Bad Things. Michael Marshall

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       Chapter 9

      We touched down a little after three o'clock. Driving up into the foothills of the Cascade Mountains took an hour, and then I turned north off 90 and through thirty miles of trees before reaching the outskirts of Black Ridge itself. It would be easy to imagine the town only has outskirts, on first meeting. Even if you know better, and where to find what counts as the main attractions, driving too fast will still have you out the other side before you know it.

      Black Ridge is a place of small wooden houses on lots through which you can see the next street, and stands at an altitude of about three thousand feet. It stretches twenty disorganized blocks in one direction, twelve in the other, before blending back into the forest which climbs into the mountains toward the two major lakes of the area, Cle Elum and Kachess. There are off-kilter crossroads holding hardware and liquor stores, a few diners where no one's bothering to string up fishing nets or kidding themselves as to the quality of what's on offer, and a couple of car-hire places. Presumably to help people leave. The older part of town – an eighty-yard street at the western end, offers a short run of wooden-fronted buildings holding an antique/junk emporium, a coffee shop/second-hand bookstore, a burger place, a pizza place, a couple of bars, and not a great deal else.

      As I'd driven up into the mountains I'd refined my plan. Finding a motel was the first step. I'd passed up a Super 7 and a couple of tired-looking B & Bs before suddenly finding myself confronted by a place I recognized. I'd known it would be there – I had lived in it for nearly a month – but it remained strange to see this particular motel still in business, looking the same as when everything had been very different. I didn't consider turning into the entrance.

      On the road out the northwest side of town I found somewhere called Marie's Resort, an old-fashioned, single-storeyed motel that had cars parked outside all but three of its twelve rooms. It was clad in rust-red shingles and stood right up to the woods on all sides except the front. I vaguely recognized it from the old days and thought it would do.

      Marie – assuming it was she – was a short, husky, sour-faced woman who looked like she'd seen most of what life in these parts had to offer and hadn't enjoyed much of it except the shouting. Her skin was the colour of old milk and the pale red hair piled on her head looked like it had last been washed in a previous life. Other than telling me the rate and asking how long I wanted to stay, she kept her own counsel throughout the entire transaction. I told her I'd be there one night, maybe two. From a back room I heard a television relaying an episode of Cops. The woman kept glancing back toward it, perhaps expecting to hear the voice of a friend or relative as they objected unconvincingly to being hauled away to jail. Finally she pulled a key out of a drawer and held it out to me, looking me in the eye for the first time.

      She frowned, the movement sluggish.

      ‘I know you?’

      ‘No,’ I said. ‘Just passing through.’

      I moved the car to sit outside Room 9 and took my bag inside. It was cold. There was a pair of double beds, an unloved chair, a small side table and a prehistoric television, all standing on a carpet whose texture suggested it was cleaned – if ever – by rubbing it with a bar of soap. I didn't even check the bathroom, accessed via a stubby corridor at the back of the room, on the grounds that it would only depress me. Other than a badly framed list of the things occupants weren't allowed to do, the room offered little diversion and no incentive to remain in it. I scrolled through the call log on my phone and clicked CALL when I found the number I'd been sent via email the day before. It rang six times, and then went to answering service.

      ‘Hey, Ms Robertson,’ I said, with bland cheer. ‘It's John, from the Henderson Bookstore? Wanted to let you know that item you ordered has arrived. It's here waiting for you. You have a good day.’

      I cut the connection, feeling absurd. For engaging in Hardy-Boys- level subterfuge to hide the nature of a call to the woman's cell phone. For being in Black Ridge in the first place. For being, period.

      I left the motel. If you have no idea where you're supposed to be, movement is always the best policy.

      For the next hour I walked the town. It had evidently rained hard in the morning, and it wouldn't be too long before the locals could start expecting the first snow. Black Ridge was never a place in which I'd killed much time. The town wasn't familiar and did not go out of its way to welcome me. Pickups trundled past down wet streets. People entered and left their houses. Teenage boys slouched along the sidewalks as if three-dimensional space itself was an imposition. The few realtor signs I saw in yards looked like they had been in residence for some time, and more businesses seemed to be folding than opening. From the outside, Black Ridge looked as if it was in the middle of a poorly motivated closing-down sale.

      As soon as you raised your eyes above house level you saw the ranks of trees waiting only a few streets away, and the clouds thickening, coming down off the mountains to remind people who ran things around here. There are places where man has convincingly claimed the planet, making it feel little more than a support mechanism for our kind. Washington State is not one of them, and mountains everywhere have never given much thought to us. After nearly three years on the coast, it was nice to see them again.

      My phone, meanwhile, did not ring.

      I found myself glancing at the few women on the streets, wondering if any was the person I'd come to look for. It was impossible to tell, naturally. Usually strangers look like extras – background texture in your life. As soon as you start to look more closely, everyone looks like they might be someone in particular.

      Eventually I found myself becalmed on Kelly Street, the only place that might cause a tourist to hang around for longer than it takes to fill up with gas or a burger. I bought a coffee and a sturdily homemade granola bar in a place called The Write Sisters, served by a cheerful girl with remarkably blue hair. I sat outside on a bench with it, sipping the coffee and watching the streets. Nowhere seemed to be doing much СКАЧАТЬ