroner could question either stomach contents or blood alcohol level within the body, but Shepherd doubted it would come to that. Not here in the sticks. Not when Turner looked so much like a man who had this kind of end coming to him sooner or later.
It took Shepherd less than three minutes to find where the man had hidden his laptop and notebook. He replaced these with further empty vodka bottles. He shut the room door quietly behind him as he left, and then took only another minute to find the back-up disk duct-taped under the dashboard of Oz’s car in the lot outside. All three would be destroyed before daybreak.
And that, he believed, was that.
When Shepherd got into his own vehicle he realized his cell phone was ringing. He reached quickly under the seat for it, but he’d missed the call.
He checked the log. He didn’t recognize the number, but he did know the area code, and swore.
A 503 prefix. Oregon. Cannon Beach.
He slammed the door and drove fast out of the lot.
If you lay still, really still, you could hear the waves. That was one of the best things about the cottage, Madison thought. When you went to bed, assuming the television in the main room wasn’t on – it usually wasn’t, because time at the beach was for reading and thinking, Dad said, instead of watching the same old (rude word) – you could lie there and hear the ocean. You had to tune yourself first. The dune was in the way, and depending on the tides the water could be quite a distance down the beach. You had to let your breathing settle, lie flat and very still on your back with both ears open and just wait … and gradually you would begin to hear the distant rustle and thump that said tonight you were sleeping near the edge of the world. And sleep you would, as the waves seemed to get closer and closer, tugging gently at your feet, pulling you into friendly warmth and darkness and rest.
If you woke up in the night you heard them too. It was even better then, as they were the only sound anywhere. Back in Portland there was always other noise—cars, dogs, people walking by. Not here. Sometimes the waves would be very quiet, barely audible above the ringing of your ears, but if there was heavy weather they could sound very loud. Madison could remember one time being really scared in the night when there had been a storm and it sounded like the waves were crashing right into the next room. They hadn’t been, of course, and Dad said the dune would protect them and they never would, so now when she heard them in the night she enjoyed it, feeling adventurous and safe, knowing there was