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The Last Days Of Tony Harris
Wright Thompson: The city outside the window of Room 1507 at the Carlton Hotel is a most unlikely place to go insane. Designed as living modern art, Brasilia is defined by its order. But Tony Harris doesn’t see order. He sees danger. He knows how this must sound, to the locals he’s confiding in, to the friends and family he’s e-mailing and calling back in Seattle. He knows he sounds out of his mind. But something is after him. A familiar idea is forming deep in his subconscious: run.
While the city outside is light, the hallway is darker than the bottom of a river. The halogens only come alive when a motion sensor detects life. The room itself is worn, a step or two down from the place he stayed the last time he played basketball here, more than two years ago. But then again, at 36, he’s worn, too, so worn he’d never planned on playing again. There are two narrow beds and tan bedspreads and brown carpet. The bedside table is cracked, the original wood grain visible beneath the varnish. A single page in the thick phonebook is creased: the page for funeral homes.
Wireless Internet is his best friend, the connection making him feel safe. He needs it. The e-mails coming to the United States from Tony Harris are scary. Just the other day, he wrote his mother-in-law: I know that I can be paranoid at times but I know when I hear things. And when people stop talking when I come into the area, I just pray that I am wrong Connie I want to see my family again and I LOVE MY WIFE SO MUCH I WANT TO SEE OUR CHILD THAT LORI AND I ARE HAVING. I DIDN’T COME BACK HERE FOR THEM TO SET ME UP AND KILL ME.