Two Graves

A moment later there came the click of the room’s lock disengaging and the creak of the door opening. Alban heard the muffled sound of footsteps on the carpeting.

“Mandy?” came a masculine voice. “Mandy, honey, are you here?”

The footsteps receded, moving across the living area toward the bedroom.

As quietly as possible, Alban tiptoed out of the bathroom, opened the room door, stepped out into the hallway—and then, after a moment’s hesitation, nipped back into the bathroom, hiding behind the door once again.

“Mandy…? Oh, my God!” A sudden shriek came from the bedroom. “No, no, no!” There was a scuffling, thudding sound, as of a body falling to the floor on its knees, followed by gasping and choking.

“Mandy! Mandy!”

Alban waited, as the crying from the bedroom dissolved first into hysteria, then cries for help.

The door to the suite burst open again. “Hotel security!” came a gruff voice. “What’s going on?”

“My wife! She’s been murdered!”

More thudding footsteps retreating past the bathroom, followed by a gasp, a sudden burst of talk into the radio, more tiresome cries of horror and disbelief from the bereaved husband.

Now Alban crept out of the bathroom, scurried silently to the door, opened it, stepped out—paused—then closed the door softly behind him. Walking easily down the hallway to the elevator bank, he pressed the DOWN button. But then, as the floor indicator above the elevator showed it begi

He looked down the empty hallway with a smile and headed in the direction of the elevator.

Two minutes later, he was walking out the service entrance of the hotel, hat brim low over his eyes, gloved hands deep in his trench coat pockets. He began sauntering casually down Central Park West, early-morning sun setting the pavement agleam, just as police sirens began sounding in the distance.

19

CORRIE SWANSON STOOD ON THE PORCH AT THE SHABBY front door of a sagging duplex at the corner of Fourth Street and Birch in West Cuyahoga, Pe

She pressed the buzzer again, heard it sounding inside the empty house. As she glanced around once more, she saw curtains moving in the attached house, and across the street a neighbor had paused while bringing out the garbage and was staring at the black Lincoln Continental that had brought her.

Why was the damn driver waiting? She tried the door, shook it in impatience.

Leaving her suitcase on the porch, she went back to the car. “There’s no need for you to hang around. You can go now.”

The driver smiled. “Sorry, Ms. Swanson, I have to see you into the house. If no one’s home, I’m supposed to call for instructions.” He even had his cell phone out.

Corrie rolled her eyes. This was unbelievable. How was she going to get rid of this guy?

“Don’t call yet. Let me try again. Maybe he’s asleep.” It was entirely possible the bum was asleep, or maybe just passed out drunk. Then again, even though it was Saturday, he might be at work—if he still had work, that is.

She went back, tried the door again. The lock was crap and she had her tools in her bag. Blocking the view of the door with her body, she fished out the tools, inserted them into the lock, wiggled them around, and in less time than she expected felt the give of the pins. The door opened.

She pushed in with her luggage and shut the door behind her. Then, pulling the blinds apart and standing at the window, she waved to the driver, gave him a fake smile and a thumbs-up. The driver responded with a wave of his own, and the black car eased from the curb and went on down the street.

Corrie looked around. The front door opened directly into a living room that, to her surprise, was neat and clean, if a little shabby. Setting down the suitcase, she flopped onto a ratty sofa and exhaled.

The depressing nature of her situation just about overwhelmed her. She should never have agreed to this proposal. She hadn’t once seen her father in the fifteen years since he’d walked out. She could forgive him for that—her mother was a psycho—but what she couldn’t forgive was the fact he’d made no effort to keep in touch with her, write her, call her. No birthday or Christmas presents, no card on her graduation from high school, no phone call, not one, during the many times she was in trouble—nothing. It was a mystery why her memories of him were of a warm, fu

She looked around. There wasn’t much personality in the place, but at least there were no empty liquor bottles, no trash baskets overflowing with crushed beer cans or old pizza boxes lying about. It just didn’t look like anyone had been there in a while. Where was he? Maybe she should have called.

This was so fucked up. She almost felt like crying.

She heaved herself off the sofa, wandered into the bedroom. It was small but tidy, with a single bed and a well-thumbed copy of Twelve Steps and Twelve Traditions sitting on the bedside table. The room had two closets. Idly, without much curiosity, she opened one of them. Jeans, chambray work shirts, and a couple of cheap-looking suits hung on wire hangers. Closing the door, she went to the second closet. This was strange: the shelves were full of packages wrapped in brown paper, dozens of them, of all different sizes, carefully, almost lovingly, stacked cheek by jowl with bundles of letters, bright oversize envelopes that could only be holiday or birthday cards, and numerous postcards held together by rubber bands. She peered at a few. They were all addressed to her: Corrie Swanson, 29 Wyndham Parke Estates, Medicine Creek, Kansas. They seemed to be arranged in chronological order, going back more than a dozen years. Every stamp or postmark on every package bore a cancellation sticker, and every single one had been marked with an official-looking message: RETURN TO SENDER.

Corrie stared at the contents of the closet for a minute, scratching her head. Then she exited the bedroom, went out the front door, and knocked on the duplex next door. More motions of the curtain, then a tight voice.

“Who is it?”

“Corrie Swanson.”

“Who?”

“Corrie Swanson. I’m Jack Swanson’s daughter. I’m here…” She swallowed. “On a family visit.”

A muffled noise that could have been a grunt of surprise, then the sound of locks turning. The door opened and a squat, unpleasant-looking woman stood in the doorway, hammy arms folded, face the texture of a Brillo pad. A smell of cigarette smoke exuded from the room behind her. She looked Corrie up and down with a narrow eye that lingered on her streak of purple hair. “Jack Swanson’s daughter? I see.” More scrutiny. “He’s not here.”

“I know that,” said Corrie, struggling to keep the habitual sarcasm out of her voice. “I’m just wondering where he is.”

“He left.”

Corrie swallowed another sharp reply and managed to say, “Do you know where he’s gone and when he might be back?” She bestowed a fake smile on the harridan.

More scrutiny. Judging by her facial grimaces, the woman seemed to be considering whether or not to tell her something important. “He’s in trouble,” the woman finally said. “Ran out of town.”

“What kind of trouble?”