The Last Resort

Prologue

(March 13, 2015)

Dr. Malcolm Beans stops his black Lexus SUV on the edge of the road across from the home of Melissa and Robert Moore. It’s early evening, and Melissa’s car sits in the driveway. Robert is not home, and Melissa is alone. He studies the lighted window blinds of their picture window for shadows of movement but sees none.

He kills the engine, lowers his window, and rests his arm on the door where rain spatters it. The loose cable of a barren flagpole clangs over the soft rustle of the stiff fronds of a nearby palm. Spotlights focused on islands of landscaping and streetlights illuminate the road glazing in the mounting drizzle. He’s glad for the rain. It reduces the likelihood of being noticed. No one will be walking their dogs or out for evening runs. He’s been so patient, waited so long. He relaxes into his leather seat.

He has known the Moores for years, has endeared himself to them, has won their trust, their confidence. He bought those things with dedicated service, especially over the last few years during their many attempts at having a child. Melissa is a kindred spirit. Both have artistic souls. Malcolm, a sculptor, and she, a painter. Malcolm was consumed with her from the moment he saw her. There’s something about her, a quality he finds irresistible, an inner beauty, a passion. She filled the void left from the passing of his wife, so long ago. He’s treasured every moment he’s spent with Melissa. She incited that inner craving that’s always driven him, that craving that is almost overwhelming him now, that he needs to keep reign over. But it’s time to take the next step, to take his emotional involvement with her further. He hopes she’ll understand but doubts it. They never do. Even his own wife didn’t. Not in the end. That always disappoints him.

Robert’s car pulls into the drive. He gets out and slouches to the front door, fumbling with his keys and dropping them on the stoop.

Malcolm smiles at Robert’s uneasiness. He never cared for Robert. Robert has always been an annoyance, someone who was in the way. Malcolm hopes, given the events from earlier that day—events he orchestrated—Melissa’s and Robert's fragile marriage will shatter and send Melissa out into the world alone and unprotected or Robert back out into the night for a place to stay. If either occurs, he wants to take advantage of it, to seize the opportunity, but he needs to be cautious. No sense taking chances. Not at this point. No matter what happens, the ball is in play, and he’ll get more than one whack at it.

Robert enters the house. Malcolm fixes his gaze on the front door. He can feel his breath, slow and steady. The rain intensifies to a steady penetrating shower. He moves his arm and closes the window halfway. Water spits in through the gap.

The front door opens. Malcolm’s eyes swell. He leans forward and sets his fingertips on the edge of the window. Melissa steps out and halts under the eaves, pinned by the steady downpour.

Robert reaches out through the doorway for her elbow. She shakes him off and sets out across the yard. She has no jacket, no umbrella. With her head hung, she reaches the sidewalk, walking fast. The door shuts.

She heads down the street and rounds the corner. Malcolm starts his car and follows. He needs to catch her before she gets out of the subdivision. If she reaches the busy highway, he’ll lose his chance.

He pulls up and lowers the passenger window. "Melissa? Is that you?"

She stops and turns. Her wet hair sticks flat to her head and hangs in thick clumps over her shoulders. "Malcolm?” She takes a step back. “What are you doing here?"

The rainfall slows. Fat drops drum the roof of the car. Malcolm pauses. He needs to choose his words with care. "I was delivering a sculpture to one of my patrons, and I decided to drive by. To check on you and Robert. I wanted to apologize. I was be-s-side myself with what happened today. When I saw you … walking in the rain… I … I …” He shakes his head. He gazes at her. “What are you doing, Melissa?”

She puts her hands on her hips and looks toward the front of the car. Pellets flash through the headlights. She steps closer. Malcolm lifts himself in his seat. His muscles tense. He draws in a long breath, searching for her scent. He catches a slight hint of gardenia. His heart beats faster.

"Oh, I needed to get out," she says. "Get away from him. You know what he did.”

“I’m so sorry.” Malcolm turns and shakes his head. “That girl shouldn't have told you about that paternity test. I’ve fired her, of course. It was a—“

“Shouldn’t have been told! Then what exactly should I—“

“Yes. Yes. Yes. Of course. Of course. You needed to know, but not like this. There’s no good way to find these things out. I hate that I was a part of that. I just hate it. We’ve been such good friends. I can’t stand to see you in pain.” His eyes shift up, studying her expression.

She leans back, folds her arms across her chest and takes a deep breath. “It’s not your fault.”

“Small consolation.” He slaps his hands against the steering wheel then slumps and folds them in his lap.

Her mouth dips open. She stares back in the direction of her house, pursing her lips. “I’m not going back. I’m never going back.”

“Of course not.” He leans over, placing his hand on the passenger seat. “Where will you go?”

“I don’t know.” Her head dips.

“Look at you. You're positively drenched.” He unlocks the door. “Why don't you get in? At least get out of the rain.” Time slows as he waits for her response. Again, he catches her scent.

She steps forward and puts her hand on the open window. She looks at him. “You’re very kind.” She opens the door and gets in.

He smiles. Not one car has driven past in the time he’s been speaking with her. Adrenalin pumps through him. His chest rises and falls, slowly and deeply.

Water drips from Melissa's hair and off the tip of her nose. She stares down at the floor. "How could he have done it?" She turns toward Malcolm. "After all the years we've been together."

"I know my dear. I feel awful about the whole matter. I feel responsible—“

"Responsible? He's the one who …. He’s the one—“ She breaks down, covering her face with her hands.

He reaches over to console her but decides against it. He pulls back his hand.

She lifts her head to him. “Can you take me to the downtonw Marriott.”

“A hotel? I won’t hear of it. You can s-spend the night at my house? There’s only me in that huge house. I have a piece I have been working on. I would so love your opinion of it.”

She pauses and then shakes her head. "I can't impose."

"Come now. You’re being ridiculous. You can stay until you can make proper arrangements. As long as you like.” Malcolm pats the top of her hand.

She looks up at him, her eyes glistening. “That's very kind of you. You've always been so kind to us." She wipes her eyes with the back of her hand.

He fights back the smile trying to creep onto his face. This is more than he could’ve hoped for. Maybe it'll be better than he could imagine. Maybe he can convince her. Maybe she’ll understand. No matter what he has her now.

As they drive to Malcolm’s mansion, Melissa remains silent. She stares out the side window. Her empty expression reflects in the rain-spattered glass against the night. The only sound is the mechanical slide and thump of the wipers.

Chapter 1

(May 22, 2018)

Robert Moore sits slumped in a wheelchair before the entrance to Faithwell Hospice Center, clinging to the limp wrapper of a Snickers bar like he’s holding a ticket to a place he doesn't want to go.

The ambulance driver sets the chair’s brake and hits the door opener. The heavy French doors clatter to life, ratcheting open as if to swallow him up. The driver pats Robert’s shoulder. He gave him the Snickers bar when they left the hospital. Robert believed it was out of pity, but he ate it with greedy enjoyment, knowing it may be the last he gets in this world.

The driver snaps off the brake and asks a question.

Robert fiddles with the cuff of his grey plaid bathrobe and nods. He has no idea what was asked, only aware a response is expected. His mind is whirling with troubled and agonized thoughts. A few hours ago, he was a middle-aged man with half of his life before him. Not anymore.

The wheelchair rattles across the doorway then glides over the slick tile floor. The footrest collides with the wall underneath the ledge of the receptionist's counter. This jars Robert, and he looks up at the girl behind the counter.

"I have Robert Moore," the driver says to her.

She lifts her head from her book. "Okay."

She reminds Robert of a porcelain doll: the dull soft texture of her skin, her small mouth is closed, lips in a small perfect circle, and her eyes—big dark saucers. That’s what strikes him the most about her, her eyes.

"Yes, they sent over his records earlier." She sets her book down and picks up a file folder.

She and the driver continue to talk. Robert focuses beneath the counter on the wallpaper with vertical rows of seashells, seahorses, and sand dollars. He sighs. For a brief instant, he can almost take himself back to that time at the beach he spent with Melissa, that happy time so long ago.

It all begins to consume him. A week ago, he had a seizure at work and was taken to the hospital where he had another and then another. An MRI revealed the tumor. A biopsy confirmed it was cancer. The tumor was sizable and growing. He was given a month to live, two tops. Given the location and size of the tumor, the doctors told him that at any time, he could lose consciousness. Forever. Lights out. Night, night, Bobby boy. He’s terrified of going to sleep, afraid he’ll never wake up. He was told as the cancer progressed, he’d be susceptible to more seizures, incontinence and, potentially, erratic behavior. All things he has to look forward to.

His arms tense, and his shoulders rise to his neck. His breathing becomes choked and halted. His fingers twiddle at the lapel of his bathrobe as needles of panic stab his chest. His head begins to wobble. "I’m not ready … not near ready ... they’re wrong … doctors can be wrong … they’re not perfect … I feel all right … a little weak ... tired … but not dying … not me … I’m fine.”

He pictures Ms. Pac Man chomping her way into his brain. Gobbling the soft tissue. Chewing and mashing her way through his grey matter straight for his brain stem with nothing to stop her. He clutches at the arms of his chair, his hands curling into claws, as that image and his doctor’s prognosis tumble through his mind. He pushes himself back, recoiling against the seat, seeing the snapping jaws chomping and chomping. Woca! Woca! Woca! Too late for chemo. Woca! Woca! Woca! Too late for surgery. Woca! Woca! Woca! Too late for anything. It’s time to check in. Take a seat in God’s waiting room. Get a suite at the Last Resort. Check out promptly at eleven. Don’t bother taking any towels when you leave because you won’t need them where you’re going. Death is coming for you. Steaming right at you with a red bow on her head. Woca! Woca! Woca! Woo! Hoo! Woca! Woca! Woca!

"Are you all right?"

He twists wide-eyed toward the voice.

It’s the pretty girl at the counter. "Can you tell me your name?"

He pauses, processing what he heard. "Robert?"

"Hello, Robert. Can you sign the admittance form?" She stands in front of him, holding a clipboard with a dangling pen.

Robert reads the name tag on her shirt: "Emily." He drops the wrapper and scrawls his name without a glance. The clipboard falls dead in his lap.

She picks it up. "Thank you, Mr. Moore. The orderly should be here shortly to take you to your room." She sets the tip of the pen to the paper. "Do you have any friends or family for me to list for visitation?"

"What?"

"Who's going to come and visit you? Close family? Friends? Loved ones?"

Robert has no family. Both his parents are dead. No siblings. No one he worked with will come. He’s a computer programmer and keeps to himself. He has no one. Not since his wife disappeared, vanished off the face of the earth, over three years ago. She stormed out after a fight. Two days later, Robert received a letter mailed from the airport saying she was leaving him and that was it. Poof. Gone. Like she’d hopped on a flight to the moon. "I’d like to see my wife."

"What's her name?"

"Melissa. But she's not coming. Sh-she's gone. She left me. And … and I don't know where she is. I-I-I don’t know what happened to her." He feels the hopelessness. It’s been three years that the cops couldn’t find even a trace of her. There’s nothing he can do. Maybe he should give up.

Emily writes down the name. "Anyone else?"

He takes a breath, and then murmurs, "That’s it. I have no one else."

Emily leans in, and speaks distinctly. "That’s okay, Mr. Moore. Claude is going to take you to your room now. You can get some rest."

"Hello, Mr. Moore." Claude looms over Robert and grabs the handles on the chair. "Ready to go?"

"Oh." Robert turns and looks up. "Okay."

Claude wheels him away. They start down the hallway. "Here we go."

Robert clutches the armrests, his body rigid.

The air smells clean, thick with alcohol. The hallway lighting shines off the white tile floor. It hurts Robert’s eyes. Robert passes several rooms with closed doors and people's names smeared on white boards beside them. The muffled sound of organ music comes from one of the rooms down the hall. A group of people are praying and humming.

As they pass the open doorway, Robert sees a group standing around the bed of an emaciated black woman. A smile stretches across her wrinkled face. Her eyes squint through thick glasses like she’s looking up to the sun.

"What she's so damn happy about," Robert mutters.

"What's that?" Claude asks.

Robert shakes his head. His hands rest in his lap, trembling.

"Mr. Moore, do you want something to calm you?"

"Yes, that's a good idea." He takes a deep breath then forces a smile. "I’m still processing it all. I need to think. I-I-I—"

"I understand, Mr. Moore. I'll talk to the nurse."

Claude wheels Robert into the next room. The praying and music rumble through the wall. A nurse stands near the window.

"He needs something to settle him down,” Claude says to the nurse.

Robert stands.

"Hold on, Mr. Moore. Let me help you," Claude says.

"I can do it myself.” Robert climbs into the bed, brushing Claude’s hand away.

"Mr. Moore, I'm Nurse Maynard. I'm going to give you something to calm you." The nurse—a tall, slender woman in her late forties with short brown hair—prepares a syringe.

He rolls onto his back and stares out the window into the darkness.

She moves to his bedside.

He holds out his right arm. He feels a slight prick and the cool liquid entering his arm.

"That should help you get some sleep." She puts her hand to his chest, gently easing him to the mattress.

"Sleep!" He pushes back against her. "No, I-I-I don't want to sleep. I just want to relax."

"You’ll be fine. It’s only a mild sedative."

"What if I don’t wake up?" He searches for help. Claude is gone. The effects of the drug washes over his mind. He struggles to lift himself. His arms refuse to cooperate. "I can’t …"

"Just get some sleep."

His head wobbles. "I need to find out." That’s the worst of it for him, worse than his life being cut short, worse than the prospect of living out his last few days in pain and misery. Now he’ll never get the answer to the question that torments him: What happened to his wife? What happened to the woman who, over the course of his life, he loved more than anything else in this world? Did someone hurt her? Was she killed? Did she just leave him? He can’t believe that she’d run off like that without a word. Not after all the years they’d spent together, even after what he did.

A black hole opens up before him, and he’s dragged toward it, toward sleep. He fights against it. "No. No, I can't go yet. My wife. My wife. I need to find her. I need to…" He slurs his words. "Melissa. I'm so sorry. I never . . . ." The thought evaporates in his head before he can finish it. "I just want. . ." His tongue feels like it weighs ten pounds. The fear and regret that gripped him becomes dulled, distant. The room dims in his view. He wonders as he drifts away, as the last trace of light drains from his vision, if this is the last moment he’ll ever know.