Mason’s temper ran fast and hot, but that winning grin always stayed firmly in place, even when he’d damn near killed a rival businessman. “He tried to fuck me over,” Mason had said, when Olivia found him sprawled on the asphalt parking lot of a popular Atlanta bar, shirt splattered with the other man’s blood. Oh, she knew firsthand that a smile like that was trouble, but her daughter didn’t.
Thank God they’d had the money to cover her father’s excesses, and it had cost the equivalent of two college educations to keep that last one out of the news. By then even Sheldon realized that Mason was out of control; he’d started asking Olivia what to do when his brother was out of earshot.
Mason might have had a good eye for business, but it was under Olivia’s careful management that the Duplass empire had grown. Among their official holdings were a construction company, a sports bar, a car rental firm, and by far the biggest business of all—for-profit prisons. It was ironic that incarceration was so lucrative. Crime might not officially pay, but housing criminals certainly did. The Duplass family owned prisons throughout the country, the first one named in honor of Mason’s daddy.
There were photos on Olivia’s office walls of Mason cutting ribbons in front of various concrete buildings that looked like Soviet-era block housing. “State-of-the-art facilities, with the latest in prisoner safety”—that was the review of Duplass Detention Facilities in Incarceration Quarterly. She briefly considered asking Sheldon to look up some of their more recent “graduates” to give them a stab at catching Timmy, but thought better of it. Too unpredictable. She shuddered at the thought of what some of them might do to Melody.
Two hours had passed, but Sheldon still hadn’t called. Olivia paced the house, walking so fast that Peaches finally gave up, retreating to Melody’s bedroom to settle morosely on top of the comforter. Jolene was going about her housework, pushing a spray mop back and forth across the inlaid tile in the foyer, but her movements were hard and she was humming “I Shot the Sheriff” under her breath. She paused as Olivia passed by. “They found her yet?”
“No.”
“If that fucker has hurt her, so help me Jesus I’m going to roast his gonads myself.”
Some of the family’s more refined visitors were shocked by the housekeeper’s saltiness, but Olivia had always appreciated her straight talk. She gave Jolene a thin smile. “You’ll have to get in line.” Imagining what she’d do to Timmy was a welcome distraction from thinking about Melody’s safety, but Olivia eventually circled back to her office to try and focus on work. It wasn’t like there weren’t plenty of other things to worry about.
She was checking their Cayman accounts when the mobile finally rang, dancing on her shiny mahogany desk. Olivia snatched it up and heard Sheldon’s heavy breathing before he spoke. “They’re almost at the state line. Someone spotted them at a rest stop.”
“So they’re heading for Florida?”
“Jacksonville,” Sheldon said. “Or that’s what some British lady thinks she overheard them say.”
“What?”
Olivia tried to make sense of the story that followed—surely Sheldon had it wrong about the woman’s nationality—but gave up after one too many extraneous details.
“Seems like they was buying some Cheetos and Coke, or was it Doritos? And Melody bought one of them nail files, you know them ones with the pictures on ’em? She bought one with gators on it cause she might as well get used to seeing them since they’re heading to Jacksonville, that’s what she said, and then they filled up on gas, or maybe they pumped the gas first and then bought the Cheetos or Doritos?”
“Sheldon, just get on down there!” she finally barked before hitting the off button. Jesus H. Christ, she could be in Florida and back by the time he was done telling the story.
What was in Jacksonville, or was that just going to be a pit stop on their way to some other destination? Whatever it was, it was going to be the last stop, at least for Timmy. She’d passed through the city with Mason once, years and years ago on their way to Miami. They’d stopped so he could talk to the owner of a whirlpool franchise. It had tickled his funny bone, to pass a hot tub shop on a ninety-degree day, the heat radiating off the road in visible waves. He bought the place just for fun, using it as another small business to launder money through, but when there was a cold snap in Florida that winter they actually made some money out of it.
Her memories of that brief time in Jacksonville were of a heat-cracked asphalt road in front of a low-end strip mall, of a struggling orange tree wilting on a dusty median, of the sickly smell of citronella and the buzz of mosquitoes.
It wasn’t the place she’d have chosen to die.
“Make sure Melody doesn’t see anything. Wait till you’ve got her well away from him.” She knew her daughter was going to be upset—puppy love, all that. Melody would blame her mother. Olivia could already hear the door slamming and the screams of “I hate you!” That was the hardest part of being a parent—knowing that you’d go to any lengths to save your child, even if they would never understand.
She stared at a photo on her desk of Mason at the blackjack table in his favorite casino in New Orleans, grinning while he lost more of their money. Olivia kept it there as a reminder of what might have been if she hadn’t acted when she needed to.
“Just think of how much we can grow,” Mason had reasoned, the night he announced they were moving to Louisiana. “It’ll be so much easier to manage an expansion into Texas and Oklahoma from down there.”
But Olivia wasn’t moving anywhere, not then, not now. She’d moved enough for one lifetime, something Mason just wouldn’t understand.
There was another photo on her desk, this one of Melody at the beach. Florida, if Olivia remembered correctly. Lots of her daddy’s charm in that sweet face, so like her daddy in the assumption that everything would go her way. “Oh let her have it, Liv,” Mason would say every time Melody made some new request. He’d denied her nothing and Olivia had followed suit, unable to say no, at least to her daughter.
Olivia heard a snuffling sound and looked down to see Peaches back again, a living demonstration of her inability to say no. The dog sniffed the carpet in front of Olivia’s desk, detecting some phantom scent from the men who’d been there earlier. Cute, useless little thing, but Melody had wanted her. “She’ll grow on you, Mama,” her daughter had said. She was probably thinking the same thing about Timmy. But some things couldn’t be allowed to grow, they had to be yanked out before they took hold, just like kudzu. Olivia had to take care of Timmy now, before Melody did something truly stupid and married the jackass. Or worse, had a child by him.
The deeper the roots, the harder they were to remove.
Of course Olivia could have divorced Mason, but then Melody would have grown up in a broken home. She’d taken him on a cruise instead. He’d loved those luxury liners, always enjoyed the free booze. They’d been fourteen floors up and way out in the Caribbean when she pushed her biggest problem overboard.
Or so she’d thought. Sitting there, staring at the photo of her daughter, Olivia realized that she would never be rid of Mason, not completely. He lived on in their daughter’s dimples, charm, and terrible judgment. Timmy wouldn’t be the last man Olivia would have to kill. She’d be cleaning up Melody’s messes forever.
Back to TOC
Forty Bucks a Night
Susi Holliday
He grips the steering wheel so tight that his knuckles look like they might pop right out of the skin. “I’m never going to understand these damn roads. What’s with the exits on both sides, it’s—”
“For God’s Sake, James, watch where you’re going!” The loud honk of the truck passing them—too close, too fast—jolts her husband into action and he pulls away from the central-line that he’s been straddling.
“Sorry, darling. Still getting used to being on the wrong side of everything here.”
Linda Matthews blows out a sharp breath. Sh
e wants to say something. Start an argument. But what’s the point? She’s sick of arguing. What she really wants is something to eat that isn’t fried or served between two halves of a bun, and a good night’s sleep in a comfortable bed. Going for the “budget” and “real” experiences had been fun for a while, but she’s looking forward to some luxury again. She flicks the AC to max and leans back into the seat. After a moment, her heart rate starts to slow. She examines her fresh manicure. The little girl in Savannah had done a nice job. A deep jade with a glittery topcoat. It was going to look perfect with the dress she had planned for tonight.
“How much further to Jacksonville?” She peers at the satnav, trying to work it out. Forty-five miles? An hour then, tops, by the time they find the hotel. Even with the satnav, they seem to struggle with the exits and some of the instructions on how to find the parking. She closes her eyes and imagines the infinity pool at the Renaissance. Wonders if it’s too late to book in for a massage this evening. The tension in her shoulders is back, despite them being on holiday. Away from everything. They’re supposed to be recharging. Regrouping. Relaxing.
I-95 is not relaxing.
She opens her eyes again at a high-pitched ping ping ping, accompanied by a flashing red light on the dash.
“Uh oh…” James says. The car slows.
Linda slides over to get a better look. The needle on the petrol gauge is almost at zero.
“Looks like we’re outta gas, honey,” James says.
“Stop talking like that,” Linda snaps. “You’re from England, James. We’re not in a crappy road trip movie.”
“Oh, but we are, dear. We’re in the one where the stressed out travelers run out of gas…sorry, petrol…and have to spend the night in a motel off the highway. The kind of motel where baaad things happen.”
Linda turns away from him and stares outside. A huge silver station wagon slows beside them; a blond-haired boy has his face pressed up against the window in the back. She smiles at him, and he sticks out his tongue.
Little shit. Probably medicated, like all the bloody rich kids here.
“It’s only two miles to the next rest stop. I think we can make that,” James says.
The car speeds up slightly, and Linda lets out a long slow breath. No point in getting worked up now. Besides, there are benefits to them getting out of this car sooner rather than later. Benefits that she has stashed in her suitcase, crammed into the side compartment in between her fancy cosmetics and the small canvas bag that contains her dirty underwear. There’s something she likes about that dichotomy.
“Hey, look,” James says, excitement in his voice. “This looks perfect. All part of the fun, right?”
The sign looms ahead. Pale blue with a bright yellow sun. Red text. Sun View Inn. Only forty bucks a night! Linda squeezes her hands into fists. “Great,” she manages, as they pull into the parking lot and the squat, two-story building comes into view. It looks like every roadside motel she’s seen in every American movie. Two floors, blue doors. A vending machine on the ground floor. What looks like the office at the end. Various cars, trucks, and motorcycles parked up. She’s relieved, actually. It doesn’t look particularly threatening.
“I hope there’s a restaurant,” she says. She unclips her seatbelt and smoothes her skirt. Her hands are a little clammy, despite the cool air. Her hands shake, just a little. Not enough to be worrying about right now.
James pulls into a space between a white Dodge truck and a bashed red Camaro. “Hopefully, although you know what it’s like here. Might be a couple of fast-food places or drive-thrus nearby. You know we’ll have to drive—”
“For fuck’s sake, James. We can’t drive anywhere else. We’ve no petrol, remember?”
James laughs. “Of course. Sorry. I’ll talk to reception. Maybe there’s somewhere we can get a petrol can. Some back route we can walk to the nearest garage.”
Linda shakes her head and opens the door. The heat smacks her in the face. She’d forgotten how fucking awful it is, enclosed in the fake coolness of the car. Sweat prickles on the back of her neck. Her hair itches. She licks her lips, realizing she hasn’t even had a sip of water since they left Savannah. No wonder she’s irritable.
But she knows it’s not just the heat.
Despite having a wonderful first week’s holiday, with cute hotels, a million kinds of food and the fanciest car they could hire, Linda still can’t forget what James did.
“Sit back in the car, love. Stay in the cool. I’ll go and check us in,” James says. He’s already wearing the straw Panama he picked up in the market in Charleston. He thinks he looks like an intrepid explorer, but every time she sees that hat, Linda wants to grab it and stamp it flat on the floor.
She gives James a weak smile and climbs back into the car, sticks the AC back on full blast, directs the flow onto her hot legs. She’s got pretty good legs, for someone of her age, she thinks. Every bit as good as…
James knocks on the window, startling her. He says something she can’t hear, points at the motel, then grins, dangling a key at her. Room six. It just happens to be the room they’ve already parked outside of, so they don’t have to move. Presumably that’s what’s got James so bloody excited. She sighs. Come on, she thinks. Think positive thoughts. Tap into what the therapist said. Think about how much of this is an adventure. Think about how if James hadn’t done what he’d done, then you wouldn’t be on this adventure. Think about the infinity pool. Think about the firm hands of the hot masseur you’re going to book, as soon as you make it to the real hotel. This is just a quick stopover. In fact, if they can get some petrol soon, maybe they can drive on. It’s not too far now, and it’s still light. She opens the car door and the thick blanket of heat envelops her again, but this time she embraces it, like a warm, welcoming hug. She climbs out, slamming the car door behind her and follows James into room six.
The room is just as she expected it to be. Well-worn grey carpet. Two queen beds with functional, floral-patterned duvets (patterned to hide the stains), a white bedside cabinet in between, with a cheap lamp topped with a wonky beige-fabric shade. A narrow desk, with a coffee maker and a box filled with coffee filters and creamer sachets. A decent-sized TV is bolted to the wall above. At the far end, a door that presumably leads to the bathroom, and on the other side, another door.
One that leads to the next room.
Annoyance prickles across her neck. She walks up to the adjoining door and turns the doorknob, rattling it for good measure. Yanking, pushing. Rattling it again. Then she crouches down and peers through the keyhole. Sighs.
“It’s locked, darling,” James says.
She turns to look at him. Sees him fiddling around with the coffee filters, trying to work out how to put one in the machine.
“Do they all have adjoining doors?” she says. “I would really have preferred something a bit more private.” Safe, she thinks. I would’ve preferred something a bit more safe.
“Guy at reception says they only had one room left, and it was one that can be turned into a suite for a family. I guess this is what he meant. He assured me it’s locked though. I don’t think there’s anything to worry about.”
“Despite your wisecrack earlier about bad things happening, eh?”
He flips the lid of the coffee maker down and switches it on. “That was a joke, Love. You thought it was funny—”
“Maybe not so funny now that we’re here.”
James leaves the coffee maker to do its thing and walks over to the adjoining door. He bends, peers through the keyhole. “There’s no one in there. Might stay empty—”
“I thought you said there was only one room left?”
James straightens up. “Right. Well there’s no one there at the moment. Tell you what, why don’t you go and get a bit of toilet paper and we’ll wedge it into the keyhole? At least then you won’t have to worry about anyone peering through at you, just like we’ve been doing to them.”
“Made you a coffee. Two creamers.” James is reclined back on a stack of pillows. All the pillows, it seems, the other bed now has none. He’s flicking through the TV channels, the volume on low.
Linda rolls the toilet paper into a tight cylinder and stuffs it in the keyhole. She picks up the coffee he’s left for her, sniffs it. It has that slightly off-smell of UHT powdered cream, but she takes a sip and it’s not bad. “Did you ask the receptionist about petrol?”
“Uh huh. Says there’s nowhere near we can walk to. And, as you said, it might be a risk to drive, so…”
“So? What exactly are we supposed to do, then?” She surveys the room again. The thin sheets exposed after James moving all the pillows. What if there are bedbugs? She’ll have to check the mattress before going anywhere near that bed. She doesn’t want to take any of those little bastards with her to her next destination. Might already be too late though, because she’s sure James won’t have bothered to check his bed before climbing into it.
The Swamp Killers Page 4
