by Susan Fleet
The clerk’s eyes hardened. “Your boyfriend, huh? He got a license?”
Exasperated, she said, “You want to come out to the car so he can show it to you? Or do you want to rent us a room and take the cash?”
His hand scooped up the twenty-dollar bills and shoved them into a drawer below the counter. “Gotta have a name to put on the register,” he said, staring at her breasts.
“Nancy Drew,” she said, knowing the idiot wouldn’t get it.
Would Renzi? When the cops found a man shot in the head at the Dixie Motel and ID'd him as Chip Beaubien, she was positive Homicide Detective Frank Renzi would arrive in record time.
In neat block letters, the clerk printed Nancy Drew in the register, then plucked a key off a wallboard lined with hooks. “Room 44, out back. Leave the key in the room when you leave.”
She went back and got in the BMW. Chip held out his hand for the key, put the car in gear and pulled forward.
“Which room, dawlin? I can hardly wait.”
“Room 44, around back.”
He looped around the one-story structure and parked in front of a room with metal numerals nailed to the door. No cars parked outside the rooms on either side of Room 44. That was a plus. Twenty yards farther along the building, a pickup truck and a red Mustang stood several yards apart outside other rooms.
Other couples into their sexual games.
Far enough away not to hear a gunshot she hoped.
Chip unlocked the door, flipped a switch and waved her inside. The room stank of cigarette smoke. Directly ahead of her was a bathroom. Planning her moves, she rapidly assessed the room. It was small, no more than 12 feet square. To the left of the door, heavy maroon drapes covered a double window. Parallel to the window, a sagging double bed with a frayed maroon bedspread took up most of the space, its headboard jammed against the wall of the next room.
Between the window and the left side of the bed, a narrow path led to a plastic nightstand beside the headboard. On the nightstand, a brass lamp with a red shade cast a dim red glow over the room. No luggage holder, no bureau, no TV set. Of course not. People didn't come here to sleep or watch CNN.
"What's the matter, dawlin? You don't like the room?"
Forcing herself to play the part, she beamed him a smile, part seductive, part hesitant. "It's fine, Chip. I'm just a little nervous, that's all."
Nervous didn't begin to describe her feelings. Revulsion, anger, hatred and a mountain of rage. Her secret weapon. She wanted to kill this insufferable man and get out of this disgusting room as soon as possible.
He stood by the window, a half-smile playing over his lips. “You gonna put down that tote bag, dawlin? Seems like you're holdin onto it for dear life.”
“Of course.” But she needed to keep it handy. The best place for it was on the nightstand. Her cheeks felt stiff, but she maintained her smile, sauntering toward him, swinging her hips seductively.
He held out his hand. “Lemme see that thing.”
No, no, no, she wanted to scream. Conjuring her acting skills, she forced an ingenuous smile. “Whatever for? Girls keep all sorts of things in their bags that they don’t want guys to see.”
His eyes hardened. “That’s what I’m afraid of. Hand it over.”
Panic turned her brain to mush. If he saw what was inside . . .
Without warning, he yanked the bag off her shoulder.
“Chip,” she gasped. “That’s not very nice—”
“This thing is heavy. What the hell you got in here?”
A kaleidoscope of ghastly images flooded her brain: Chip's malevolent blue eyes, her spurting blood, her lifeless body on the floor of this hideous room. If he searched her tote, it was all over.
“You’ve got a nerve. What gives you the right to search my belongings?”
He fixed her with his implacable gaze. “I’m bigger than you.”
He pawed through her tote and held up her tape recorder. “What the hell’s this? You planning on taping our fuck-session and blackmailing me?”
Fighting a rising tide of panic, she sucked in a deep breath and dredged up a smile. “How could you think such a thing, Chip? I figured after we had some fun I could interview you for my article.”
He pulled out the plastic handcuffs. Waving them in the air, he leered at her. “You into bondage? S-and-M?”
Her heart sank like a stone. Paralyzed with fear, she couldn't speak.
He hefted the tote. “Still feels heavy. What else you got in here?”
She backed up a step. Could she do a TKD spin move and disable him? Maybe. The spike heels of her shoes were capped with metal.
“Well, well, well, look at what we got here.”
Holding the .38 Special in his hand, he aimed it at her, his eyes cold and hard. “You fixin to hold me up and steal my credit cards, April?”
“Chip," she said, unable to stop the tremor in her voice, "it’s not what you think. I live in New York and that can be dangerous. So I bought a gun. Whenever I go to a bar at night, I always take it with me.”
His eyes glinted with anger, his face hard as granite. His hand, steady as a rock, aimed the snub-nosed .38 Special at her heart.
“Take off your clothes,” he said.
_____
Muttering under her breath, Mrs. Reilly put on her bathrobe and shuffled down the hall of her apartment to the reception desk in the foyer. That girl was trouble, just like she thought. She had no idea why a CIA agent was calling her in the middle of the night, but she knew one thing for sure.
April West wasn’t the Little Miss Innocent she pretended to be.
She unlocked a drawer and took out the big round metal ring that held keys to all the rooms. Faint moonlight shone through the upper half of the front door, lighting her path through the dining room to the staircase. Clinging to the banister, she labored up to the second floor, grunting with each step. The second-floor hall was pitch dark.
An anxious shiver wracked her. She was alone in this huge house with that sneaky girl, the girl who’d lied to her. What if she was a killer? Another thought set her heart racing. What if the she was a terrorist? Maybe that’s why the feds were after her.
Her heart fluttered, a series of rapid irregular beats. Lord-a-mercy! Was she having a heart attack? Her doctor said her blood pressure was sky-high. He wanted her to lose weight, 100 pounds, he’d said, wagging his finger.
She leaned against the wall and pressed her hands to her chest.
She was going to die here all alone. Because of that awful girl.
Moonlight filtered through the stained-glass window on the second-floor landing, casting scary shadows on the wall. She looked up the dark staircase. Again her heart fluttered. But she couldn’t give in to fear. She had to find out what that sneaky girl was up to.
Pausing after each step, she crept to the third-floor landing.
The Blue Room was the first door on the right, not a speck of light showing under the door.
Little Miss Innocent must be fast asleep in the four-poster bed.
Summoning her courage, she rapped on the door. No response. The girl must be a sound sleeper. She rapped again, harder.
A new thought almost made her wet herself. Maybe April West was gone. What if that sneak tiptoed downstairs last night while she was watching TV in her apartment? What if that awful girl just scooted out the door, got in her car and left, leaving her poor old landlady at the mercy of the terrible storm that was about to hit them?
The thought enraged her. April West was worse than sneaky, she was a coldhearted bitch. The girl had no respect for her elders. Abandoning her at a time like this!
She found the key to the Blue Room on the brass ring, slid it into the lock and opened the door.
Moonlight shone through the filmy white curtain above the air-conditioner in the window, enough light to tell her the four-poster bed was empty. The canvas bag that held the girl’s laptop sat atop the blue comforter on the bed. A sturdy gray suitcase stood in th
e corner.
Maybe the girl wasn’t going to abandon her after all. She wouldn’t leave without her belongings, would she?
Mrs. Reilly turned on the overhead light and opened the closet. Inside on wire hangers were a pair of blue jeans and that Yankee T-shirt. April West was a Yankee fan. It figured. How could anyone root for a team with a name like that? Damn Yankees, that’s what her husband used to call them. Tom's great-granddaddy had fought for the Confederacy during the Civil War, got shot in the leg and had to have it amputated.
She checked her wristwatch. Lord-a-mercy, two-thirty in the morning.
Where was that girl? At this hour she had to be up to no good.
Mrs. Reilly left the Blue Room and descended the stairs, gripping the wooden banister, her mind awhirl with questions, questions that made her head throb. The girl’s belongings were still here, but what if she came back in the dead of night, took her belongings, got in her car and left town while her helpless old landlady was fast asleep?
By the time she reached the first floor, she had made her decision.
She marched through the dining room and straight through the foyer to the front door. She peered through the glass in the top half of the door. It was dark outside, but the streetlights were on. Gusts of wind were blowing the two big fir trees across the street, making them sway back and forth.
That hurricane was going to hit them for sure.
She set both dead bolts, the top one first, then the one at the bottom, and nodded with satisfaction.
If that girl tried to sneak into Parades-A-Plenty and grab her belongings and run off without waking Mrs. Reilly, that girl was in for a big surprise.
CHAPTER 32
Fear coiled inside her like a deadly cobra.
Frozen her in her tracks, she stared at the snub-nosed .38 Special. She’d chosen the one with a matte-black finish, thinking it looked more frightening than silver. It was. Even more frightening were the implacable eyes of the man who aimed it at her.
Never in her life had she been so terrified, not when the cops questioned her after Randy fell off the bluff, not when Tex recognized her in the store, not even when the cops chased her after she killed Oliver.
She felt utterly defenseless.
Was this how Mom felt when BoBo strangled her?
This was supposed to be the stunning triumph at the end of her journey, the culmination of her quest for vengeance. Lying in bed last night, unable to sleep, she had imagined this moment in vivid detail. The fear in Chip’s eyes when he saw the gun. The thrilling moment when she took control of this insufferable man. Her conquest when she stripped him of his power and heard him beg for mercy.
But now Chip had the gun.
To avoid looking at him, she focused on the wall behind him and noticed the print. A Mardi Gras poster, a bosomy blonde with her nipples peeking out of her bra. It seemed familiar. Where had she seen it? Then she remembered the photo in her mother's case file. The poster on the wall above the bed where her mother lay. Naked. Dead. Another Mardi Gras poster with a busty blonde.
The realization crushed her.
She was going to die in a sleazy hotel room like her mother.
“Take your clothes off, bitch.”
Her insides were shaking uncontrollably, as if she’d been standing outside in a blizzard for hours. A feeling of lassitude enveloped her, a bone-deep weariness that made her want to capitulate. Why not get it over with? Chip just was as ruthless as his father. No matter what she did, he would kill her.
She conjured a vision of her mother, recalling the bright sunny day they had strolled along the Mississippi River, warmed by the midday sun, licking their ice cream cones—strawberry for her, chocolate for Mom. An ordinary day, peaceful and carefree, a fun time with Mom.
Do your homework and go to bed, Natalie, and I’ll see you in the morning.
The last words Mom had spoken to her.
Somewhere deep within her, anger stirred and became a steely resolve. Chip's father had murdered her mother and had never been punished for it. She would not capitulate. Mom deserved better. Mom deserved justice.
A jolt of adrenaline energized her. Moving seductively, she took off her clingy top and gave Chip a sexy smile. Aware of his eyes roving her body, she shimmied out of her slim black skirt.
“That’s better, dawlin. I like your underwear. Black turns me on like you wouldn’t believe.”
She believed it all right. But what turned him on most was holding the gun on her. Having power over her. Power, the ultimate aphrodisiac. The power that enormous wealth could buy.
Shimmying her hips, she stepped closer, unhooked her lacy black bra and let it fall to the floor.
“I like your tits, April. Ditch the panties.” He lowered the gun.
She took another step closer. Shoved her panties down to her ankles. Felt his greedy eyes devour her body. She stepped out of her shoes and kicked her underpants aside. Forced herself not to look at the gun. “Aren’t you going to undress, Chip? I thought we were going to have some fun.”
“You got that right.” He tossed the gun on the bed and began to unbutton his shirt.
Waves of relief washed over her. She wasn’t home free yet. Chip was over six feet tall and weighed at least 200 pounds. But now the gun was on the bed. If she was very careful and totally focused, she might be able to save herself and complete her mission.
Eyes fixed on her breasts, he took off his white shirt, pulled off his undershirt and dropped it on the floor. Thick blonde hair matted his chest and curled from his armpits. The muscles in his arms rippled as he unbuckled his belt. He unzipped his fly and looked at her.
She ran her tongue over her bottom lip. Take your pants off, you pig.
He shoved his trousers down to his knees, sat on the bed, toed off his shoes and pushed off his trousers. Then he rose from the bed and took off his jockey shorts. His erection was enormous, deep red, pulsing and throbbing.
“Okay, dawlin, let’s get it on.”
Fixing her lips in a smile, she mustered her strength and her courage. This would be the most important move of her life. Get it right, or she was dead.
She took a breath and released it, seeking the centered calm she worked so hard to achieve during her TKD workouts. Felt the energy reach the focal point below her breastbone. Every muscle in her body tensed.
Rearing back, she spun her body and kicked him with all her might, slamming her foot against his head above the ear.
His face sagged, an instant of shocked disbelief. Like a wounded animal, he emitted a low guttural sound. Then his knees buckled and he collapsed on the floor with a thump. She pounced on him. Her strike had been a solid hit, but Chip was a powerful man, strong and muscular. His eyes were shut, but his chest rose and fell rapidly. She had to disable him before he came to his senses. Sickened by the smell of him, a gamy odor triggered by his anticipation of fucking her, she located the Dokko point below his ear. Made a knuckle fist with two fingers. Set them against the Dokko point and twisted.
Shock the nerves, but not too much.
She didn't want to kill him. Not yet.
His body shuddered and lay still. But for how long?
His head lay near the wall, his feet close to the bed.
The leg is the most powerful weapon. Mr. Larson's oft-repeated warning.
Chip’s muscular legs looked powerful enough to hurt her badly. She grabbed a pair of plastic handcuffs, knelt down and cuffed his ankles together. Checked to make sure his eyes were closed. They were. Reassured, she grasped his thick hairy ankles and dragged him closer to the foot of the bed. Inch by inch, she heaved him closer to the bed, his body deadweight.
Panting, she let go of his ankles, raised the bedspread and studied the metal frame. The cylindrical legs were an inch thick, sturdy enough to support any acrobatic lovers. She grasped his ankles and heaved his body closer to the leg. When his ankles were close enough, she took another set of cuffs, looped one half around the cuffs that bound his ankles
and secured the other half around the leg of the bed.
Chip's muscular legs looked powerful, but she believed the double bed and the heavy frame were too heavy for him to move. Kneeling on the carpet, she studied his face for any sign of awareness. His eyes remained closed, his lips parted, his raspy breathing clearly audible in the stillness of the room.
She rose to her feet and took the .38 Special off the bed.
It felt heavy in her hand. Heavy and reassuring.
Was Chip truly unconscious? Or was he pretending? She placed the .38 Special on the carpet beyond his reach but where she could quickly grab it. Cautiously, she grasped his wrist and raised his hand above his belly. His skin felt clammy and wiry hairs prickled her fingers. A diamond-studded Rolex with a gold expansion-band encircled his wrist. Rich men loved expensive toys.
She lowered his hand, bound his wrists together with another set of cuffs and assessed his ability to resist.
His ankles were secured to the leg of the bed. Cuffed together, his hands lay on his abdomen. His erection was long gone, his penis limp and flaccid against his thigh. She'd feel safer if she could secure his wrists to something, but the flimsy nightstand wasn't an option. Chip could easily tip it over.
If she dragged his torso closer to the head of the bed, she could secure his wrists to the leg below the headboard. But she didn’t dare.
If he came to before she finished, he might grab her.
Again, she assessed his ability to resist. His legs were immobilized, his wrists cuffed together. He could move his arms, but only within a certain arc. She had to stay clear of his hands.
His eyes remained closed, his raspy breathing audible as air escaped from his nostrils. He appeared to be unconscious, but for how long?
Keeping her eyes on him, she put on her clothes: First her bra, then her top, then her panties and slim black skirt. That made her feel better. Now he was naked and she wasn’t. That was part of the power game. Chip had made her undress first, but now the power equation was reversed.
Her tape recorder, slightly larger than a pack of cigarettes, lay on the floor beside her tote. She made sure the tape was inside and pushed Start. When she heard her own voice, she hit Rewind, then Stop.
