They stare at one another. ‘I didn’t know you were interested in that,’ Kimble says. ‘I mean – I’ve always wanted to go out there. When did you …’ She shakes her head. ‘Let’s drink more.’
‘Yes.’ Marc’s body hums with feeling and tequila.
‘We could,’ Kimble says dreamily, head resting on her folded arms. She’s very drunk and nearly asleep. They’re in a different bar now. It’s full of mirrors. Marc doesn’t remember getting here but it seems ok.
‘Could what?’ Marc lights the wrong end of his cigarette and coughs, taking a mouthful of whiskey to get rid of the taste. They’re going to get moved off the table soon, he can see the waitress giving them that resigned look. But she’ll wait a couple more minutes, he knows, hoping that they’ll leave of their own accord.
‘We could make something about Nowhere.’ Kimble runs a wet finger around the rim of her glass, making it whine.
‘Mmm,’ Marc says. ‘The lizard tail comes off, is the problem. It’s all rumour, no facts. No reliable witnesses. And mountain people don’t like flatlanders.’
‘They haven’t met us yet,’ Kimble says. ‘We’re good at sliding through the cracks.’
‘That’s true,’ Marc says, delighted. His head is full of bees.
He gets up, swaying only a little. ‘Ok,’ he says. ‘I need to be unawake. Seven a.m.?’
Kimble nods.
‘You ok on your own?’
‘I thought I was,’ Kimble says, thoughtful. ‘But I was wrong.’ She gets her cell phone out with slippery fingers. As Marc walks away he hears Kimble say, ‘Margot?’
Marc has never heard that voice from Kimble before – the warmth, the hope. It makes him feel very drunk and afraid.
Marc collapses on the bed but his mind keeps turning like a windmill. He thinks and makes a phone call and thinks some more, as the bed weaves under him, swimming in liquor.
Marc and Kimble leave for Salt Lake City at 7 a.m. There’s been a murder in a conservative Mormon family. Marc feels sick ofeverything. He doesn’t want to ask another grieving parent about their dead child. But he does it anyway and Kimble pushes in close on their tears, and the job feels even more terrible than usual.
Afterwards they sit, shaking, in a diner. Marc orders too much food then stares at it, revolted. Kimble glances at him then slides his onion rings and grits over to her side. Marc closes his eyes and feels the white travel up his face.
‘Are you going to puke?’ Kimble asks, interested.
Marc shakes his head but he doesn’t know. He takes a trembling sip of iced water and breathes deeply.
‘So,’ he says. ‘Do you want to do it?’
‘What?’ Kimble eats an onion ring in one mouthful and Marc winces.
‘Make the show about Nowhere,’ Marc says. ‘We’ve got a shoestring budget. We’ve got a short window of time.’
Kimble chews slowly. ‘How did you do that so fast?’
‘I caught them in a receptive mood,’ Marc says. ‘And I used my last favour.’
Kimble nods. Everyone has a final favour that they save up – to shoot you to the top or save you from the bottom. ‘And I was drunk,’ he adds. ‘Tequila confidence. Anyway I booked an interview.’ He takes out the hotel envelope covered in long scrawls of ballpoint. ‘I wrote it all down. Annie Lyons, who says she was taken by the children for some kind of bloodletting ritual.’
‘Give me that.’ Kimble takes the envelope, annoyed. ‘What a mess. I’ll start a schedule. When do we go?’
‘End of this month,’ Marc says. ‘We need to be there until September.’
‘But—’ Kimble stops herself. ‘Are you sure? We couldn’t wait?’
‘We need to catch Annie before she goes to Cancun for thesummer,’ Marc says. ‘And you know how it goes. The longer they think about it the more often they cancel.’
‘Yes,’ says Kimble. ‘I do know how it goes.’
‘It’s our chance.’ Marc shrugs. There is no budget, of course, he’s funding this all by himself and deciding the schedule. He won’t need his retirement fund anyway.
