The Sun Down Motel(80)

“It doesn’t answer the question of Vivian,” Nick said. “Where is she?”

And I knew. I simply knew. I didn’t know everything that had happened, and I didn’t know all of the details, but I knew. Because after all this time, living this life here in Fell, I was her.

I looked at Nick, right into his blue eyes, and said, “I think my aunt Viv did a very, very bad thing.”





Fell, New York

November 1982





VIV


The night it all ended, Vivian was alone.

She woke from a restless doze fully clothed on her bed. It took her a second to orient herself; she was in her apartment on Greville Street. Her window was a square of darkness; the sun must have set.

She swung her legs off the bed. When had she come home and lain down? She couldn’t remember anymore. She’d left Alma’s office and everything else was a fog of exhaustion. Was that yesterday? The day before?

She was wearing jeans and a white T-shirt, now slightly wrinkled. Her sneakers were still on her feet, navy blue and white. The slender watch on her wrist said that it was ten twenty at night. She glanced in the mirror over her dresser and saw that her face was pale, her hair mussed. Her mouth was parched, as if she’d been sleeping for days. She opened her bedroom door and walked out into the apartment.

There was no one here. Jenny had gone away somewhere—to visit her parents, maybe. There had been no one in the apartment for days, not even the small signs of life with another human: empty glasses on the counter, a purse tossed on the sofa, the TV left on. There was only darkness until Viv flipped the light switch, blinking. She walked to the kitchen sink and poured herself a glass of water. She downed it, and then, unable to bear the silence, she turned on the TV.

“. . . now told us that the body found on Melborn Road is positively identified as that of Tracy Waters, a high school senior whose parents reported her missing two days ago. There are no other details at this time, but we will update you at eleven—”

Viv’s knees gave out. She sank to the floor. “Tracy,” she said.

Her letter. Her phone calls. All for nothing.

He’d taken her. He’d killed her. He’d dumped her. And she’d slept the entire time.

Viv’s stomach turned, and for a minute she thought she’d throw up. Spots danced behind her eyes. She knelt on the floor with her hands on her stomach and the blood rushing in her ears, her eyes closed. The TV had gone back to its regular programming, but it was just noise. I failed. I failed.

What had she done wrong? Were the phone calls not good enough? Was it the letter? Should she have included Simon Hess’s name? She’d almost done it, and at the last minute she’d heard Alma saying, I need more. I need physical evidence. It has to be airtight. After everything, after all these weeks, she’d had one wavering second of doubt, so she’d settled for describing him instead. Had it cost Tracy her life?

This was all her fault. All of it.

She stayed on her knees for a stretch of minutes, then got to her feet. She turned the TV off. She walked to the bathroom and washed her face. Then she brushed her hair and sprayed it. She changed her clothes, put on makeup, eye shadow in purple and blue. She made herself look nice.

She put on a navy blue sweater and her nylon jacket. She picked up her purse and her car keys. She knew what the eleven o’clock news would say: There was a killer on the loose. People should lock their doors. Women should look over their shoulders, try not to be alone at night. Parents should look out for their daughters and always know where they are. Women should carry a whistle or a flashlight. Because if you were a woman, the world was a dangerous place.

Viv unzipped her purse and pushed aside the contents. She picked out the hunting knife she’d bought at the hardware store in Plainsview, pulling it out of its thick leather sheath. She looked at the blade, silver and sharp in the light, then slid it back into its place. She put the knife back into her purse.

She’d been carrying it for days now. She only wished she had given it to Tracy Waters instead.

She was alone in the dark, just like she always was. But now it was time to go to work.



* * *



? ? ?

“I wrote a note to Janice about the door to number one-oh-three. There’s something wrong with it. It keeps blowing open in the wind, even when I lock it,” Johnny said.

Viv’s mind was still reeling over Tracy’s murder. She watched Johnny leave, then sat at the desk and pulled out her notebook.

Nov. 29

Door to number 103 has begun to open again. Prank calls. No one here. Tracy Waters is dead.

The ghosts are awake tonight. They’re restless. I think this will be over soon. I’m so sorry, Tracy. I’ve failed.

There was the sound of a motor in the parking lot. It cut out, a door slammed, and Jamie Blaknik walked through the door to the office. He was wearing his usual jeans and faded T-shirt under a sweatshirt and a jean jacket, his hair mussed.

“Hey, Good Girl,” he said. “I need a room.”

Viv blinked at him. He was so real, snapping her out of her fog of a dream. He smelled like cold fall air and cigarette smoke. A lock of hair fell over his forehead. He dug into his back pocket, peeled a few bills out of a folded-up wad, and dropped them on the desk. Then he pulled the guest book toward him, picked up the pen, and wrote his name.