The Overnighter's Secrets

by J. L. Salter

  “I’ve only seen pictures... never been inside. It was already abandoned when I moved here.” But Jeff related what he knew. Then he shivered slightly. “You know, I’ve passed by this place a lot. Doesn’t seem nearly this spooky during daylight.”

  Shane just grunted and changed the subject. “How much does your wife know? Does she realize Bethany’s missing?”

  “Yeah, but Tanya figures Beth just left town on her own... to get away. I don’t think she believes any of this is as serious as we do. She’s staying over at her mom’s tonight ‘cause the blood pressure is so high. Her mom’s.” Jeff’s grip tightened on the steering wheel. “But I never got a chance to tell her about the granddaughter’s murder.”

  “Your wife needs to know that... and where you are.” Shane poked his shoulder. “Call... and tell her we’re picking up Bethany downtown.”

  Jeff fumbled with his cell phone and texted something. Maybe he couldn’t speak to a loved one right now with a steady voice. He pressed send and put away the phone.

  Shane had watched silently. “You okay?”

  Jeff nodded slowly.

  “This is where we stop him... or them.”

  Jeff peered into his passenger’s face. “Are you scared?”

  “Definitely.” Shane exited the car and shaded his eyes from the driving rain. Jeff retrieved the penlight from his chest pocket.

  In the darkness, they cautiously approached the corroded iron fence. Shane examined the heavy chain and established how much give it allowed the double gate. Hardly any. “Wonder why they left Bethany’s car in back, but apparently entered through the front?”

  “Maybe they got through one of the side gates instead.”

  “We’re going this way.” Shane worked the rusty hacksaw on the padlock but the worn blade barely scratched that tempered steel; heavy rain made it too slippery to bite. His efforts were not aided much by the minor illumination from Jeff’s penlight. Giving up on the saw, Shane used the pry bar to break open a link of the chain. It took all his strength. With downtown’s power still out from the storm, the night around them was pitch black. And still pouring rain. Shane shielded his eyes again and scanned the structure’s dark exterior. “Anything look different on the outside?”

  When Jeff gazed upward, rain fell into his eyes. “Never saw any lights before.” He pointed toward the fourth floor where a window glowed rather dimly.

  Shane nodded. Has to be it. “Somebody’s here and they didn’t come in from this side. You said there’s three other gates?”

  “Yeah. Larger gate on the front... and smaller ones on each side.”

  Shane started to leave.

  “Is that all you’re taking?” Jeff pointed to the chisel, pry bar, and Connie’s canister.

  Shane wished he had the weapons from his impounded saddlebags. “Maybe I’ll find something inside I can use. But gimme that light.”

  He did. “I saw your picture of Ricks. But how will I recognize the other bad guy... this pro character?”

  “Anybody who runs out of this building who’s not me or Bethany... is a bad guy. If he looks like he knows what he’s doing, he’s the pro. But you don’t need to worry about it, Jeff, ‘cause you’re not staying. Remember?”

  He obviously remembered. “You sure you don’t want my help?”

  “No offense, but you’d be in the way.” It seemed kinder than saying, “You’re probably not up to this.”

  Jeff definitely looked offended nonetheless.

  “Look, you’ve been a big help so far.” Shane put a thick hand on the smaller man’s shoulder. “Get those police moving and that’s even bigger help. There’s no way they’d believe me... I was in their holding pen for several hours today. You’re local and probably squeaky clean. Plus, you can explain everything that’s happened.”

  “You think they’ll believe a hysterical, short black man on a dark and stormy night?”

  “I’d believe you.” Shane held out his hand. “Thanks, Jeff.”

  No reply, but he extended his own hand.

  “Call Connie on your way to the station. No need for her to stay with Bethany’s folks. Whatever’s gonna happen... will be right here.”

  Jeff turned slowly, clutched the disintegrating poncho hood around his neck and trotted toward his wife’s car. He stopped and waved... once. Then he got in and drove south, where Washington would soon intersect Main Street.

  Shane propped a fallen tree branch against the gate to keep it wide open. Never know when you’ll need to make a fast exit.

  The hotel’s rear entrance doors were also padlocked, so Shane used the pry bar again. The lock broke with the force of his pull, but the crowbar went flying into the heavy growth toward his right. It would be impossible to locate even without rain and darkness.

  Now all Shane had was a chisel, a penlight, and Connie’s self defense canister.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  About 9:30 p.m.

  Shane crept into the gloomy facility with the wood chisel in one hand, penlight in the other, and Connie’s slender canister in his jeans pocket. If you ever want a revolver in your hand, it’s when you a place like this and face at least two guys who want you dead. Shane quickly shed his soaked duster... he’d need to be able to move silently and unhindered.

  Even in the darkness, it was easy to see how grand the main lobby had been, beginning one-hundred-twenty years ago. However, besides decay and disrepair, there had also been decades of vandalism. Debris and broken furnishings covered the main floor. The dim penlight made it clear the place was in chaos. It looked like thirty workmen had begun twenty different projects and all of them halted right where they’d been at one particular moment. Apparently, they just dropped everything and left. Shane played his light over the piles of supplies and rubble, but nothing looked specifically useful.

  It was an all-out assault on the entire olfactory system. A disagreeably pungent mix of heavy odors: mold and mildew throughout and rotting garbage in isolated places. Plus, the distinct and disgusting stink of vermin, alive and dead, with all their inevitable byproducts.

  Shane made his way to the front side of first floor’s main lobby and cautiously started up the central staircase. The storm probably drowned out any noise he might have made, but he walked carefully and slowly nonetheless.

  On the second floor, Shane stopped, turned off the penlight, and listened in both directions. The non-functional elevator was directly in front of the landing; its unraveling cables were visible through the jammed open doors. Near the foot of each staircase were recesses in the wall which could have held a potted plant or small statue in days gone by. A long bank of rooms stretched out north and south. Most of the lengths of both hallways were pitch black. Windows were visible on the far ends but they certainly revealed nothing at present. Logically, somewhere near each end was also an interior fire escape.

  No telling what the fifth floor suites looked like. But it appeared as if all the regular rooms on the second through fourth floors opened to these wide hallways. With only the penlight’s muted beam, Shane peered into one of those open rooms to get a sense of the layout.

  High ceilings and one large window faced either east or west. Each overnight room had a bathroom to one side and a closet to the other side. The main area was spacious enough for large bed, loveseat, and a small desk and chair. No television in evidence, but there was an obvious spot for one on top of the high dresser. All the standard rooms probably looked about like this one.

  Partway down the hall to the south, Shane spotted an empty wheelbarrow holding a rusty coal shovel. That’s a puzzle. Coal burning equipment ought to be in a basement area. He briefly considered taking the shovel, but a weapon that large might just get in the way within the tight confines he expected to encounter upstairs. In any case, his hands were already full.

  He’d just begun the next set of stairs when Shane heard two gunshots of large caliber. He immediately dropped to a crouch. He switched off his light, remained completely
still, and listened for any follow-up. With all the lightning and thunder outside, those two shots wouldn’t attract much interest from anybody outside.

  That shooting worried him, of course, but Shane couldn’t allow them to rush his approach. If he just yelled and went crashing through the place, he’d be dead before he could accomplish anything helpful. Patience, Shane.

  He heard miniature scampering noises all around, but couldn’t see anything. Probably rats. Shane quietly stood again, flipped the light back on, and took the next set of stairs.

  In the third floor hallway, near the empty elevator shaft, Shane spotted a broken dining chair, which seemed significantly out of place. He grabbed a loose wooden leg—a sturdy club might come in handy.

  He kept moving up the stairs. When Shane reached the fourth floor, he froze again, doused the flashlight, and peered into the darkness of both directions. A dim, thin strip of light from a threshold along the north hallway was the probable destination. But this was too important to leave to chance. He pulled out his phone, entered Bethany’s number again, and listened for a ring.

  There was a long delay while a tower picked it up and beamed it to a satellite... or vice versa. Finally, he heard it! Bethany’s phone rang three times and then stopped with a loud crunch, probably from someone’s heavy shoe heel.

  Yeah, same room with the dim threshold light, about fifty feet down the north hall and to the right. The outsides of those rooms faced east, the hotel’s rear on Washington Street.

  Shane wanted to use his penlight to check the hallway, but that was potentially too dangerous, assuming someone inside the room was watching for visitors. So he began moving along the north corridor with his left hand on the west wall. He kept his eyes on the room half way down and to his right.

  This was not necessarily where Bethany was, but obviously somebody was in Room 415. So that’s where Shane had to start. He put the chisel in his back pocket, shifted the un-lit flashlight to his left hand, and held his new primary weapon, the chair leg, in his right.

  ****

  About 9:40 p.m.

  Even without the dim light coming from the threshold, Shane could have found the correct room because he heard the unmistakable sound of a body being dragged across the floor and dumped against one wall. He paused outside that closed door and listened intently. No voices, but some heavy breathing—probably Ricks.

  This would be considerably better if the door were already open. A whole lot healthier if Shane knew exactly how many men were behind that door and who they were. These circumstances could be almost manageable if he had plenty of light and a gun. And a few biker friends to back him up.

  But he didn’t. None of that. Just a chair leg, a chisel, and Connie’s canister.

  Shane had never been in a situation like this. He’d never found a door between him and his adversaries. He’d never entered a room of unknown opponents so totally blind and poorly armed.

  He listened carefully again. Heard a voice... male. Probably Ricks. Something else. Not sure what. Maybe a voice or maybe not.

  Reaching from beside the door, Shane turned the knob slowly. No response from inside, so maybe they didn’t notice. He took a deep breath. There was no way to do this but throw open the door, stay behind the thick wall, and wait for probable gunshots. Shane crouched low behind the wall and swung open the heavy door.

  The only reaction Shane didn’t anticipate was no reaction. Nothing. He bobbed his head into the open doorway enough to see inside and then quickly pulled back. No gunfire. Not even an exclamation. With illumination from perhaps half a dozen undetermined small sources, Shane had seen Ricks over near the wall to the left and Ricks had likely seen him. If so, why didn’t the punk react?

  Shane waited a long moment. Then he stepped into the doorway to find Ricks standing over the body which he’d obviously just dumped there. The victim had a built up shoe, so he probably walked with a limp while still alive. Must be the pathetic burglar.

  Ricks looked up without speaking.

  Did Ricks kill him? No telling. In the dim collective light of several battery-powered camp lanterns, Shane tried to assess who else was in the room. No sign of Bethany. Just Ricks and the body. Numerous holes in the wooden floor, perhaps from rot, but some likely involving unfinished plumbing repairs.

  “Ricks... long time, no care. Been huddled inside any sticky dumpsters lately?”

  “So you finally found me.”

  “Just followed the smell, Ricks.” Shane looked around the dimly-lit room. Bethany had to be near here somewhere. “Which room is Bethany in?”

  No answer. But Ricks pulled a folded knife from his pocket.

  So he has a blade. Good to know. “Who’s your friend?” Shane pointed to the lifeless heap.

  Ricks wouldn’t be stupid enough to be without a gun, even though a parolee caught with a firearm gets the slammer for seven years, minimum. Somebody must have taken his piece. Perhaps the boss, the professional. So who fired those two shots? Maybe the guy on the floor. But where was the gun?

  Ricks still hadn’t answered the verbalized questions, but he opened the knife with an abrupt flick of his thumb.

  Shane kept the club concealed behind him. “Is he dead?”

  No reply from Ricks.

  “Then I don’t guess you want me to call 9-1-1.”

  “You whip out a phone and I’ll cut you, Holder. Lots. And you need it.”

  “We have some unresolved issues I forgot about?”

  It took a moment for the dumpster diver to respond. “You always acted so superior, Holder... just because we did all the dirty work and you got the best pickings.”

  “You guys sometimes brought stuff by my place because Mutt thought I might be interested. Period. I never asked him for first pick. And I never asked you for anything.”

  “I still don’t know how or why, but you had Mutt snowed. He actually liked you.”

  “It was mutual... as much friendship as you can have with a meth head.”

  “You took advantage of us... our situation.” Ricks’s voice had an edge. “I’m a victim, dude.”

  “The only way you’re a victim is because you let meth run your whole life. You’ll be dead before you’re forty and nobody’s even gonna miss you.” Shane scanned the dark room again. “Now, for the third time... where’d you put Bethany?”

  A lightning flash outside the window startled Shane but seemed to rattle Ricks considerably.

  It gave Shane an idea. He counted the seconds until thunder rumbled ominously. Seven seconds... so roughly thirty-five miles away. He had not tallied the previous Heavenly pyrotechnics, but they’d seemed much farther out. Maybe the storm was moving closer. If so, that could be an advantage. Shane surely needed one.

  Ricks looked over his shoulder quickly, but it was impossible to guess why. Then he stepped carefully around gaping holes in the floor. He waved his knife erratically. It was large... nearly five inches of mostly serrated blade. “You think you’re so superior just because you have a paycheck and a pretty girlfriend.”

  A long time before Jeff revealed the brick-on-Ricks episode, Shane had suspected this meth head wanted Bethany. Though he’d never known Ricks had actually made any overt play for her.

  “Well, I guess you never knew that I was bedding your precious, protected Beth—regular—just about every time you were out of the house.”

  Though obviously false, those words still made Shane so livid he could barely focus on the dangers in front of him. He just wanted to beat someone senseless. He might have to. But how? Ricks had a knife. Shane had a chisel and a piece of turned wood. Shane’s other main advantage was that he was sober... while Ricks was most likely tweaking. Ricks’s adrenalin was certainly speeded up, but his reflexes would be jerky and his judgment cloudy. “I always knew you were hot for Bethany. I don’t believe you ever got close to her, but at this point I don’t even care. The fact is, Ricks, I’m gonna beat you like you owe me a lot of money.”

  Despite being
ready for something to happen, it was still unexpected when Ricks lunged and sliced into Shane’s right forearm before he could raise the chair leg. Shane had figured his opponent would chatter a while first. Stupid! Shane should have been prepared and now he was injured. It was also surprising that Ricks possessed that much speed and purpose.

  Another lightning strike outside. Ricks shifted his weight back and forth like an edgy tennis player waiting on the serve.

  Shane counted off six seconds. He was prepared for the thunder’s boom.

  Ricks was not and it made him jump. Being in the middle of his weight shift, Ricks nearly fell over backward.

  The massive weather system was apparently holding the rain in place but dragging closer the lightning and thunder. The room’s window faced east and the storm was creeping closer to the hotel. Must be some atmospheric backspin.

  Ricks made a second lunge and Shane easily sidestepped.

  He’d learned quickly from last time. Shane also realized that Ricks was slashing backhanded, from left to right. Not particularly significant, but a right hander usually has slightly less control from that direction and not quite as much visual command of the target. Shane shifted the club to his left hand. He waggled the chisel in his right hand to try to invite another slash from his meth-fueled opponent.

  Ricks waited, still shifting side to side. His eyes seemed as large as grimy trashcan lids. A few more tentative slashes from Ricks, but he wasn’t close enough to make contact. Both were backhands, as before.

  Shane was certain now. The next feint would be the one. He tightened his grip on the club in his left hand. “Where’s Bethany?” Shane’s voice broke the silence between the storm’s sound effects. “If anything’s happened to her, I’ll skin you alive, carve you out hollow, and sell your intestines for catfish bait.”

  Ricks didn’t reply, but he cackled loudly and rubbed his nostrils. He shifted his right foot forward, which signaled another slash with the knife. Backhand on the way.