She parked crookedly by the check-in office, then looked over her shoulder and scanned the empty lot before sending up a quick prayer to her newfound God for both strength and redemption. After that, relaxed, she straightened her clothes with the flat of her hand, took a deep breath, turned off the ignition in her SUV, and got out.
NEVADA TOOK A QUICK inventory of the lobby: tattered furniture, poor lighting, and a heavy smell of disinfectant, though everything was dusty and did not appear to have been cleaned in the post-Y2K years. She knew the rooms would smell heavily of roach spray, and that the bedspreads would have organisms growing on them you’d find in a Petrie dish, that the shower stall would be mildew-ruined, the television remote blinking as its batteries were nearly dead, and a Gideon’s Bible missing pages of Psalms would be found in a dresser absent at least one of its leg’s casters. Despite this, she didn’t turn around. She didn’t have that luxury. She squared her shoulders and took another deep breath instead.
“I need a room,” she said to the male clerk at the counter.
He looked up slowly, his eyes begrudgingly leaving the page of his skin magazine, not a trace of shame on his unshaven, unclean face. He laid the magazine on the counter, centerfold page up. Holly from Ohio. Favorite ice cream was chocolate. She had a pet dachshund named Miss Sprinkles and was desirous of a man who’d mastered Life. The game.
“Gonna need you to fill out this card,” the clerk said, licking each of his fingers, gaze traveling up and down Nevada’s frame, as he pulled one card from a stack held together by a thick rubber band. He had a malnourished, emaciated look; human fly bait. A centimeter away from being a biology prop, with recessed eyes, a few strands of hair he splayed out as best he could so they looked like fingers gripping his skull, cheekbones emphasized by tight and unhealthy and yellowed skin, an assaulting odor like wet dirt mixed with fertilizer.
A palsy of some sort created a tremble in Nevada’s hands. She didn’t trust herself with a ballpoint pen. The drive over had been Russian roulette. “Could you fill it out for me?” she asked. “I’ll dictate.”
“Dick take,” the smelly clerk said, wiping the back of his moist mouth with a hand caked with dirt. “I can certainly do that for you, young lady.”
Nevada rocked slightly on her heels, considering a retreat, frustrated that she couldn’t.
“Name?” he asked.
“Nev—” She stopped, regrouped. “Hope Jones.”
“Spell that.”
She did.
After a few false starts, he was able to get it down on paper correctly. Handwriting as though he’d written it with a child’s fat crayon, and left-handed when he was a natural righty. He exhaled when he’d finished, smiled briefly, pleased with himself.
“Address, Mrs. Jones?”
She told him that, too. Same number as her place, but a street over from her own. Easy enough to keep her lies in order if she based them somewhat in reality. The years had exposed her to many many tricks in which to catalogue her many many lies. Sadly.
He smiled again. Teeth caked with plaque and yellow as butter. The nine he had. “How come you find yourself here at our lovely establishment this morning? If I might ask.”
“Lucky I suppose,” Nevada said.
He nodded. “Tags?”
“Excuse me?”
“License plate number.”
“Oh.” She closed her eyes, pictured the plates. P-V-Something. Something-6-U. Some of it she remembered, but there were plenty of holes in her thought. Her stomach kept rumbling. Her mouth was dry as exhumed bones, her hands moist as the clerk’s mouth. A mess.
The clerk craned his swan’s neck, looked over her shoulder. “That you out there?”
“Black SUV,” she managed.
“It’s parked kind of…Yukon, ain’t it?”
Nevada nodded.
He eased from around the counter. He was tall and brittle thin. Had a disjointed walk, a lanky puppet controlled by an inebriated puppeteer. Wearing yellowed jeans and a plaid shirt, boots painted with mud and mowed lawn and absent of any laces. He squinted as he got to the front door and looked out at the parking lot, held the registration card up against the glass, and then up against the wall because the ink wouldn’t catch on the card, and wrote down Nevada’s license plate number one excruciating letter and number at a time.
Then he took that disjointed walk back behind the counter, plopped down hard in his chair. Its springs cried out and the armrest fell off. He left it on the floor, used to it coming apart. “Need to see your driver’s license, now, Mrs. Jones. Then I’ll have you wrapped up.”
“Miss,” Nevada said. “And I don’t have it with me.”
“Out in the glove box?” he asked.
“Home in a kitchen drawer,” she said, smiling and shrugging. “I’m forgetful.”
“Left in a rush?”
“Can we wrap this up, like you said?”
“It’s against the law,” he said, “driving without a license on your person.”
“Guilty as charged.” She tried to smile again, failed. “You gonna cuff me?”
“Mmm,” he moaned. The leer again.
“I’d like a room in the back,” Nevada said, moving on, hoping he would, too. “Is that possible?”
“I can do you in the back,” he said. “Be glad to. But I do need to see that license.”
“I’ll pay cash. Throw in a little something extra for you.”
“Something for me you say? That right?”
“Please.” She reached for the counter, placed a hand over one of his dirty paws.
He eyed her. Saw the desperation. Four in the A.M. Trouble had to be nipping at her heels pretty fierce. Nice looking woman like her. Not one to cause trouble he said, “Oh, okay. I always was a sucker for a pretty lady. And you sure enough are one. I won’t pull on your pud.”
She let out the breath she’d been holding. “Thank you so much.”
He nodded and quickly completed the transaction.
“Need help with any luggage?” he asked. “I’d be happy to lend a hand.”
It wasn’t a luggage kind of establishment, but he’d never suggest that.
“I’m fine,” Nevada said. “I really appreciate everything you’ve done.”
“I aim to please,” he said.
“You have.”
He nodded, went directly back to his skin magazine. He whistled at an image on the page—Miranda from Virginia Beach, Virginia—and Nevada backed out of the lobby. She stood there outside, waited a second for a breeze that never came, a cool breeze she desperately needed to kiss her warm face. She didn’t see the clerk take his eyes from the skin magazine, a minor miracle there. Didn’t see him watching her intently through the smudged glass, didn’t know he was wondering a whole bunch of things regarding her.
THE KNOCK SHOOK THE thin walls of her room. Nevada walked hesitantly to the door, dared a look-see through the peephole. Her heartbeat settled and her shoulders eased. She cracked the door a few inches, smiled, and unlatched the deadbolt. Her visitor stepped comfortably into a warm embrace. They stayed like that for several beats, in the embrace, at the threshold. She’d just stepped from the shower, and was wrapped in two towels, one covering her body, the other twisted like a turban around her somewhat wet hair. Her skin was damp, warm as just-machine-dried clothes.
Her visitor asked, “You okay?”
“I am now.” She smiled, touched his arm, squeezed. “Thanks for rushing over.”
“No problem.”
“I’m used to men treating me like a disposable camera,” she said. “It’s nice to know I can count on you.”
He smiled, a bit tight around the lips.
“Kept my eyes on the rearview mirror on the drive over,” she said. “I was scared out of my skin. I swore someone was following me. I didn’t see anyone, though. My paranoia, I guess.”
“Better safe than sorry.”
“You’ve got that right,” she said, laughing. At ease fina
lly.
Her visitor closed the door behind him, reset the deadbolt, and turned back to her.
Nevada’s gaze trailed to his hands, his full-length rain coat. “Gloves? Long coat? Did I miss the weather report? We’re about to have a cold spell?” she asked, still smiling. “You’re looking very James Bond.”
He flexed his fingers in the leather gloves, shrugged.
Nevada left it at that and made no mention of his black loafers, iron-creased black pants, and dark shirt. The Kangol hat tilted at an angle on his head. The dark sunglasses.
“Place is the worst,” she said, moving into the room with her back to him. “Pipes were screaming as I took my shower. I wasn’t sure if the walls were going to cave in. And still, the water refused to get near hot.”
Her visitor moved over to the bathroom, looked in. Nevada’s laptop was on the sink, plugged into the hairdryer socket. The laptop was all she’d brought. No clothes, no toiletries, no undergarments. There was no tension in her visitor’s posture. Relaxed, calm.
“The guy in the office makes my skin crawl,” Nevada said. “He’s a real pervert. He was reading a dirty magazine when I walked in. He didn’t even try to hide it. If it weren’t for rented porn and his job, this guy’d never hear a human voice. I swear to you. Such has been my day.”
Her visitor rolled his neck several times, stretched his arms, then his fingers again.
“Listen at me going on and on. I should ask if you’re okay,” Nevada said. “You’re awfully quiet. I’m sorry I dragged you out at this time in the morning. I hope you don’t mind too much.”
“No. I’m glad you called,” he said. “We knew this day was coming.”
“Sure?” she pressed.
“I wouldn’t have it any other way, Nevada.”
“I’m counting on your help,” she said. “Between the two of us we should be able to figure out how to deal with this…situation. I need you to be your usual sharp self. Okay?”
He didn’t answer. He was still lingering by the bathroom, his back to her.
She moved over, rested her hand on his shoulder. “Hey!”
He made a sound she couldn’t decipher.
“Hey,” she repeated.
“You’ve gotten yourself into some shit,” he said. “Shell should be dealing with this. But as usual, you call me to get you out of it.”
“What’s that?”
“Drop your towel. Get naked.”
She laughed. “Right. Wouldn’t you just love it if I…”
He turned, and the smile froze on her face. She realized her mistake immediately, misplaced trust, and fought the desire to drop her head. She nodded at his hands instead. “What is that?” she said.
“This.” He smiled, chatty suddenly. “A .380 Bersa. Weighs 23 ounces. Matte blue, satin nickel accents. Rowel-type hammer, seven shot magazine, adjustable sights.” He hefted it in his hands. “I think I’ve sufficiently covered my ass. I acid-burned the serial, just in case the gun and I do part. I made a suppressor with a Maglite, but I won’t need that here. You did good selecting this place. The malaise here is thick as soup. Nobody cares enough to even pause at the sound of a couple innocent gun shots.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“Money. I was hoping we could tango before I take you to them, but you’ve wasted too much time. So get dressed. Post-haste.”
“What if I don’t?”
“You will.” He glanced at her in a way she’d never seen before.
Nevada’s lip trembled; her eyes watered. “I hope you go to—”
“Let’s not get dramatic, Nevada. Dressed, now.”
“No.”
“No?”
“There an echo in here?” she asked.
He grabbed her roughly by the hair, dragged her toward the bed. She broke free, ran nowhere, her visitor back on her heels in a matter of seconds. A fallen chair lay on its side on the battlefield of the brief struggle. He pressed the handgun behind her left ear, moved her toward the bed, pushed her down on the counterpane. “That’s right, Nevada. Loosen up, baby. We’ll be late, but they’ll have to understand. Relax and enjoy this. Pretend I’m Shell if you have to.”
She rested both hands on the bed as he fumbled with his belt. Her body was wracked by sobs, by heavy breathing. She said something through gritted teeth once his pants dropped down to his ankles.
“What was that?” he asked.
“You’re soft,” she mocked. “Somebody needs Viagra.”
“Don’t do this to yourself, Nevada.”
“Screw you.”
“No,” he said. “Screw you. And screw Shell. He’ll get his, without Vaseline, in due time. Now hold still.”
She fought his effort to enter her from the rear.
He rewarded her with a hard slap from the gun to the back of her head.
A wet, sticky copper smell invaded her nostrils. Her blood, she realized.
“I didn’t want to do that,” he said. “But you’ve involved yourself in some serious mess, Nevada. You had to know something like this was possible. Or did you think you could just go on tempting fate and walk away shaking your ass?”
“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil…”
“Shut up, Nevada.”
“For thou art with me,” she went on.
“Nevada, dammit. Shut. Your. Mouth.”
“Thy rod and thy staff they comfort me…”
“I’ve had it with—”
A knock at the door halted her whispered prayer. Halted her visitor, too. He shot around, growled. “Shit! Shut up, Nevada.”
“Help me,” she screamed.
And received another slap with the gun for her effort. Another and she would surely suffer a blackout.
“Quiet, now,” he said.
His weight pressed down on her, constricted her lungs. A sandpaper hand covered her mouth. She attempted to bite it but failed. He laughed at the attempt.
Another knock at the door.
After several minutes she assumed the same thing he assumed.
“Whoever it was, they’re gone,” he said, releasing his hand from her mouth.
She gasped, took several breaths and asked, “Why? Why are you doing this?”
He looked at his wrist. “Need to get out of here.”
“You will not get away with this.”
He stood, carelessly let his gun arm drift down to his side. “Care to bet on that?”
She jumped up suddenly and rushed for the bathroom, sliding on the tile with her bare feet, struggling to close the door behind her.
His foot holding the door open.
She rammed rammed rammed the door to no avail.
“I need you to release the door,” he said calmly.
“Leave me alone.”
“You know I can’t do that, Nevada.”
“Please.”
“Release the door or I start shooting randomly.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“Twenty seconds.”
“Leave me alone.”
“Fifteen.”
“I won’t tell anyone about this. Please leave me alone.”
“Ten.”
“Leave,” she screamed.
“Five.”
Weakened, she gave up, backed away. The door eased open.
“Was that so hard?” her visitor asked.
“Please just leave,” Nevada said.
He shook his head. “Sorry; that won’t do. They need bait for Shell. Unfortunately, you’re the worm.” Then he walked toward her, right hand raised. Flashes appeared to spit from his fingers as though he were a comic book villain.
Three barks.
FIVE
THREE DAYS AFTER SIOBHAN’S phone call, I’d yet to thaw. I’d expected another call, from some unseen enemy, dangling Nevada’s life over my head. Shades of Veronica and Ericka all over again. But my phone had remained silent, which placed me in a worse condition than if it had rang. It felt as
though I was still down on my ass in the beach sand outside my hotel. It had taken me every inch of the seventy-two hours since the call to reconcile some things in my mind, to decide what to do next. And finally, I knew what had to be done. I hustled the naked woman with the hearts-and-vines tattoo up early on that third morning. Before 5 A.M. I hadn’t taken my ice cube shower. I hadn’t eaten. I hadn’t run. I hadn’t done my push-ups, pull-ups, or my crunches. There was a briny, metallic taste in my mouth that I couldn’t chase away with mouthwash. As if there were a pouch of old copper pennies chipmunking my cheek like chewing tobacco. I swallowed my nausea, woke the naked woman with the hearts-and-vines tattoo and told her to pack whatever belongings she had. She yawned and wiped sleep from her tired eyes, tried to process what I was saying to her. We were moving roots, I told her. Everything I’d brought with me was in a black shoulder bag. The shoulder bag was already on the backseat of my rental car. She didn’t complain about me stirring her so early in the A.M. She didn’t ask any questions, either. Good thing. I wasn’t in the mood to supply her with any answers. I had too many questions of my own. And the details in the newspapers and from Siobhan did little in answering them. Blood traces were discovered in the motel room, on a pillowcase and in the bathroom. Nevada’s. But no body. Also, a rectangular impression consistent with the size and shape of a laptop was found in the moisture on the bathroom sink counter. Two wet towels lay in a pile on the carpet. No clothes, toiletries, or other personal items were unearthed. What did it mean that she’d traveled so light? Her SUV maintained its spot in the lot. Neither the night clerk nor anyone else had seen her leave. They hadn’t seen her mysterious visitor arrive, either. Gunshot holes were found in the plaster, but no one recalled hearing any shots. The desk clerk admitted walking to the back of the courtyard and knocking on Nevada’s door once, an excuse barely formulated in his mind even as he did so, but the knock wasn’t answered and he didn’t notice anything peculiar. Questions and more questions abounded. And my vivid reenactment, as creative as it was, was just that, a creation. All of the unanswered questions left me feeling restless. So, only one thing to do. Move.
Triage: A Thriller (Shell Series) Page 5
