The thing was, he didn’t have a face.
Where his features should have been, there was nothing but smoke and charred flesh. In real life, this was how I’d found Buddy after the accident, but in the dream, he didn’t seem to know he’d been fried. He just kept walking, rifle on his shoulder; he nodded to me when we met like he would have any other time. As for me, I wanted to scream, but when I opened my mouth nothing came out. And even though it didn’t happen like this in reality, and even though there was no way I could see my face in the dream, I knew with absolute certainty in the dream that the reason I couldn’t scream was because I no longer had a mouth, that I was just as burned as Buddy, or even more badly burned than him, and I knew we were doomed to keep up that patrol even though we were dead men.
Usually, when I got to this part of the dream, I’d wake up in a thrashing panic, tearing at my sheets and then flailing out of bed to find a light switch or a mirror, anything that told me I still had a face and that I hadn’t ended up like Buddy. This morning, though, it was a knock on the door that rattled me into wakefulness just before the real panic could set in.
It wasn’t a gentle knock, the kind you make when you know you’re likely to disturb someone on the other side of the door and you really want to take the edge off their annoyance. It was a rapid rapping, not a tapping, and it had the effect of splicing right into the same animal part of my brain that had been about to panic in the dream. I rose from sleep like wakefulness was a flaming ball of pitch that had just been shot from a catapult.
I was on my feet in nothing but boxer shorts before I even knew I was awake, my heart pounding and my fists ready to strike out at whatever was in front of me. There was nothing, of course—just an empty room with a closed door, on the other side of which was the unknown.
“Mr. Strait?” came a woman’s voice from out in the hallway. I couldn’t be certain, but I was pretty sure it wasn’t the desk clerk from the day before.
A maid? I wondered. Maybe somebody who knows I’m looking for Annabelle?
I reached a reassuring hand up to my face to let my fingers pass over cheeks and nose, making sure they were still there before I forced myself to take a deep breath and answer, “Who is it?”
“Can you come to the door, please?” the woman said.
“Can you give me a second?” I answered, looking across the room at the clothes I’d shed the night before, now laid out on the cushion atop the little stool next to the window, a thick beam of sunlight shining in upon the stool and the desk beside it.
“I’d rather not, Mr. Strait,” the woman in the hallway said. “I need you to open the door now.”
“Kinda pushy, ain’t you?” I asked.
“I’m a detective with the LAPD, Mr. Strait.”
The nightmare of Buddy Stiles’ missing face faded from my conscious mind as gooseflesh broke out on my arms and chest and my thoughts raced through all the possible things that could have brought the cops to my door—lying my way past the checkpoint behind the wheel of the Swan, using that crazy little gun on the punks in the alley, or something else? Something I hadn’t actually done? That thought was too much. As I considered all the possible ways I could have been mistaken for someone else, looped into someone else’s drama, I could do nothing to keep a spike of adrenaline from shooting its way into my brain. If my fight-or-flight response had been kicked into gear by the combination of my recurring nightmare and years of conditioning that put me on high alert whenever anything out of the ordinary occurred, then hearing that the woman in the hallway was with the police was like slamming the gearshift home in the same fluid motion that let out the clutch and flooded the engine with diesel.
“All right,” I heard my voice say, but in my mind, I was shouting that it wasn’t all right. I just couldn’t have said why.
And then, as I reached for the knob, I glanced again at my clothes on the stool, half-thinking I should still go and grab my pants. The sunlight glinted on the odd little gun lying on the writing desk. Once the door was opened, whoever stood on the other side of it—cop or not—would have a perfect view of the desk unless I tried blocking their line of sight with my body. And based on the determination I was hearing through that thin panel of wood, I didn’t think I’d be doing much of anything that was of my own accord once the door was unlocked.
Moving as lightly on my feet as I could, I raced to the desk.
“If you make us break this door in, no one’s going to be happy,” the cop said.
“All right,” I said again. She said “us,” I thought. She’d brought back-up.
I reached the gun, picked it up, and didn’t know what to do with it. A desk drawer would be no good; it might squeak in the opening or closing, and the cop—no the cops, plural—would know I’d tried to conceal something. Tossing it out the window would be even noisier and more time consuming. With no time to find a pocket in my clothes, I shoved the gun underneath the cushion on the stool where my clothes were piled. Then I raced back to the door.
The cop in the hallway was dressed in plain clothes—a tweed skirt with a matching jacket. She wore no make-up and had her dark hair pulled tight into a bun; it gave her a severe look, one that wasn’t helped by the fact that she seemed to be holding her jaw so tightly I’d have sworn it was broken if I hadn’t been hearing her speak just seconds before. Her eyes locked onto mine, not drifting down at all to check my state of undress.
“Jed Strait?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said.
I caught movement behind her and saw another plainclothes cop not far from this one’s left elbow. He was tall and blond with an angular face—protruding cheekbones, a sharp jaw and a Roman nose. It was easy to imagine him as a homely twelve-year-old boy who’d taken pleasure from pulling the wings off flies; once he grew up, the impulse had shifted into the need to carry a gun. Becoming a cop had probably come pretty naturally. I saw he had a piece of paper in his hand, which he looked at before turning his razor gaze back to me.
“That’s him,” he said, a cruel smile in his eyes. He folded the paper, which I guessed was a photo of me—maybe my military discharge, maybe the photo from the day before, the one the cops had snapped at the checkpoint. The folded picture went into his coat pocket.
The woman flipped open a little leather case with her detective’s shield inside. It looked to be about the brightest thing in the whole hotel. “Detective O’Neal,” she said. Then she threw a nod toward her partner, who was busy slipping a toothpick between his lips. “Detective Miller,” she added. “May we come in?”
“May I get dressed?” I asked, matching her tone. My adrenaline had ratcheted down only a little, and I was making an effort to keep the anxiety I was feeling from tipping my tone into downright nastiness—which I knew from experience wasn’t going to get me anywhere. Sarcasm was a better bet.
“May my partner step inside the door while you do?”
“May I ask why?” I ventured, knowing the cutesy act was probably pushing it but barreling forward regardless.
Her expression had never been anything but serious, and now it got even more so, like the ability to smile had just been excised from her nervous system. “If you must know, it’s so Detective Miller can make sure you don’t bolt down the fire escape before we’ve had a chance to talk.”
“Fair enough,” I said even though I wasn’t sure I meant it. Doubting I had other options, I stepped aside. O’Neal mirrored my movement, opening the way for Miller to walk in.
I didn’t see much point in closing the door, but O’Neal must have thought otherwise, as she pulled the knob toward her and let the bolt click into place. When I turned, I saw Miller making a circuit of the simple little room, ending up right by the window—inches from my clothes and the gun. I didn’t like that, and I knew right away that I didn’t like him; his partner—I guessed that she was actually his superior—seemed all right, but this guy had something about him that rankled from the get go. So, I moved in on him, heading right for
the little footstool as though he wasn’t blocking my path to it.
If the detective took my movements for aggression, he didn’t react that way. He just took a step back so I could get to the little pile of clothes. Without taking my eyes off him, I put my pants on one leg at a time and then slipped on my undershirt and my button-up. In no time at all, my shirt was tucked in and my belt fastened. I put my hands up in a “you got me” gesture like we’d have done playing cops and crooks as kids. Miller gave me his cruel smile and flipped the toothpick end over end so it disappeared into his mouth for a second and then popped back out again.
“Come on in, Detective,” he called out toward the door, rolling his eyes at me just a little as he said it.
I turned and watched O’Neal come in. She gave the place the once over just as Miller had done.
“Thanks for being cooperative, Mr. Strait,” she said.
“Always happy to help.”
“We’ll see.”
There was a scraping noise behind me, and I turned to see Miller had pulled the chair away from the desk and was proceeding to sit. And, of course, he didn’t just sit down but instead raised his feet up the second he was planted on the chair, dropping his shoes down onto the little stool by the window. I figured his size twelves were about two inches from the gun, and I was glad that his big feet must have been blocking his view of the little bulge that the gun made in the cushion.
“What can I do for you, Detective?” I asked, turning reluctantly back to O’Neal. I didn’t like having my back to Miller but right now saw no other option.
“What brings you to California, Mr. Strait?” she asked.
“I’m looking for a friend,” I said, figuring there was no point in lying.
“This…Annabelle?” she asked.
She’d already talked to the desk clerk, I realized.
“Yes,” I said. “We were an item before the war. She came here before I had a chance to find her back east.” It wasn’t exactly a lie. There was no way I was going to explain what had happened to me in the Break O’ Dawn or anything else about my real reasons for coming west.
O’Neal nodded. “Funny,” she said. “That’s not what you told our officers at the checkpoint up at the top of the Cajon Pass.”
“Ah,” I said and gave her a sheepish smile. “That was…a matter of expedience, you see.”
“I’m sure. And it was illegal, too. Did you know that, Mr. Strait? Lying to an officer, false entry…”
“I had an inkling. But…” I shrugged, hoping my expression suggested my belief that the little transgression really hadn’t done any harm.
“We can maybe let that go,” she said. “If you cooperate, of course.”
“Of course.”
“What can you tell us about the woman in the car with you yesterday?”
This was not an angle I’d been expecting. Ever since O’Neal had identified herself as a cop, I’d figured she was after me; I was just unclear on the reason. But if she was asking about Gemma, that told me I might not be tied to the train tracks—at least, not yet.
I managed a natural-looking shrug that I hoped didn’t give away my sense of relief. “Not that much,” I said. “She said her name was Gemma Blaylock. I don’t know if that’s her real name, or not. I was stranded in the desert, and she picked me up—offered me a ride if I’d drive her past the checkpoint.”
“And lie about your relationship with her?”
Another shrug. I was going to use up my supply of those things if I wasn’t careful, and then where would I be? “I was coerced, Detective. What can I say?”
“You’re a big boy. I think you know when to say no.”
“True.”
It was her turn, and she took it. “Do you know whose car that was?”
“The Swan?” I asked and shook my head. “No. She led me to believe it was hers, but after we got into the city, she let me out and then it looked like she was going to abandon it. I never saw any registration paperwork or anything like that.”
O’Neal nodded but didn’t say anything.
“Something tells me it matters who that car’s owner is,” I said. “Stolen?”
“Maybe. And the car’s owner definitely matters. But it’s not who it is. It’s who it was.”
“Was?”
“That’s right. The owner’s dead.” She let that sink in for a few seconds; any easing up that my adrenaline spike had been doing went back the other way.
“I’m going to guess that this person met an untimely end.” O’Neal just raised an eyebrow at this. Nervous, I managed to ask, “And you think Gemma did it?”
“Maybe.”
“You don’t think I did it, do you?”
She just stared at me for another moment and then said, “Should I?”
“No!”
I didn’t have to try to sound adamant. I knew I might be in the stew here, and everything I said or did in the next few minutes was going to matter—right down to my posture and tone of voice.
O’Neal’s stare didn’t break. After a few seconds, she said, “All right. You’ve got one chance to come clean. About everything.”
“I have been.”
“More. We need more.”
“And if I haven’t got more?”
Now it was her turn to shrug. I didn’t like the way it looked on her. “Try,” she said.
“That’s ridiculous. How can I—”
Behind me, I heard Miller say, “Hey, Caroline. Look at this.”
I turned my head, expecting to see Miller holding up the gun. He didn’t have it. His feet were still propped up on the stool; they probably hadn’t moved since I’d turned my back on him. He was holding something, though—a piece of Hotel Dorado stationery with my scribbled notes on it from the night before, and bigger than any of my scribbles was the star and triangle design I’d copied down from my recollection of the punks’ graffiti in the alley. Miller looked pleased with himself; it was an expression I promised myself I’d undo if I ever got the chance.
“You want to start by explaining that?” O’Neal asked.
“I don’t even know what it is,” I protested. “There were these punks in the alley last night, and—”
“Save it,” she said. “Get some shoes on.”
“Shoes?”
“I think we should finish our talk at the station.”
“Am I under arrest?”
“Not yet. You want to be?”
I let out a long breath.
“No,” I said.
She nodded at this, then turned to Miller. “You want to bring that, Deke? And anything else that looks wrong.”
Miller looked in the desk drawers while I got my shoes on. I considered my suitcase and asked O’Neal, “Am I coming back here today? Or should I bring my things?”
She was looking around the room and didn’t turn my way as she answered. “As to the first question, I don’t know. That depends on you. And the second, we’re going to a police station, Mr. Strait, not a dormitory. If you end up staying as our…guest, your personal effects will be tended to—wallet and belt and jewelry if you have any. But the rest of your worldly possessions…” She shrugged again and said nothing more.
“Would you mind if I stopped at the front desk on our way out then? So I can pay up for one more night?”
“Assuming you’ll be back here to get your money’s worth?”
“That’s the idea.”
She thought about it for a few seconds and then said, “Sure.”
It wasn’t something she had to do. Of that I was sure. But the fact that she was willing told me something about O’Neal, told me she wasn’t hard just to be hard, told me she’d be reasonable if I showed a willingness to work with her. I figured I could muster up a little cooperation as long as I wasn’t having to deal with Miller exclusively. In him, I saw none of the qualities of his superior.
I paid up downstairs, getting a receipt for one more night’s lodging from a different desk clerk, a young
man this time, barely out of his teens. When I tried making casual conversation with him, I could see the whole encounter made him nervous—the hotel guest being escorted out by people who were pretty obviously cops. “Don’t worry, junior,” I said as I slid the agreement back to him after I’d signed it. “I won’t bite.” He gave me a shaky little smile, and then I assumed he watched me being escorted out.
As we were walking down the street to the detectives’ dull black Peregrine, I asked O’Neal, “Do you mind telling me how you found me in there?”
She didn’t miss a beat, just said, “Trade secret.”
“I can guess,” I offered.
“Free country.”
I gave it some thought as we went along the sidewalk. It wasn’t too hard to figure out.
“You spotted the car,” I said, “which your checkpoint wasn’t looking for yesterday because they didn’t know the owner was dead. Since then, you’ve gotten word about whatever unfortunate end that person came to. You got the checkpoint info on the car and its occupants, so then you started looking for the car in the city. You found it…late yesterday, I’ll guess, and you linked it to our entry at the checkpoint. You figured my story was bogus and probably Gemma’s, too, but you had nothing but our stories and the abandoned car to go on. Then you took a chance and started canvasing the nearby hotels. It took you ‘til this morning to strike gold. Such as it were.”
We’d arrived at the Peregrine now. Miller unlocked the passenger door and flipped the back door open. I gave O’Neal a questioning look to see how close I’d come to the truth. Her stony face gave up nothing, but I figured if I hadn’t gotten it right, I was off on only a few of the details. As I slid into the back seat with Miller getting in beside me, I told myself I’d been an idiot for taking a room in the Dorado after I’d learned that Annabelle wasn’t there anymore. At any rate, I shouldn’t have registered under the same name I’d used when lying to the cops up in the desert. In my defense, I’d had no idea there was a murder case lurking under Gemma Blaylock’s rather emotionless exterior, so there really hadn’t been much reason to hide my identity. Even so, I should have known the cops at the checkpoint wouldn’t have liked being lied to and might have sent out the troops to come looking for me.
The Blacktop Blues: A Dieselpunk Adventure (The Crossover Case Files Book 1) Page 7
