by John Rector
I took the driver’s license out of my wallet and set it on the counter.
“Minnesota, eh?”
It was the worst attempt at a northern accent I’d ever heard, and I couldn’t bring myself to smile, not even to be polite.
I stood and watched him copy my name and address into the notebook. While he did, I tried to decipher the tattoos on his arm.
The ink was swamp water green and most of the detail was gone. The only one I could make out was a dark-haired woman bent over an anchor with one hand against her cheek in a classic pinup pose. The others were harder. One might’ve been an eagle with a flowing banner in its claws. The words on the banner were lost to time.
When the man finished, he handed everything back and said, “A lot of times, a good night’s sleep is all someone needs. Maybe your friend will feel better in the morning.”
”You might be right.”
“I usually am.”
I motioned toward the radio on the shelf. “What’s the latest on the storm? Any good news?”
“They say it’ll clear up tomorrow, but you can’t trust ’em. I saw a girl on the TV last night telling me we’d only get a few inches.” He pointed outside with the end of his pen. “Got to be at least six out there now, and it just keeps coming down.”
“Closer to eight, I’d say.”
The man shook his head. “I wouldn’t be surprised if that doubles before it’s done. These spring blizzards can get nasty.” He turned and opened a scarred wooden cabinet behind the desk. Inside was a pegboard lined with keys. He took one out and set it on the counter next to the notebook. “I’ll put you in building three, just around the corner. If you need anything, let me know.”
I looked at the key and smiled.
Number thirteen.
“There are glass ashtrays in the room.” He took a box of milk white emergency candles from the shelf. “I’d appreciate it if you burned these in them and not on the furniture. And make sure you keep the flame away from the curtains or anything else that can catch fire.”
“I’ll be careful.”
“You need matches?”
I told him I didn’t, but he ignored me and fished a half-empty matchbook out of his breast pocket and held it out. There was a rainbow on the cover. On the back, in neon pink and green letters, were the words THE MAXX along with a phone number.
“Those should get you through the night. And like I said, let me know if you need anything else or if your friend gets worse. Just knock and I’ll hear you. I’m usually up all night anyway.”
I thanked him then started toward the door. Halfway there I stopped and turned back. “What was your name?”
“Butch Sollars,” he said. “U.S. Navy, retired.”
He held out his hand and I shook it.
“Real name is Emerson, but I go by Butch. Nobody’s called me Emerson since my mother, and I didn’t like it much then, either.”
“I’ll remember,” I said. “And thanks again.”
Butch nodded. “You stay warm out there.”
I pulled my coat tight then walked out into the cold. I thought about what Sara was going to say when I showed her the room number and told her the news about the phones.
All I knew was that she wasn’t going to be happy.
7
I walked out of the office with my head down, shielding my face from the wind. The footprints I’d made on my way in were already half filled with fresh snow, and for the first time, the idea that we might actually be stuck seemed more like a reality than ever.
I stepped off the walkway toward the car, then I heard Sara’s voice behind me.
“Nate?”
She was crouched against the building in the dark. Her legs were tucked into her chest and she had her arms wrapped around her knees. She was shaking, but when I knelt next to her and put my hand against her cheek, her skin felt warm.
“What are you doing? It’s freezing.”
“I think he’s dead.”
I felt the cold air catch in the back of my throat, and I turned toward the car. The snow had covered the windshield and I couldn’t see inside.
“He’s not dead.”
“He’s not breathing.”
“He’s sick, that’s all.”
“I don’t think so. I think he’s dead.”
“Sara, come on.”
“Go check.”
I didn’t move right away, and Sara stared at me, silent, then she put her head against her knees and started rocking back and forth against the building.
I got up and walked to the passenger side and opened the door. The overhead light came on, yellow and bright, and turned all the windows to black mirrors. I slid the passenger seat forward then angled down to look inside.
Syl was in the same position he’d been in when I went into the office, but the deep, wheezing rasp was gone. Sara was right, it didn’t look like he was breathing.
I watched him for any signs of movement, then I leaned in and pressed my fingers against his neck. I didn’t feel a pulse, but I wasn’t sure I was doing it right, either. I’d only seen it done in movies.
“Is he dead?”
“I don’t think he’s breathing.”
Sara pushed herself up and came closer. She stopped at the edge of the walkway and said, “I knew it. I knew he was dead.” Her voice shook. “God, Nate, what are we going to do?”
“I don’t know.”
“Are you sure he’s dead?”
I held my fingers against his neck for a while longer then said, “I can’t find a pulse, but I’m not sure.”
“Check his wrist, that’s easier.”
Syl’s right arm was tucked against his side, and I lifted it up and pressed my fingers against his wrist. When I did, I felt something wet on his skin. I pulled my hand away and held my fingers up to the overhead light.
Sara was watching over my shoulder, and when she saw my hand she said, “Is that blood?”
I didn’t say anything. Instead, I reached down and opened Syl’s jacket. The right side of his shirt was wet and coated red, and I could see a tattered white bandage showing above his beltline.
“Is that blood?”
I pictured the diner and the blood on the bathroom floor, how it’d looked black under that pale white light.
“Answer me, Nate.”
“Yeah,” I said. “It’s blood.”
“From what?” I could hear the panic building in her voice. “What happened to him?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “But there’s a lot of it.”
Sara said something else, but it got lost in the wind, and I let it go.
I looked around and found an old McDonald’s bag on the floor behind my seat. I picked it up and took out a few crumpled napkins and used them to lift the edge of Syl’s shirt. The bandage was taped to his side and soaked through. I used one of the napkins to lift one corner, and when I did, the skin underneath tore and the wound seeped thick and black.
The smell was horrible.
I looked away for a moment, then lifted the bandage farther. The wound was small and round and the flesh surrounding it was bruised purple. I leaned closer, and once again the smell made me pull away.
The burger I’d eaten earlier climbed to the back of my throat, and I had to swallow hard to keep it there. For a second, I thought it wasn’t going to stay down and I backed out of the car, fast, and spit into the snow.
“Jesus.”
When I looked up, Sara was gone.
I turned and saw her moving through the snow toward the office. I ran after her, and when I got close I reached for her arm.
“Wait.”
She pulled away. There were tears on her face.
“I’m going to call the cops,” she said. “We have to tell them.”
“We can’t. The phones are out.”
She didn’t look like she understood, so I went over everything Butch told me. When I finished, I took the matches and the emergency candles from my pocket
and handed them to her.
“There’s heat in the rooms,” I said. “But that’s it.”
Sara stared at the candles before taking them. “Did he know how long the phones would be down?”
I told her he didn’t have any idea. “It depends on how long this snow keeps coming.”
I thought she was going to say something else. Instead, she squeezed her arms to her chest and looked back at the car.
I asked if she was okay.
She didn’t answer. “Do we just leave him out here?”
“Probably the best place. It’s cold.”
“What do you think happened to him?”
“I don’t know for sure, but he’s got a hole in his side, right about—”
“A hole? You think someone shot him?”
I nodded and pointed to a spot just under my rib cage. “Looks like it to me.”
Her eyes went wide. “Are you sure?”
“How the hell can I be sure? I’m just telling you what it looks like, that’s all.”
That was a lie. I’d seen gunshot wounds before. I knew exactly what they looked like.
We both stood for a while, silent, letting the snow build up around us. I noticed she was shivering and I stepped in and wrapped my arms around her shoulders. This time her skin felt cold.
“You need to get inside.”
She didn’t argue.
I held out the key and the box of candles and told her about burning them in the ashtrays.
“Building number three,” I said. “I’m going to go back and tell Butch what’s going on, then I’ll pull the car around and bring in the bags.”
Sara nodded and took the key. She stared at it for a moment then turned it over in her hands. When she saw the room number, she didn’t say a word.
It was like she’d expected it.
8
I waited until Sara was gone, then I went back to the office and knocked on the door. There was no answer and no movement behind the glass. I knocked again.
Still nothing.
I went back to the car and took an old blanket from one of the bags in the trunk, then I climbed in the passenger side and used it to cover Syl’s body. I’m not sure why, it just felt like the right thing to do.
When I finished, no part of him was showing.
As I got out of the car, I noticed Syl’s green backpack on the seat next to him. I grabbed it and slung it over my shoulder then closed the door and walked around to the driver’s side and got in. The car was still running. I turned on the wipers to push away the snow.
I ran through what I was going to tell Butch, and eventually the police. The more I thought about it, the more I felt a sick sense of dread form in my chest. I hadn’t done anything wrong, but that didn’t matter. Dealing with the cops made me nervous, even when there wasn’t a dead body involved.
Once they ran my name through their computer, there would be questions. They’d probably call back to Minnesota to make sure I was allowed out of the state. I wasn’t too worried about that, my probation was over. I could go wherever I wanted. Still, there was always a chance someone might make a mistake.
It was a stupid thought, but one I couldn’t shake.
I told myself that I’d done my time and I was a free man, but the idea of dealing with the police made my heart race. Prison will do that to you, especially if you never wanted to go back.
I sat for a while longer, letting my mind play out all the different options. I couldn’t keep them straight and soon I started to feel something cold and sharp build behind my eyes.
I needed to calm down so I pressed my fingertips against the sides of my head and ran backward through the alphabet.
“Z, Y, X, W, V, U . . .”
It was a trick I’d picked up in the hospital from one of the orderlies. He was an old guy and an alcoholic, and I think he felt sorry for me. He told me it helped him focus when he was alone and bleeding for a drink.
I tried it, and it’d worked.
I’d used it ever since.
Once I felt things return to normal, I looked down at the backpack then turned it over and unzipped the main compartment. At first all I saw were clothes.
Dress shirts and black socks, all folded perfectly.
I pushed them aside.
Underneath was a clear plastic bag. I took it out and held it up to the overhead light. There were alcohol wipes inside, along with a sewing kit, a package of sterile gauze, and a roll of cloth tape.
I put it back and dug deeper.
When my hand touched something metal, I wasn’t surprised. I knew exactly what I’d found.
The gun was small, a twenty-two caliber with a twelve-round magazine. There was nothing out of the ordinary about it, except for the dull gray suppressor tube attached to the barrel.
That stopped me.
Before I went to jail, guns had been my business.
I’d sold more weapons out of the trunk of my car than most legit dealers, and I made pretty good money at it, too. Not enough to retire on, but enough to get Vincent away from foster care.
Now those days were gone, but I still knew about guns and the people who bought them, and I could think of only one reason someone would mount a silencer on a twenty-two.
I held the gun in front of me and checked the safety, then I slid the clip out and counted the bullets.
Two were missing.
“Fuck.”
I pushed the clip back in, then set the gun on the passenger seat. I stared at it for a while then searched the rest of the backpack.
There was nothing else inside, so I turned the bag over and checked the side pockets.
Inside, I found two stacks of one-hundred-dollar bills. The first had a paper band wrapped tight around the center of the stack. The amount printed on the band was $10,000. The second stack was unwrapped and smaller, but not by much.
I ran my fingers back and forth over the bills.
It was mesmerizing.
I sat there and tried to figure out what to do next.
The more I thought about it, the less I wanted to talk to Butch. At least not right away.
Eventually, I put the car in gear and eased my way through the snow to building number three.
All I needed was some time to think.
I knocked on number thirteen and waited.
Sara opened the door then turned and crawled into bed with her back to me. Two of the candles were burning in ashtrays on the nightstand. As I stepped inside, the flames flickered but they didn’t go out.
“I’m going to get the bags.”
Sara didn’t say anything.
It took a couple trips to get them all. Once they were inside, I sat at the small table next to the window and kicked the snow off my boots.
Sara rolled over and watched me.
“Who do you think shot him?”
“Why are you thinking about that?”
“I can’t help it. He seemed like such a nice man.”
“He wasn’t,” I said. “He was an asshole and a good actor.”
“That’s a thing to say.” She watched me. “You promised me you were going to work on being a better person. Are you over that now?”
“I’m working on it.”
“Good, because it’s important to me, Nate. No more bad energy. Not anymore.”
“I know.” I tried to change the subject. “Why don’t you tell me who you think shot him? What’s your theory?”
She watched me for a moment longer then turned away and said, “What bothers me is why he didn’t want to go to a doctor. He must’ve known how bad he was hurt.”
“Maybe he couldn’t risk it. Maybe the police were after him.”
“I doubt that.”
“You never know about people and their secrets,” I said. “We didn’t know the guy. He could’ve been anyone.”
“I like to think I’m a good judge of character. I can tell if—” She looked at me and frowned. “What’s wrong with you?”
; “What do you mean?”
“What’s so damn funny?”
“Not a thing.”
“Then why are you smiling?”
“I didn’t realize I was.”
“Well, you were, and I wish you’d stop. That man is dead out there, Nate. Murdered.” She paused. “Do you really think that’s funny?”
“Of course not.”
“What did the guy in the office say when you told him?”
“I didn’t tell him.”
“Why not?”
“He wasn’t there.”
“Then go back later and tell him.”
I started to explain then I stopped and tossed Syl’s backpack on the bed at Sara’s feet.
“What’s this?”
“His backpack.”
Sara shook her head. “I don’t want it. Leave it in the car.”
“Look inside.”
She refused, so I leaned over and unzipped the bag and took out the twenty-two and set it on the bed. When she saw it, she sat up fast, pushing herself back and into the headboard.
I couldn’t help but laugh.
“It’s not a snake,” I said. “It won’t kill you.”
“My God, Nate, is that his?”
I told her it was then pointed out the silencer and the two missing bullets. “Small, easy to hide, and with the suppressor, you’d barely hear it at all.”
“Get rid of it.”
“What for?”
“Are you kidding me? You know what’ll happen if you get caught with a gun.”
“I won’t get caught.”
She started to say something else, then I picked up the twenty-two and turned it over in my hands.
She stopped talking.
“I wish you’d put it away,” she said.
“Makes you wonder what Syl was up to, doesn’t it?”
“What do you mean?”
“This is an assassin’s weapon,” I said. “Small, silent, powerful enough to kill. All you got to do is get someone in the eye or the temple and they’re done, and without the mess you’d get with the bigger—”
