Movement by the motel office caught his eye. With the half-smoked cigarette still dangling out of his mouth, Danny walked across the gravel parking lot toward the motel office. The owner saw him and ducked inside.
Danny pushed open the door to the dusty little neglected lobby and waited for his eyes to adjust. As the rusty hinges protested behind him, Danny spotted the motel owner behind the desk. The poor man looked like he wanted nothing more in the world than to hide.
"Hey there," Danny said in a voice that was filled with more friendliness than he felt. "So what's up with all the cops?" He glanced out the window as he approached the desk. “Must be every cop in town out there.”
The motel owner stood and looked ready to run. He was a balding man in a shirt that looked askew. It was at least two sizes too big. Danny could see red suspenders holding up ill-fitting, dirty-looking khakis. Thick glasses perched on an impressive beak of a nose. He swallowed audibly and absently adjusted his shirt. The man was sweating, Danny noticed, and sneezed as Danny approached the desk. He held up a trembling right hand and said, "Please Mr. Roberts, just stop right there. I don't want you catching none of what I got. I’ve caused enough grief for one day."
Danny smiled and said, “Why—are you worried about me catching the flu?” Danny snorted. “I appreciate your concern about my health, but I think I’ll be all right…" As much as Danny feigned indifference, he decided not to tempt fate and stopped a few feet away from the desk. He kept his hands in his pockets but raised an eyebrow and waited for the man to speak.
“No, that ain't what I'm talking about,” said the motel owner. He smiled crookedly. “These cops are bad for business…and I don't want any trouble.”
“What do you mean by ‘trouble’?" asked Danny. “I’m not here to cause trouble, I'm just a reporter. Though it seems trouble’s followed me here anyway.”
The motel owner shook his head and rested his hands on the desk. When he looked up, his eyes were haunted and seemed more bloodshot than before. Danny's pulse quickened with the thrill of the hunt. Now he knew the owner knew something. Employing one of his favorite tactics, Danny said nothing and merely watched the man.
After a few awkward moments, the motel owner shook his head again and glared at Danny. “I told them boys, I told them I didn't want any trouble. But did they listen to me? No sir,” he said. He tugged down on the sweat-stained shirt. Once the dam had broken, the words began tumbling out of the man's mouth. “Mosby and his thugs came in here, acting like they ruled the world!"
Danny pulled out his notebook and pen, and began scribbling down information. “Wait—who’s Mosby?" He circled the name and made a note: Mosby knows motel owner. Mosby attacked Sang. Name keeps popping up.
The motel owner waved a dismissive hand. "Oh, he’s just another of the local boys from a big family that left town for college and only came back for summer vacations and holidays," he said. "He came home out of the blue just after the mess in California started. Showed up in town to visit his folks, just in time to be stuck here like the rest of us when Chief Murray shut down the roads.”
“Any idea what he does for a living?”
“He was a wild one growing up. Now? Just a rabble-rouser, really. The problem is, he’s always been good at getting people to go along with his hare-brained schemes. Now he’s got them boys all riled up—convinced ‘em to pay your friend a visit.” He frowned at Danny. “Now normally I'd be able to handle something like that," he said. “Lots of people used to party here…before the Blue Flu. This place may not look like much, but I’ve had my fair share of run-ins with some of the local boys when they’re hittin’ the ‘shine.”
“But?” asked Danny.
“But…” said the motel owner as he sighed. “These boys had the color of the law behind them. That Neanderthal Billy Perkins, he showed up just as they got here. Like it was all planned. Then they started yelling at me and demanded entry into your room. When Billy did nothing but smile, I knew it was all over. I gave him the master key.”
“So Officer Perkins was up to something? And you let them into my room?” Danny asked. He glared at the motel owner’s face, which had suddenly gone pale—the man actually was shaking. “Is that what you're telling me? That Officer Perkins was either a part of, or stood by and let something take place in the room that I rented?”
The motel owner shook his head feebly. His eyes darted back and forth. He checked the door behind Danny and scanned the parking lot. The poor man looks like a scared rat. In the end, he simply held up his hands. “Look, Mr. Roberts, like I said I just don't want no trouble. I…I've said too much already.”
“Now wait just a minute,” said Danny. He took a step towards the front desk. “You can't just say something like this and expect me to ignore it…”
The hotel owner sneezed and looked at his hands in horror. His face went white. He stepped back and put his hands up in front of him again. “Just stay back, please!”
Without uttering another word, the man turned and bolted into the inner office, shutting the door behind him.
Danny sighed and put his notebook on the front desk before he leaned on one elbow, deep in thought. He half-turned and looked out the window toward the parking lot again. One of the cops was walking around Danny’s car taking note of the license plate number. Looking back through the front door, Danny could see beyond his car to where a squad car had parked. Officer Perkins casually rested one thick arm on the roof. The man wore that irritating smile again.
Danny heard the sound of someone retching behind him and turned to look at the manager’s office. Ignoring the cops in the parking lot, Danny walked up to the cracked door and leaned in close to listen. Now he heard a low moan, followed by what sounded like a whimper. Self-consciously, he looked around before rapping on the door.
“Sir?”
A muffled voice replied, “Stay out!”
Danny looked down at the doorknob and the sliver of light in the door jamb—it wasn’t shut completely. “Hey, are you okay?”
It sounded like the motel owner was really bad off—either throwing up or suffering through dry heaves. Another whimper through the door caused Danny to put his foot against the bottom of the door and push ever so slightly. The sliver of light in the crack widened as the door opened easily. “You don’t sound too good…”
When the door swung fully open, Danny saw the office manager crouching on the floor in a puddle of vomit. The man looked pale—even paler than he had moments earlier. The man looked up with fear in his eyes and a fresh patina of sweat on his forehead. He tried to adjust his shirt again and stand but slipped in his own vomit and ended up on the floor instead. He reached out with one trembling hand and tried to stop Danny from coming any closer. “Stay back, if you know what’s good for you. Can’t you tell that I’ve got that damn flu they’ve been warning us about on the radio?”
Danny froze in the doorway. He looked down at the infected man at his feet. The rational side of his mind had known of course, and screamed for him to turn and flee the building as fast as he could. The reporter in him was detached, yet excited at the thought of finding a new patient in a town that had previously been so successful in keeping the flu at bay.
Instinctively, Danny reached into his back pocket and pulled out a handkerchief to put in front of his face. Through the handkerchief, he said: “Who did you come in contact with that was sick?”
The motel owner rolled onto his back and clutched his stomach. He closed his eyes and through gritted teeth said, “I don’t know…” He rolled his head to the side, and coughed. “Had to be one of those boys with Mosby though… Shoulda known those bastards would do me no good…”
“When did you see them the first time?”
“Sunday,” the man said and coughed. “At that…at the church. St. Stephen’s.”
Danny scribbled a note about the timing. If one of Mosby’ thugs was infected and was at the mob scene when Sang had been pulled from the church… 72 hour incuba
tion period. Fits with the Blue Flu.
The poor man on the floor writhed in pain and began coughing again. His scuffed loafers scraped at the dingy linoleum tiles on the office floor. Danny took a step back but kept the handkerchief in front of his face.
“Try not to move, okay? I’ll go get help.” His eyes grew wide as the motel owner’s body started to tremble.
The owner looked like he was going through some sort of muscle spasm. His teeth were chattering and his eyes were screwed shut. Danny could barely understand the man’s mumbling.
“D-d-don’t bother. I knew I was going to get sick this time around,” he said. “Never caught it…when the Blue Flu came through town 10 years ago.”
Danny remained where he was in the doorway, his hand itching to open a cell phone and call for help. Instead he listened to the words of the man writhing on the floor. He pressed the handkerchief closer into his mouth on instinct.
The motel owner curled into the fetal position laying on his left side, his hands wrapped around his knees in a vain effort to control the violent shaking of his body. “I don’t think I have much time...”
“Don’t say that,” said Danny. “The parking lot is crawling with cops and EMTs. Just wait right here, and I’ll go get one and be right back.”
“Don’t waste your time,” said the owner, his teeth still clamped tight. His eyes opened and Danny could see the red tinge around the whites of his eyes. Danny squinted in the poorly lit office. It also appeared as if his ears were darker than before.
“Haven’t eaten anything in two days because my damn stomach has been tied up in knots. Had a fever all last night too,” the man said with a weak smile. “I ain’t getting out of this one. I knew going along with the crowd on Sunday was a bad idea…”
His bloodshot eyes locked on Danny’s. “I can…” the man coughed, a wet sucking sound. It sent a shiver down Danny’s spine. The last time he heard someone cough like that had been when he was covering The Great Pandemic a decade ago. “I can feel this shit in my lungs… Making it hard to breathe…”
“Jesus,” Danny whispered. He took another step back, but couldn’t take his eyes away from the man lying on the floor.
“I don’t want to die,” the motel owner said in a ragged voice. He closed his eyes and coughed again, hacking up a glob of nastiness that he spit on the floor. “God, that hurts,” he said. His eyes fluttered open, the red-rimmed eyes bored into Danny. “You’re a reporter,” he muttered.
“Yes,” Danny stammered.
“Good,” said the motel owner. His body was wracked again by another powerful cough. “Then promise me…print this whole nasty story when I’m gone. Spread the truth about this town. What they did to that poor man,” he said. He closed his eyes again and sighed, a ragged stuttering sound. “I want everyone to know I had nothing to do with this.”
“But you told me that you gave them the key to my room?” prodded Danny. He felt uncomfortable questioning a dying man, but part of him had to find the truth—had to ask while there was still time.
“The only reason I let them have the key was because I knew they would kick the door down anyway. That poor man didn’t stand a chance. When Mosby showed up with all his goons, and then the cops showed up, I knew there was no way out for him. I never wanted anyone to get hurt…”
Righteous indignation flared in Danny’s stomach. The handkerchief dropped away from his mouth for a moment. “So he didn’t commit suicide?”
The motel owner laughed, a sickening sound interrupted by wet coughs and another seizure fit. “Are you serious? They hogtied that boy then cut him open like a Sunday buck.” The man was seized by another strong seizure, gasping for breath all the while. After a long moment, he was finally able to draw a ragged breath. His eyes fluttered open and Danny could see now that it was clear the skin around the man’s ears was definitely darker.
“What are you looking at?”
“Nothing,” Danny stammered. “It’s…it’s just that… Well, your ears seem to be a little dark. Like the skin is changing color.” Danny quickly put the handkerchief back over his mouth.
“Told you it was the damn Blue Flu, didn’t I?” The dying man’s rough laugh was interrupted by coughs and shaking. His head dropped to the cold floor and his eyes fluttered open again. He rolled onto his back and his shoulders flopped into the sticky vomit on the floor. He took a deep sigh and stared at the ceiling. “Won’t be long now,” he said.
“I can feel it eating away at my lungs,” he whispered. “Kinda tickles.” He lifted his right hand slightly off the floor and pointed at Danny. The fingers quivered. “You make sure and spread the word that this town is doomed. Tell the world what they did to that poor man. I know he wasn’t a spy. Hell, everybody else did too. It’s just that fool Mosby enjoyed getting everyone all riled up—just like old times. And Billy Perkins, he just let him get away with it. They’ve always watched out for each other...”
“They’re friends?”
“More like brothers. Always getting into trouble together. Mostly drinking or girls. Both played football in high school, but Billy never went to college.” He coughed again, one hand gripping his chest, the other covering his mouth. Danny could see the man’s fingertips were starting to change from pink to light blue. “Mosby went off to school somewhere up north and never came back…”
Danny stuffed the handkerchief into his back pocket. He pulled out his notebook and pen and tried to record the words of the dying man. I can’t believe he’s getting this bad so fast. This thing is like the Blue Flu but it’s moving a lot faster. Hell, I’ve probably already caught it being so close to this guy. May as well get my job done while I’m at it. This is just the kind of angle I need to take this story to the major networks.
“You sure…you sure you’re getting this all down?” wheezed the motel owner.
Danny nodded without taking his eyes off the notebook. His pencil flew across the scraps of paper.
“Good,” whispered the dying man. He closed his eyes and seemed to be focusing more on breathing than anything else. As Danny finished writing, the man spoke one more time. “Don’t let the sons of bitches get away with it. I want no part of his death. I’m…” He started coughing again and Danny saw the telltale pink frothy foam emerge from his mouth. “Won’t be long now…”
Danny stood there dumbly, staring at the dying man holding his pencil at the ready in case he could say anything else. He wasn’t sure what to do. But he had to do something. “Did you see Mosby or Officer Perkins hurt Mr. Sang?”
“No…”
“Did you see anyone hurt him?”
The motel owner shook his head. “I was outside—but I heard your friend scream. Saw a lot of commotion. Too many people in front of me…”
“Did you see Mosby or Officer Perkins enter the room, then?”
“Yeah…both of ‘em. Billy Perkins shoved me out of the way…” He started coughing again and curled up tighter into a ball of misery on the vomit-covered floor. At last, he lifted his shaking hand once more. “Go on,” he gasped. “Get out of here before you catch it too. If it makes you feel better…clears your conscience…go find me an ambulance, too.” He tried to laugh again but was interrupted by another coughing fit. “But it won’t do me any good now…”
“I’m sorry,” said Danny. He took another step back and removed his handkerchief from his pocket. “I’ll go see if I can get help. Do you need anything?” He didn’t get a response. For a second he thought the man had already died, but then he saw the slow halting rise and fall of his chest. Danny quickly turned and made his way out to the parking lot.
Of course, the cops were gone now. Precisely when they were needed most. He paused at the front desk, and picked up the landline phone to dial 9-1-1. After explaining the situation to a very rude dispatcher, he hung up. He leaned around the open door, carefully keeping the handkerchief over his mouth, and said “Okay, an ambulance is on its way. Just try not to move or do anything that wou
ld make you start coughing again.” The man was still breathing, but was not responding anymore.
“Poor bastard,” Danny said to himself. “What the hell am I going to do now?” The sudden urge to breathe fresh air overpowered him. He practically ran out of the lobby, throwing the door open in front of him and stepped onto the gravel parking lot. He leaned back against the building and slapped at his pockets looking for his smokes. He held that first puff for a moment then slowly exhaled, trying to calm his nerves. He had been sure, after watching all of the preparations the city managers, the police, the mayor, even the local citizens, had taken to ensure that the flu would not penetrate their town… He had been so sure that this place was safe.
The loud wail of an approaching ambulance broke his thoughts. Danny waved the ambulance driver over, and quickly explained to the EMTs what he witnessed and where the motel owner was located. As the two grim faced paramedics rushed into the run-down lobby carrying their gear, Danny stood around in the parking lot and finished his cigarette as he watched clouds roll across the sky.
He was sure that the poor man would be dead in a matter of hours from the mystery flu. He glanced over at the police tape crisscrossing the door to his room. Thomas’ room. Danny casually strolled across the parking lot, his shoes crunching on the gravel as he went. The sound was loud and made him want to look over his shoulder.
He looked down at the sad scene through the open door. Dried blood stained the carpet dark. The same stains splattered across the closest bed, the chair next to the table, and the table itself. Danny cocked his head and looked inside the room. It looked more like a scene out of The Texas Chainsaw Massacre than a suicide. He knew now that Thomas Sang had been murdered. And now he had eyewitness statements to prove it. On top of that, he had evidence that implicated a local cop—it was journalistic gold.
False Prey: A Wildfire Novella (Wildfire Saga) Page 8
