The Big Run-Off (Holden Burke #1)

Eighteen

No one answered the sound of the front door, but it was unlocked. There were no lights on. The entryway and staircase of Ramsey's home looked darkly Gothic, and somehow forbidden against trespassers. But I went inside anyway. There was no shape in the darkness of the parlour, or beyond the entryway to the kitchen. But I could see a faint amber glow of light draining from somewhere upstairs.

It felt uncanny when my shoes met the carpet of the staircase and muffled into silence. I wanted to hear my footsteps again. I wanted to hear anything.

I paused my breathing and went down the hallway, to where the light was bleeding from: the room at the end, and on the left. The door was ajar, and I slowly pushed it open.

Mitchell Ramsey didn't see me right away. He was sitting back in his chair, his long legs crossed on the edge of his mahogany desk, his sleeves again rolled up, and a highball glass once again fixed in his hand. I took a step inside. His eyes were closed. I didn't say anything. I waited for him to sense me.

And he did, eventually. His eyes rolled open and he drew a long look across the room without moving his head. 'Holden Burke,' he said.

I couldn't see the expression on his face; the only light in the room was a rich brass lamp sitting ornately on the other end of the desk. But his voice had a dark smile in it.

I went a few steps further.

'You should've told me you were coming,' he said, sitting up and taking his legs back onto the ground. 'I would have done something with the place. I've let the housekeeper go. What's been happening the last few days is no business of hers.'

He leant across the desk a little.

'That does go for you, too, you know. I trust you won't be talking about any of this outside these walls. A man does have his rights to privacy. Professional confidentiality, and all that.'

'I need to speak with you, Mr Ramsey,' I said.

He moved his head in something that looked like a slow nod. 'Is that so? I've been waiting to talk with you again, really I have. I've wanted a drink with you for a while now. You've never told me about your time in the AFL. Would you like a whiskey?'

'No.'

He smiled again and stood to stretch his long, hard limbs. 'You seem very serious, Holden. I didn't take you for a killjoy. I took you for a professional. And even professionals need to let off some steam now and then.'

'I said I wanted to talk. I wanted to know if you've heard from your son, Mr Ramsey.'

'Come on, Holden, don't be an idiot. I told you about him, even I remember that. There's just no use anymore.'

'But you've been looking for him, haven't you?'

Ramsey looked straight at me, his rough eyebrows raised slightly. 'Have I?'

'You didn't find him, though. I found him.'

He nodded, a tight smile across his lips, but didn't say anything.

'It was in a little town called Stone Creek, a couple of hours west of here.'

Ramsey laughed without letting the sound escape from his lungs. 'Admiring his father's accomplishments, no doubt. What a good boy. Perhaps there's hope for him yet.' He opened his drawer to make another drink.

'He was very interested in someone by the name of Wade Hamilton, Mr Ramsey.'

He stopped moving his hands for a moment. Then he started again. When he turned back around, his glass was full and his face was curiously raised. 'I'll bet whatever he said was a load of conspiratorial shit, no doubt.'