Free The Way Inn by Will Wiles Page A

then,” the young man said. “That should work just fine now—let’s go see.” He stood, eagerly, my keycard still in his hand.
    â€œThat’s really not necessary,” I said. “I can let myself . . .”
    But the helpful fellow was up and out from behind the desk, heading toward the rear of the lobby in a determined straight line. Watching the man’s back, I noted with dismay that he was aimed at the elevators rather than the stairs. “Surely the stairs . . .” I began, again, but the man had pressed the button and smiled a prim little smile at me. We waited together, an awkward, chaste moment. I tried to look as if I was preoccupied with matters of grave importance; the staffer looked up, as if blessed with X-ray vision and able to see the lift approaching through layers of concrete and breezeblocks.
    â€œAwful weather today,” I said. I had to say something.
    â€œAwful,” the young man said, shaking his head at the horror of it all. “It barely even got light, did it? And it’s already getting dark.”
    The lift arrived and we stepped in together. Moody light, mirrored walls and soft music, like a tiny nightclub. Out of the lift on the second floor, the staffer walked briskly down the corridor, throwing my bearings again—I had wanted to see where I was in relation to the stairs, but missed the chance. At the door to 219, the staffer inserted the keycard into the box above the handle and was rewarded with an immediate green light and satisfying clunk. The handle turned and the door opened.
    â€œIf you keep it away from your keys, your cell phone and your other cards, it should be just fine in future,” the staffer said, handing back the card with one hand and holding the door open with the other.
    â€œThanks,” I said, stepping into my room and sticking the card into its niche in the wall. The room lights turned on.
    â€œNo problem,” said the young man with a little bow, hand behind his back and smiling broadly. And he turned sharply away, as if relishing the fact that this moment did not call for a tip. The front door closed.
    While I had been at the center, the room had been cleaned. The bedspread was as creaseless and immaculate as the icing on a wedding cake. My few belongings had been organized and now looked absurd and tawdry in the pristine room. A newspaper I had bought yesterday had been neatly placed next to my laptop on the desk, looking filthy and out of date. I had left yesterday’s clothes strewn across the bench at the foot of the bed—they were still there, but folded, their creases a source of shame. The shirt I had draped on the armchair had been placed on a lonely hanger in the wardrobe. On the bedside table, a small heap of crumpled scraps of paper and low-denomination coins was scrupulously untouched like an exhibit in a museum of low living. Everything about the scene suggested to me that the cleaner had been greatly dismayed by the poor quality of the clothes and possessions they had been forced to deal with, but had done their best.
    This was paranoia, I knew, but it still needled me. I dropped the newspaper and some of the paper scraps into the bin, and stuffed the clothes back in the bag. Then I took off my tie and shoes. I opened my laptop; there was nothing of any importance in my email inbox—including nothing related to Meetex that could explain the incident with Laing at Emerging Threats. Just arrangements for coming trade shows and conferences—my life, my work, stretching out into the future in a reassuring manner, beyond this unfortunate professional hiccup. I snapped the laptop closed, took a beer from the minibar fridge and lay on the bed, back and head propped up with cushions. Eight cushions on this small double bed, along with the two pillows—serving no purpose beyond their role as visible invitations to be comfortable. This was presumably exactly the sort of