The Confessors' Club

SEVENTY

The meds couldn’t put me to sleep that night. I eased onto my good side to read the bedside alarm clock. If it was close enough to dawn I’d quit struggling to sleep and get up to read about soups and wars and sleuthing Brits.

No red numerals shone from the top of the nightstand. The alarm clock had died.

I reached to switch on the lamp. The lamp didn’t work. The power to my room was out.

I found my phone. It was four-fifteen.

A moment after I laid back, I heard something click faintly, one-two, in fast succession, out in the hall – followed, after a delay, by a third, softer sound, a thud. Perhaps someone was out there, checking on the power. Then I remembered that there was no staff in the resort, except for the manager, and she’d likely be asleep in her rooms. It was the middle of the night.

There were no other guests, either, except for Amanda, probably also sound asleep.

And me, sleepless, with jitters that would jump at anything.

One-two; another pair of clicks came, followed again by the third sound, the soft thud.

I grabbed my crutches from the other side of the bed, and levered myself to stand. Moving had set the stitched bullet wound in my left arm and the torn ligaments in my legs to throbbing. I waited until I’d steadied and hobbled to the window.

The resort was dark. The entire building had lost power. No one was awake to notice.

Except for me.

Click-click; the new sounds seemed slightly louder now. Again, they were followed by a strange soft thud. I started toward the door.

The fourth pair of fast clicks came when I was still only halfway across. Definitely louder, definitely closer.

By the time I got to the door and pressed my ear against it, I was sweating like a man standing under a hot August sun. Fifth and sixth sets of noises had come, increasingly louder. By now I’d recognized them for what they were: doors were being unlocked with one of the big, square-cut metal keys. The first click was the sound of the lock bolt retracting, the second the sound of the bolt snapping forward after the door was opened. The soft thud following each delay was the sound of the door being gently closed.

Rooms were being searched.

‘Damned dumb, bored kids, looking for booze,’ the resort manager had called the intruders who’d broken in.

Damned dumb, bored kids didn’t search an empty resort, room by room, looking for booze.

I pressed my eye to the magnified peep-hole. A light flashed for an instant, out in the hall. Tiny prickles shot across my scalp as I understood. Someone was using a pencil beam flashlight to quickly scan the rooms.

A new pair of clicks came loud. And, after only a second, the thud.

He’d spotted my Jeep parked in the lot, broken in for food, and for sanctuary. Until everyone was asleep.

The next clicks came loudest of all. I could hear him through the wall. He’d opened the room next door. Too soon, the soft thud came. He’d closed the door.

I could hear him breathe, out in the hall.

I pressed against the wall, steadying, seeing the faint low shape of the bed – my unmade bed. In an instant’s flash of his light, he’d know I was there.

Metal scratched on my door. He’d slipped the master key into my lock.

I leaned one crutch against the wall, pressed back to brace myself, and raised the other crutch like a bat.

First click; the bolt retracted.

Second click; the bolt sprung back out. The door was opening.

His breathing was heavy, labored, not two feet from my face.

The pencil beam of light moved unsteadily, low across the carpet toward the bed.

The beam halted. He sucked in air. His flashlight had found my shoes, next to the bed.

The floor creaked as he stepped softly into the room.