I woke the next morning to the smell of
whiskey and a head packed with sawdust.
“You
really slipped in the shit this time,” said Tracey from the gloom, seated in
the room’s only chair. Except she would never have said ‘shit’—I berated myself
for the off-character dialog.
I
opened the curtains a crack, rode a wave of nausea, and counted the minibar
bottles scattered through the room. Apparently it was all of them.
When
I opened my wallet with clumsy hands, I counted the cash and realized I would
barely have enough to pay for the bar, let alone the room.
A
bottle of bourbon had a stain of liquor at its base, so I tipped the bottle above
my mouth and let the dregs dribble into my throat. I was my own physician, and
I had prescribed a dose of hair of the dog.
At
last I tried my voice, which came out in a croak: “How was I to know he would
switch train lines?”
I
took hold of my head and spilled some angry tears. Tracey watched in silence.
When
I had sniffed up the last tear, and raked my scalp, forgetting it was bald, she
said, “He’s making up the rules as he goes along, Dad,” and for a moment I felt
like the child. “Edit, cut, paste. Whatever fits his fancy.”
In
a sudden pique I said, “I’ll kill him.”
Tracey’s
smile was mixed with pity. “No you won’t.”
Pity
from my own daughter. I wasn’t going to take that. I gripped the hallucination
in my mind and extinguished it.
I
made my way to the bathroom. It wasn’t much bigger than a closet. I dashed
water on my face and rubbed my cheeks. They were rough with stubble, but
shaving was the second last thing I wanted to do right then.
The
last thing I wanted to do was get on the telephone. But I might as well charge
the call to the room. In for a dime, in for a dollar.
I
looked up the numbers I needed for an international call, put the phone on
speaker, and dialed.
I
sat on the edge of the bed with my head in my hands and listened to the phone’s
faint hiss and the ping-pong of my call racing through the network.
A
call tone, finally. Four pulses, then someone picked up.
“Hello?”
said a voice.
“Matt,”
(At last) I said. “You need to give
the police the passwords—”
“Mr
Griffin?”
“Yeah,”
I said. “Did you hear me? You need—”
“I
got your message,” he said.
“Well,
never mind that. You got there ahead of me. The passwords are working, but I
need you to give them to the police so they can look at the blog too.”
Silence.
“Mr
Griffin...”
There
it was again. Mr Griffin? What the
hell was wrong with the kid.
“I
got your message, but I have no idea what you’re talking about. And—”
“What
do you mean—”
“—the
police have been here.”
“Wait.
Wait. Back up. What do you mean you have no idea what I’m talking about? The
passwords for Hiero’s blog. Remember? They cycle. You cracked his server.”
“Mr
Griffin,”—Arg!—”those things you said
I did, I didn’t do. I haven’t spoken to you since... it must be last holidays.”
I
felt heat flush my cheeks, but my gut was growing cold.
“I
know we haven’t spoken,” I said, voice rising. “I tried to call you. We Skyped, text chat, last week.”
“No,
we didn’t. I was on leave last week. At beach camp. Digital detox. I haven’t
Skyped anyone in weeks.”
“Shit...”
I breathed the word, long, like a sigh.
I
must’ve been silent a long time, because Matt said, “Mr Griffin? Are you there?
What’s going on?”
“I
don’t know. I thought I’d just stepped in shit, but it seems I’ve been flushed
down the toilet.” I lowered the receiver, then raised it once more. “Whatever
they say about me, Matt. It’s not true. Don’t believe it.”
And
with those sage words I hung up.
I
sat there in silence and tried to make the world stop spinning. The hardarse in
my head reeled off the score.
I
was (mostly) alone in a hotel room on the other side of the world, in an
unfamiliar city filled with people speaking an unfamiliar language. I was
broke, and suspected of at least one, possibly two, murders. I was doomed with
the foreknowledge of another murder about to happen, and my one ace in the hole,
my one window into the mind of the killer, which had seemed too good to be
true, was in fact too good to be
true.
The
blog was a honeypot and I was Winnie-the-Pooh.
Hiero
had somehow intercepted my attempt to communicate with Matt. Had impersonated
him and set me up to read his blog.
But
why?
I
suddenly understood those guys you see on street corners and train stations who
hit themselves on the head.
Quickly
I packed my meager belongings and descended to the lobby. I stashed Li Min’s
journal next to Hiero’s notes into my coat pockets in an attempt to not look
like I was skipping out on my bill.
Before
I left I checked the blog again. I read the latest entry with that same car-crash-can’t-look-away
feeling:
On
to the next adventure. By train, this time, I think. The 08:52 from the
Hauptbahnhof on through a cavalcade of German cities, the names of which put me
in mind of a dozen B-Grade World War 2 movies, and finally, Gare de L’Est, Gay Paree!
Not
the Orient Express, but the same romantic sense of that old European passage.
Wintering trees and cigarettes and cocktails in the dining cart.
And
there it was. Hiero’s rampage rolled on again like that train. And now it was
almost certain he knew I was reading his account of his exploits.
Well,
I was getting on that train.
From
a boutique telecoms store I bought a prepaid phone, and loaded every last cent
onto it, for voice and data.
I
called the Murdoch police station from memory and asked for Thomas. My call was
dispatched and seconds later a very alert Thomas spoke. “Tell me you’re on your
way home, Griffin.”
“No,
I’m on my way to do your job. He’s killed again, you know. Vienna. Hauptbahnhof
station. Yesterday, right in front of me. I’m not going to let him do it again.”
“What
you nee—”
I
hung up.
Barely
thirty seconds later the phone buzzed. No caller id, but it had to be Thomas. I
turned the phone off. Let him stew.
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