The Sun Down Motel

by Simone St. James

  “Vivian,” Marnie said. “What the hell have you done?”

  * * *

  • • •

  “What a mess,” Marnie said over and over again as they folded up the edges of the rug around Simon Hess’s body. “What a damn mess. You couldn’t do it in a way with less blood? Hit him over the head or something?”

  Viv shook her head numbly, as if this question required an answer. She was still in shock over how quickly Marnie had adapted to the situation—and how in control she seemed to be. The entire night was seeming more and more like a crazy dream.

  “Hold on, Viv,” Marnie said darkly, as if reading Viv’s mind. “No spacing out. What did he say to you?”

  Viv felt tears sting her eyes, but she breathed deep and blinked them back. Her emotions were running wild, trying to get out of control. Panic, anger, hopelessness. “Everything,” she said to Marnie. “He told me everything.” She blinked harder, the body going blurry in her vision. “He thought he was in love with Betty. He kept saying she was his.”

  Marnie was quiet for a second. “Somehow I doubt Betty agreed,” she said, her voice even. “Why bother telling a girl you love her when you can stuff her in your trunk instead? And the others?”

  Viv shook her head. She couldn’t repeat the horrible things Simon Hess had said, not right now. A mistake. I wanted to know if I could do it again. She was so obviously alone.

  “Damn,” Marnie said, again as if Viv had spoken.

  “Why are you here so late?” Viv asked. “I thought you were done. Why did you come to the motel?”

  “I heard about Tracy Waters. I had the radio on, and they said they found her body, and I thought . . .” Marnie looked down. “I knew it was him. We could have stopped it. I could have stopped it.”

  “I tried,” Viv said. “I called the school. I wrote her parents. It wasn’t good enough. I failed.”

  “At least you did something,” Marnie said. “Now I get to do something. Did you ever see Psycho?”

  Viv felt her eyes go wide. “Are you saying I’m Norman Bates?”

  Marnie said, “Go get the shower curtain from the bathroom.”

  Viv did. They wrapped the rug in it, with Hess inside the rug. They were about to drag the entire package through the doorway when Marnie paused again.

  “The knife is still in him with your fingerprints on it,” she said.

  Viv swallowed. “Should I take it out?”

  “Take it out and get rid of it.”

  Viv put down her end of the shower curtain. Hess was curled in on himself, twisted to one side, his body undignified. She had to move him to get at the knife. It slid out easily, though the sound it made would haunt her for the rest of her life. Hess’s blood was cold now, and none of it spilled when she pulled out the blade.

  “Wrap it in a towel,” Marnie said. “We’ll deal with it later.”

  Viv carried the knife to the bathroom and wrapped it in one of the thin, rough hand towels. She would have to figure out where the spare towels were kept, and whether there were spare shower curtains. She was thinking like a murderer now. She put the knife in its towel on the shower curtain next to Hess.

  “We need his keys,” Marnie said. She was good at this. “They’re probably in his pocket. And I’m not doing it.”

  Viv gritted her teeth and bent to the body again. She had to touch it—touch him. Even after he was dead, touching Simon Hess made her recoil, as if she could smell all the dead girls on him, as if he’d reach up and put a hand on her that had beaten Betty Graham, that had pushed Cathy Caldwell into her car, that had strangled Victoria Lee and thrown her in the bushes. A hand that had stripped Tracy Waters and left her in a ditch after violating her.

  Still, she patted his trousers, his skin ice-cold through the fabric, feeling his pockets. His keys were in the inside pocket of his jacket, and when she felt them she had to pull the lapel away from his shirt and put her fingers in the pocket. She could feel the soft, dead flesh of his chest, the pucker of a nipple. She grabbed the keys and yanked her hand back.

  They checked through the open door. There was still no one in the parking lot.

  It was hard work getting Hess down the corridor and the stairs, but Viv was ready now. She held up her half of the wrapped-up shower curtain as she and Marnie maneuvered it. Grunting and panting, they worked with the speed of the panicked. They carried him to the car, and Viv used Hess’s key to open the trunk. They dropped one end of the shower curtain and rolled him in, inside the rug. The knife tumbled out, hitting the bottom of the trunk.

  “Put it in the back seat,” Marnie said. “We’ll dump it.”

  Hess didn’t quite fit, and Viv had to push his feet in, tuck them under the edge of the trunk while Marnie folded up the shower curtain. Viv was reaching up to the trunk lid to close it when headlights swept across the parking lot.

  Marnie swore and dropped the shower curtain. Viv slammed the trunk.

  The car stopped and the headlights went out. A door slammed.

  “Alma,” Viv said.

  “Oh, Jesus,” Marnie whispered. “A cop.”

  Alma approached them. She was alone, in uniform, one hand on her hip. She looked back and forth from Viv to Marnie.

  “I know you,” she said to Marnie. “You’re one of the photographers we sometimes use.”

  Marnie said nothing.

  Alma looked at Viv again. She took in Viv’s disheveled appearance, her flushed face lined with cold sweat. “Vivian,” she said. Her voice was strangely flat, empty of its usual Alma confidence. “Tracy Waters is dead. We found her body early this morning.”

  “I know,” Viv said.

  “I think . . .” Alma looked away, closed her eyes for a second. She opened them and turned back to Viv and Marnie. “I think I was wrong. I think you might have been right when you came to me, but I didn’t listen. So I did something that I don’t normally do. When I heard they’d brought Tracy’s body in, I looked up Simon Hess’s phone number and called to see if he’d come to the station for an interview.”

  Both women were silent. The only sound was the wind howling through the trees.

  “He wasn’t home,” Alma said. “His wife said he’d gone out very early this morning, before six, and she hadn’t seen him since. She doesn’t know his schedule. She thinks he might be home tomorrow.”

  She looked at the closed trunk. Viv felt her hands clench, felt cold sweat on her back and in her armpits.

  “I would have called Simon Hess’s scheduling service, but they were closed for the day,” Alma said, still looking at the trunk. “I was going to call first thing in the morning to ask if they know where he is.”

  Then, finally, her gaze wandered to the shower curtain, crumpled in Viv’s hands. There were thick smears of blood on it.

  Alma’s face went very still. She raised her eyes to Viv’s. “Vivian,” she said, echoing Marnie. “What did you do?”

  “He told me everything,” Viv said, as if that explained.

  Alma was quiet for a long minute. “He checked in here?” she asked finally.

  “Yes.”

  “And he did all of them? He told you that?”

  “Yes. Betty, Cathy, Victoria. Tracy. Maybe more. I couldn’t get it out of him. He was laughing at me, because to him it was a game.”

  Alma flinched a little. “Did he say why?”

  “Because he liked it,” Viv said. “Because it was fun. A challenge. Because all of them were lonely. Because no one stopped him. Because he could.”

  “Goddamn it,” Alma swore softly. She sounded nothing like she usually did; she sounded sad and almost broken. She lifted her gaze to Viv again, her face. “Did he hurt you?”

  “No.”

  “You’re not going home.”

  Viv blinked. “What?”

  “You’re not going home,�
�� Alma said again. “Not tonight, and not for a long time. If we get rid of this”—she motioned to the trunk—“and we will, then it can’t be traced back to you. We can’t take that chance.”

  “He’s a murderer,” Viv said. “A killer.”

  “It’s that simple, is it? That cut-and-dried?” Alma’s voice was regaining its usual tone. “You have proof? Irrefutable evidence?”

  “He told me he was.”

  “And you think that’s good enough? That’s why you’re in this parking lot, doing your best to get rid of the body.” Alma shook her head. “I’ll tell you what’s going to happen. Simon Hess isn’t going to come home. His wife is going to report him missing. The police are going to investigate. And at some point their investigation is going to lead here. To tonight. To you. Tell me, did anyone else see Simon Hess here tonight?”

  Viv remembered Robert White, his hands on her throat. The way he’d thrown her to the ground. And then—Simon Hess, standing there. Are you assaulting that young lady?

  White would remember Simon Hess. The question was, would he say anything?

  Helen, driving up, slowing her car. Had Hess been there then? Had Helen seen him?

  And then there was Jamie Blaknik. He technically hadn’t seen Hess, but he’d made that phone call. Viv had trusted him. But could he be trusted when he learned that Hess was dead?

  “Two people saw him,” Viv said, because she wasn’t sure about Helen. She felt compelled to add, “It isn’t likely that either one will say anything. And he didn’t sign in. His name isn’t anywhere. It isn’t likely that anyone will know he was here.”

  “Anything is likely,” was Alma’s reply. “Anything at all. They’ll come back to you, Vivian. And it will be over.”

  “What about me?” Marnie said.

  “You were never here.” Alma was in control now, the shock wearing off. “No one can put you at the Sun Down tonight except us, and hell, we might be lying. You should go home now and get out of this.”

  Marnie looked from Viv to Alma. “I don’t think I can do that. There’s too much to do, and it has to be fast. And I have an idea of where we could put him.”

  Were they really talking about doing this? Was this really happening? Were they going to put Simon Hess somewhere and hope no one found him? And what was going to happen to her?

  Was Alma, a cop, really going to go along with it? She looked at Alma’s face and saw determination. Anger. And there had been that moment of shock that had almost undone her. This was affecting Alma; it had dealt her some kind of blow. For whatever reason, Alma was in.

  Alma glanced out at the parking lot, which was still empty. But for how long? “Where do you think we should put him?” she asked Marnie.

  “Martin Greer on Weston Road is in his eighties. His kids are putting him in a home. They don’t want the property, and he doesn’t maintain it. It’s huge and it’s empty.”

  Alma thought it over and nodded. “I know the place. It’ll work for a few weeks, at least. If we come up with something better, we’ll move him.”

  “You’ll move him,” Marnie corrected her. “I’m seeing this through, but I’m done after tonight.”

  Alma looked at Viv, assessing her. “You’re still good for this? If not, speak up.”

  “I’m good,” Viv said, though her face felt numb.

  “We’ll need a plan for you. It needs to look like you left suddenly, and maybe not willingly. It can’t look like you decided to skip town.”

  “What if I just stayed and pretended nothing happened?” Viv said.

  “You, being questioned by police?” Marnie broke in, shaking her head. “You wouldn’t last a minute. The whole thing unravels if that happens, and you put all of us in danger. No, I like her idea.” She motioned to Alma. “You’re gone, but you didn’t skip town. You’re just gone.”

  You’re just gone. What about her parents? Her sister? “Won’t the cops look for me?”

  “Sure we will,” Alma said. “We’ll look in the wrong places. And not right away.” She turned to the car and pulled the keys from where they were hanging in the lock of the trunk. “Leave your purse. Leave everything. Where is that file and notebook you showed me?”

  “In the office.”

  “Go get it. Don’t bring your wallet or anything else. Leave your car, everything in your apartment.” When Viv hesitated, she said, “You did this. You killed him. The consequences follow from that. Do you understand? There’s before tonight, and after. That’s what your life is from now on.”

  Viv nodded. There’s before tonight, and after. She’d made a decision in that motel room. Now she was living the aftermath.

  While the others put the shower curtain in the trunk and closed and locked Hess’s room, Viv jogged back to the office. The lights were on, the door unlocked. Her jacket hung from the hook. Her purse sat next to the desk.

  She went into it and got out her notes, quickly, trying not to touch anything in her purse. If she touched her things, she’d pause and rethink. She couldn’t stand to see or feel her wallet, her ID, her keys. The makeup she kept in her purse. Those belong to a dead girl. I am starting everything over.

  She walked to the desk and opened the key drawer. The envelope of Robert White’s money was still there, stacked with bills. She took it and stuffed it in the back pocket of her jeans. She was starting everything over, but she had a little money to do it. White would never know where his money went. The thought made her feel a little better.

  She took a last glance at the guest book. Jamie’s name was in there, and Mrs. Bailey’s. Both of them would be questioned. But Mrs. Bailey was passed out, and she didn’t think Jamie would talk.

  Actually, she was sure he wouldn’t. Because she’d ask him not to.

  Turning her back on her old life, she left the office. Alma was behind the wheel of Simon Hess’s car; she was wearing some kind of plastic doctor’s gloves, her hands on the wheel. Marnie got in her own car and motioned to Viv.

  “Come with me,” she said. “Let’s take a ride.”

  Viv walked to Marnie’s car and got in.

  Fell, New York

  November 2017

  CARLY

  Callum’s car followed in my rearview mirror as I drove out of downtown Fell, onto the back roads. I gripped the wheel and my mind spun as I wondered what I should do. Pull over? Try to lose him? Call someone? Who?

  What did Callum want?

  He can’t possibly want to hurt me. That was the first thing that came to mind. Did a man just follow a woman around in order to hurt her?

  Yes, you idiot. He could.

  He had invited me out by lying to me. He had told me a crazy story about his grandfather—who, if Callum was telling the truth, was serial killer Simon Hess, formerly of Fell and now long dead in a trunk. And then Callum had followed me. He wasn’t friendly or nice. Whatever he wanted, I didn’t want to know.

  And suddenly I knew what to do. I left Fell and took the back roads to the west, away from the Sun Down. The sky was dark and, except for the odd car, the roads were quiet. There was just me and Callum. He wasn’t even trying to hide that he was following me.

  I turned onto another familiar road, and then another. I sent up a silent prayer that the person I was going to was home. And then I pulled into Alma Trent’s driveway.

  I turned off the ignition. A dog barked wildly in the house, and the front porch light switched on. I sagged in relief.

  Alma Trent opened her front screen door and walked out onto her porch. She was wearing jeans and a navy blue sweatshirt, her hair tied back in a ponytail. She looked at me, still sitting in my car, and then her hard gaze moved to the car still on the road at the foot of the driveway, idling. She watched it for a long minute, and then Callum’s car pulled away.

  I opened my driver’s door with a shaky hand and got out.

 
“Evening, Carly,” Alma said, her voice its usual unhurried speed. “Were you having a little trouble?”

  Her tone said that trouble didn’t scare her. That she’d spent decades walking toward it instead of walking away.

  “Maybe a little,” I said. “A guy was bothering me.”

  “Well, that’s goddamned rude,” Alma said. “I can talk to him if you like. Some guys don’t get the message until they get a talking-to from me.”

  “His name is Callum MacRae,” I said.

  Alma went very still. For the first time, I saw a crack in her cop’s façade. “I see,” she said. “I didn’t realize you knew Callum.”

  “It’s strange,” I said. “I first met him at the Fell Central Library. I was doing research there, and he introduced himself. I’m wondering now if maybe he found me.”

  “Callum can seem nice enough, but sometimes he’s a little unstable,” Alma said. “Do you want to come in for a cup of tea?”

  I took a step forward, but I didn’t answer her question. “You were on shift the night that my aunt Viv disappeared, right?”

  Alma hesitated for the briefest second. Then she nodded. “I was.”

  “But you didn’t know she was missing until it was reported four days later.”

  “How would I know she was missing?”

  It was a hunch. Only that. But every instinct in my body and my brain told me I was right. “I’m wondering now if maybe my aunt didn’t die that night,” I said. “I’m wondering if maybe she lived and someone else died.”

  “Carly,” Alma said, “you should really come in for a cup of tea.”

  “I don’t think so. I don’t think I’m going anywhere with you. Or Marnie Clark. I’m sure you heard about the body I found in a trunk this morning?”

  Alma’s eyes were fixed on me, but I couldn’t read them. Pity? Kindness? Fear? I realized now that to survive decades as the only female cop on a male police force, Alma had become very, very good at hiding what she was thinking. “I heard about it, yes,” she said.