by Tim Green
"My name is Chris Pelo," Chris said with as much force and confidence as he could muster.
The box simply went dead. Chris stood and waited. He shifted nervously from foot to foot. He thought about how wonderful it would be if Pallidan would just come out and answer his questions. He rang the bell again. There was no answer this time. When Chris heard the screeching of tires about three blocks away, his stomach sank. He started to retreat down the walk, but was only halfway across the street when a pair of headlights came racing toward him. The Explorer squealed, lurched sideways, and shuddered to a stop. Before the truck even stopped shaking, the security guard from earlier in the day was out on the pavement with his weapon drawn.
"Stop!" he commanded.
Chris halted in the middle of the street and raised his hands over his head. He'd seen enough to know that a situation like this was exactly the type where people got killed. The guard approached and spoke into a handheld radio. Before he reached Chris, another car pulled up quietly behind him.
"Who are you, mister?" the first guard asked.
"My name is Chris Pelo," Chris said.
"The guy from today, Marty," the second guard, who was out of his car now, said disgustedly.
"You were told that Mr. Pallidan wouldn't see you," the one named Marty said. "What are you doing here?"
"I thought he'd talk to me at home," Chris said simply, lowering his hands now that the situation was getting a little more under control. "I'm a former cop from Austin. I'm a lawyer, and I need to talk to Mr. Pallidan about one of my clients."
"Mr. Pallidan doesn't want to talk," the second guard said gruffly, stepping in front of Chris now with a malevolent stare. "So you just take yourself back to Austin. If we have any more problems with you, the next time we're not going to be so polite. Do you understand that?"
"Yes," Chris said, trying to keep his voice from shaking, "I do. But you tell Mr. Pallidan that if he doesn't speak to me, I'll just have to subpoena him. One way or another he and I are going to talk."
With that, Chris brushed past both the men and started up the street toward his car. The two guards followed him to his hotel. Chris worried the whole way back, wondering how long the two thugs planned on following him. If they didn't let up until he left town, it would be hard to get back to Pallidans phone box and retrieve the tape. In the morning he'd have to take a drive and find out.
Chris never thought he'd wish for it again, but right then, he wished he had a badge. When you had a badge you had clout. Now he had to play by a different set of rules. He was in a city he didn't really know much about, trying to drum up information from a man who was obviously well insulated. Chris left the thugs in the parking lot and checked his messages at the desk. There were none, so he went into the restaurant and had half a roasted chicken and a milk shake for dinner. When he was finished, he returned to his room and called Madison at the Royal Palm. There was no answer, so he selected a pay movie that he watched until he fell asleep.
By the time Madison approached the front desk at the Royal Palm, the man who had been duped by Julie Tarracola was long gone. So was almost everyone else. When she was told she had no room, Madison was incensed. It was after midnight, and she had hoped to get at least some rest after her dogleg trip through Atlanta. It wasn't happening at the Royal Palm though. The short, sharply dressed man behind the desk wore a little mustache that quivered with anxiety at the predicament. Madison insisted he call the manager, but he was the manager. Unfortunately, he was also the type of man who reacted aggressively in an adverse situation, which explained why, after fifteen years with the hotel, he had risen no higher than night manager. Instead of apologizing profusely because there was nothing he could do, and explaining that there was no way he could wake a guest who had already been given a room, the man began to challenge Madison.
"I'm sorry," he said curtly, "I don't even know if you are really who you say you are."
"Not who I say I am?" Madison said incredulously. "Not... I have credit cards and a driver's license, and just about everything you can name that proves I am who I say I am. Are you kidding me? Do you know what your boss is going to say to you when I tell her or him how you've just treated a regular guest of this hotel?"
"Madam," the man hissed, "please, control yourself. I have to ask you to lower your voice."
"Lower my voice?" Madison said. "It's after midnight. You gave away my room. Now you're saying you don't believe I am who I say I am, and you want me to lower my voice?"
The manager pursed his lips and abruptly turned and walked away, disappearing through a door that was cut into the wooden wall behind him.
Madison huffed and waited for him to return. After five minutes she realized that he had abandoned her. She looked around helplessly. The only people about were a handful of hotel guests who made a quiet path from the grand entrance or the elegant bar to the bank of elevators. Madison had never experienced anything like it. She turned to go. If she wasn't getting a room here, she figured she had better find a place where she could, and soon, if she wanted to be rested at all for tomorrow.
There was a single valet, who didn't seem to understand why Madison was leaving after having just arrived. Finally she was able to get her car back, and he loaded her bag back into the trunk. She pulled out onto the empty road and comforted herself with ideas of the letters she would write and the phone calls she would make to see to it that the night manager who'd just insulted her was fired by the end of the week. She hadn't gone four blocks before she spotted a big black and yellow Walk Inn sign. She sighed heavily and pulled in. A sleepy middle-aged woman with long stringy gray hair heaved herself up from her chair behind the desk with a plaintive moan. She gave Madison the heavy brass key to a room out back by the Dumpsters where a derelict was noisily going through the day's refuse. A nearby transformer station droned on with a persistent hum, softening the derelict's stream of curses over not having found anything of particular use or value. Madison hauled her garment bag out of the trunk and up a flight of loud metal stairs to her corner room. She glanced nervously at the bum and opened the door as quietly as she could.
Tired as she was, Madison unpacked her suit for the next day and hung it in the hollow wood-board closet. Everything else she left scattered on the sagging double bed near the door. She didnt plan on being there more than one night, so there was no sense in unpacking everything. After getting ready for bed, she lay down on the bed nearest the bathroom and pulled the covers up tight. Then she dialed home to let Cody know she had arrived safely. He was asleep, of course, but the sound of his voice somehow made her feel safer in her less-than-illustrious surroundings.
"bure fine," Cody murmured sleepily. "Don't worry. Go to sleep."
Like every well-planned crime and every military operation, good intelligence made the difference between success and failure. The killer came in through the window, knowing it was the easiest way He placed a handle with suction cups on each end in the middle of the windowpane and deftly cut a wide square of glass. He set it down with the nonchalance of a repairman who had been called in to fix a washing machine. He removed the handle and stowed it in a shoulder bag that was slung across his chest.
He moved like a cat, a big man with the stealth and grace of a much smaller one, and climbed through the opening into the hotel room. He knew she was here, and he knew she was unprotected. There were two beds, and at first he thought she was in the one closest to the window. But it was only her things, scattered about in a heap. She was buried to her chin in covers on the bed across the room from him.
He had no real inclination to do this job. But things seemed to have gotten out of control and he was backed into a corner. There were other people involved, other things at stake. It wasn't that he cared so much for other people, but there was one person he did care for, the one who had gotten him out, worked the system to set him free. That was worth something. It was worth a lot. He didnt have the kind of spirit that could be confined. For his continu
ed freedom, he would continue to hold up his end of the bargain. He went into the bathroom, quietly cut down the shower curtain, and folded the plastic over his arm like a fancy waiter. By the time he went back into the room and stood over her, his eyes had adjusted well enough to the darkness to make out the general shape of her face.
In his mind he punctured the barrier between the conscious and the subconscious, opening a flow of translucent crimson fluid that was always there, waiting only to be let loose. It spilled over him, washing the vision behind his closed eyelids in blood red so that violent memories of the past swirled into the present like a fdm montage. In the context of everything that had already happened, this was just another frame in the red zone.
With the disinterest of a butcher, he opened his eyes and pulled the stainless-steel blade from its sheath. In one movement he covered her with the shower curtain, bent down, reached under the plastic, and cut through her windpipe and the major arteries and veins in her neck. With his free hand he pinned her head down into the bed. As her body began to thrash reflexively, he lowered his weight onto her frame, holding her as still as he could while the spray of blood splashed against the underside of the curtain.
Chapter 38
Cody already had Jo-Jo out the door and on his way to the bus. The sun was coming up hot orange and promised to burn off the December chill that had set in overnight, frosting the grass and shrubs. Cody was stuffing some midterm papers into his briefcase when the phone rang. He presumed it was Madison. He remembered her calling late last night, but not clearly. She probably realized he had been in a fog and was calling to let him know that everything was fine.
"Hi," he said cheerily.
"Cody?" the voice was not Madison's. That and the tone disturbed him.
"Yes?" Cody said. "Who's this?"
"Cody, it's Chris Pelo."
Pelo was choking on his own words, and Cody's stomach seemed to fall like a clod of dirt cast down a well.
"Cody, I, I ... I don't know how . . ."
"Is it Madison?" Cody demanded, his voice breaking in the middle of her name. The thought of a car accident came immediately to mind. "What happened? Tell me!"
"She's dead."
Cody said nothing, unable to take a breath.
"No," Cody finally said, "she's not. . ."
It was something he couldn't believe. He suddenly seemed in the midst of a nightmare, suspended in a liquid, and the only thing more sluggish than his mind were his weighted limbs.
"I'm sorry," Chris said. "I'm so sorry . . ."
It was the pain in Pelo's voice that cut through Cody's haze.
"How?" Cody heard himself say.
"They think it was Luther Zorn," Chris said, not knowing what to say, but not wanting to be deceptive. He added, "With a knife. He's gone completely crazy. They can't find him. What should I do?"
"No," Cody said after a moment. "No."
Chris Pelo heard the line go dead. He rubbed his hands over his face and pressed his palms into his eyes. He was sitting on the bed in his Memphis hotel room, dressed for the day except for his jacket, which he had slung across the back of a chair. It was only just seven in Memphis. He had risen early and called to fill Madison in on what he had learned before she met with Berryhill.
When there was no answer in her room, Chris asked to be connected to the restaurant. Madison wasn't eating. He called her room again. The operator told him a wake-up call had been scheduled for six-thirty and that no one had answered that either. Chris asked to be connected to the front desk where he insisted that someone from security be sent to check on her. When the security guard went to the door, he heard the clock radio playing loudly and after repeated knocks, he became concerned and let himself in. He found her body, without its head, lying in a swamp of blood-soaked bedsheets.
It was all his fault. He was the one who had worked so hard to convince Madison to help him. If he'd left it alone, she would be back in Austin, working on some other case. He would have been back in Austin, too, looking for a job. He was overwhelmed with guilt.
Chris picked up the phone and called his wife to make sure she was okay. There was no reason to believe she wasn't, but after all that had happened, Chris couldn't shake the conviction that no one was safe.
Luther no longer knew who was his friend and who was his enemy Everything had fallen apart. Nothing was as it had seemed. He had a 9mm Beretta stuck into the waist of his jeans, even though he was simply having a cup of coffee and making a show of reading the paper over a plate of eggs and bacon at his own kitchen table. He wore nothing else besides his pants and his gun. He could tell that the firearm and his half-naked body were making his housekeeper, Maria, nervous. He didn't have the energy to care.
Luther had arrived home very late. Exhausted, he fell right to sleep. But only three hours later sunlight splashed his face like a bucket of briny water. Exhausted, Luther's mind would not let him return to sleep. He could not stop thinking about Madison McCall.
The phone on the wall rang. Maria was cleaning the stove, and she looked questioningly at him. It was his private line. He let it ring three times before asking her to answer it.
"Hallo," she said quietly, then looked at him. "Is Ms. McCall. . ."
Luther rose from the table and grabbed for the phone.
"Hello," he demanded, "who's this?"
"Hi, Luther," came a woman's voice, "it's Madison. I know we were supposed to meet for breakfast at the Royal Palm at nine, but I got here late last night and they gave my room away for some reason. I'm at the Walk Inn down the road. We can meet here; there's a Denny's next door."
"I'm not sure . . . exactly . . . when I can get there," Luther stumbled. "What room are you in? I'll come get you."
Madison hesitated.
"Shit, Madison," Luther growled, "you're my lawyer. I'm not crazy. I'm not going to hurt you. Where the hell are you? I have to see you."
Madison finally spoke. "Room . . . two-seven teen."
"I'm on my way," Luther said, and hung up the phone.
The water dribbled out of the shower, and it took Madison a while to rinse the shampoo from her hair. When she finally stepped out onto the clammy tile floor, she felt rushed. She didn't know how long it would take Luther to get there, but she certainly didn't want him arriving before she was dressed. For all her anxiety though, Madison was dressed and packed well before there was any sign of Luther. She pulled the beige curtains aside and peered into the parking lot. The bum from the night before was gone, and the lot was deep in the heavy shadow of a neighboring building. No cars came in or out.
Madison sat down on the bed and took out her planner. As she did, the Marauders championship ring fell out onto the bed. Madison picked it up and tucked it into the inside pocket of her blazer. She wanted to remember to show it to Berryhill. Whether it was incriminating to Luther or not, Madison had a duty to disclose it. She would not risk her career by tampering with evidence. In the planner she'd written Chris Pelo's hotel number in Memphis. She tried to dial, but for some reason the call wouldn't go through. She hit the button for the Walk Inn's operator. After fifteen rings she was greeted with a disgruntled hello.
"I need a long-distance operator," Madison said pleasantly. The operator clicked her over without another word. Madison got through to the Memphis hotel and asked to be connected with Chris's room.
"Hello," he said, sounding incredibly despondent. Madison was disturbed by his tone.
"Chris, its Madison," she said carefully, not welcoming the bad news that she sensed was coming.
"Chris?" she said. He hadn't responded. She heard him murmur something in Spanish. "Chris?"
"Madison?" he said, his voice ripe with disbelief. "Where are you?"
"I'm in Palm Beach," she said. "They gave away my room last night at the Royal Palm, so I'm at a Walk Inn down the road . . . why?"
"My God," Chris exhaled, "Cody . . ."
"What's wrong with Cody?" Madison panicked.
"Nothing," Chri
s assured her, "he's fine. It's... I thought. Whoever was in your room last night at the Royal Palm was killed. Everyone assumed it was you. There was no way to know, really. She was decapitated."
"My God."
"I'll call Cody right away. Madison, I can't even tell you how . . . Madison, I'm so glad you're all right."
"Oh, no," Madison fretted to herself, and then, "Chris, I called him."
"Who?"
"Luther."
"From where you are?"
"Yes. I told him to come meet me."
"Madison, he's gone completely insane. He killed whoever was in your room. Get out of there! Go! I'll call the police for you, just get out of there! Call me later! Go!"
Madison's hands shook as she replaced the phone and gathered her things off the other bed. She didn't think to look out her window. She simply flung open the door and ran right into Luther. Madison recoiled as if she'd bumped into a hot stove. Without thinking she was back inside her room. She slammed the door against the foot hed gotten across the step. The door bounced back at her and Madison flung all her weight against it to keep him from coming in. Luther was caught off balance, but only momentarily. He forced the door open with one quick jolt from his hand and Madison was thrown across the bed. Luther slammed the door behind him. Madison screamed and scrambled for the phone. Luther reached it at the same time and yanked it out of the wall, tossing it aside where it smashed helplessly.
She saw the gun sticking out of his pants.
"Luther, no!" Madison shrieked.
Luther was on top of her. Her fingernails tore through his shirt, raking his thick muscles and leaving deep bleeding welts. Madison fought, but Luther was too big. He engulfed her thrashing body, pinning her arms against the bed, covering her mouth with his large hand. She bit into him, hard, but he only gripped her tighter. Madison could feel Luther's blood running freely into her throat and she gagged. The nausea sent Madison into shock. She looked up helplessly, an animal caught in the jagged jaws of a steel trap. His eyes were crazed with fear and determination.
