Free Fear the Dark by Chris Mooney Page A

you’ll spend the remainder of your life in a constant state of paralysing fear.’ There was no anger or remorse in her voice or expression, just a sad acceptance. ‘I purposefullydon’t follow the news any more because I find it too upsetting, too violent. I’m not naive, but that doesn’t mean I have to invite it into my life. And I certainly don’t want to carry such thoughts with me into bed each night.’
    They had reached the front door. There was no peephole or deadbolt, just a cheap rickety security-door chain that had probably come with the house. It looked old, and the brass plating had chipped away over time.
    ‘It’s an exercise in futility, isn’t it?’
    ‘What is?’
    ‘Evil. Trying to understand it, trying to stop it. It will have its way with you if it wants, won’t it?’
    Sally Kelly seemed to be waiting for an answer. Darby didn’t have one to give her.

16
    The Silver Moon Inn resembled one of those old-time prosperous banks built during the height of the mining boom – three floors of weathered brick and Victorian-style windows, each with a fleur-de-lis above the keystone. Parking was in the back.
    Darby stepped inside the dimly lit lobby and felt as though she had just slipped through a portal into an early-nineteenth-century gentlemen’s club, the kind where old white men wore three-piece suits and carried pocket watches and sat around discussing politics and the matters of the day while smoking cigars and drinking single-malt Scotch served to them by white-gloved waiters. The ornate chandelier hanging over the well-worn leather club chairs looked like it had been rescued from some dank English castle. The small reception desk was made of old wood. Mounted on the wall behind it was an old-fashioned cabinet of pigeonholes, used to store the individual room keys. A banker’s lamp glowed from the corner of the front counter.
    Darby placed her box of files on the counter. Apparently the owner wanted to keep the whole Boardwalk Empire motif going, because she didn’t find a computer, just a thick ledger, and, lying on its top, an antique-looking fountain pen and a small, pear-shaped bottle of black inkwith a tuxedoed penguin on the front. The blue and red sticker for ‘J. D. Humphrey Ink’ had cracked and yellowed over time, and its edges had curled.
    Darby found the hotel bell, but there was no need to press it; the door behind the reception counter had swung open. The woman who lumbered out had a braided grey ponytail and wore lots of silver jewellery. She looked exhausted, the bruised skin under her eyes hanging like black curtains. Darby assumed she slept in the back office: she had spotted a cot propped up against the wall before the door shut.
    ‘Welcome to the Silver Moon Inn, Miss McCormick.’ The woman saw the question mark in Darby’s face and said, ‘The FBI told me you’d be coming in sometime today. You’re on the ground floor, Room 8.’ She reached into a pigeonhole and came back with a key.
    ‘An actual, physical key,’ Darby said with a grin. ‘I can’t remember the last time I was at a hotel that used one of those.’
    ‘The owner is real intent on maintaining the hotel’s Old World charm.’ The woman stepped aside and, turning, pointed to a rotary phone mounted on the wall behind her. ‘That’s the hotel’s original phone.’
    ‘Does that thing still work?’
    ‘Absolutely. There’s a company in Iowa that adapts all the old phones so they’ll work with the new technology.’ Then with a sly grin, she added, ‘But don’t worry, everything in the room is completely modern. My name’s Laurie Richards. Please don’t hesitate to contact me if you need anything, Miss McCormick.’
    Darby entered her hotel room, tired and sore, and wanting two things – a long shower followed by a stiff drink.
    The stiff drink wasn’t an option, at least at the moment. The room didn’t have a mini-bar, but there was a bar across the street, a place with a big wagon