Chuck’s Motel was a long concrete-block building with six units in a row. Inga was at the end of the line-room 6-at the opposite end from the office. She had requested it for privacy, which was a waste of time, really, because the only other lodgers were a friendly retired couple in room 1-Mel and Lydia from Detroit, whom she had met briefly a few days ago.
The motel was several blocks off Highway 281, away from the well-lit town square. Back here on the side streets, with Tommy gone, it was easy to get lonely. And a little spooked.
The scratching came again.
“Tommy, is that you?” she called out.
No answer. Inga thought Tommy might be trying to get her attention without going to the door. Deputies still cruised the parking lot every few hours, hoping to catch Tommy coming back to the motel. Where else could he go?
But the truth was, you could hardly go anywhere in Johnson City without seeing a cop right now. The small town was like a beehive, with city, county, and state units coming and going all the time. All because of the hostage situation at the sheriff’s office only four or five blocks away. Then again, everything in Johnson City was only a few blocks away. When Inga had first arrived in town, she couldn’t believe how small the-
She heard it again. Another scratch at the window.
Inga slipped out of bed and stepped over to the wall. “Tommy, dammit, is that you? You’re scaring me. Just come to the front door.”
Maybe there was a tree or bush just outside the window swaying in the wind. But she knew it was too dark on that side of the building to see anything…and, to be honest, she didn’t really want to open the curtains to take a peek.
She stood in silence, her ear pressed against the wall, waiting for another scratch. She watched the digital clock as one full minute passed, then two more. She breathed a little easier. It was obviously nothing. She was acting like a schoolgirl.
Then another noise came, an urgent rattling and slapping of aluminum against glass. Inga stifled an urge to scream. Somebody was just outside the window, removing the screen.
“Tommy!” she yelled. “Dammit, answer me!”
The noises ceased, but there was no reply. Clearly, whoever was outside, it wasn’t Tommy.
Inga turned to call 911-and remembered with a sudden panic that the room had no phone. When they had checked in a week ago, the stooped, gray-haired owner had said, There’s a pay phone just outside the office if you need to make any calls. Ice machine right ’round the corner.
Inga suddenly felt extremely vulnerable wearing nothing but panties, so she quickly donned a T-shirt and jeans. Then she surveyed the sparsely furnished room for anything she could use as a weapon. There were a couple of wooden clothes hangers in the closet. The drinking glasses in the bathroom were, unfortunately, made of plastic instead of real glass. Then she remembered she had a can of pepper spray in her purse. Wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing.
She dumped the contents of her purse on the bed and quickly sifted through the pile-when she heard a gentle knock on the door. From the other side came a whisper: “Hey, it’s me. Let me in.”
Inga blew out a sigh of relief and walked to the door. “Tommy, you jerk, why didn’t you answer me earlier?” Her hand went to the dead-bolt lock, but she waited for Tommy to reply. Silence. “Tommy?”
Then, in a barely audible voice: “Yeah, it’s me. Open the door!”
The voice was faint, but it sounded like Tommy. Who else would it be? She felt silly for letting herself get worked up. Just to be sure, she put her eye to the peephole-and saw nothing but the parking lot. She moved to the window and parted the curtain slightly. Nobody out there. “Tommy! Where’d you go?”
Once again, silence.
Boy, he must really be worried about getting caught. Probably hiding behind a car. She slid the chain off its track, slowly turned the knob, and eased the door open. She poked her head outside and, in a louder voice, said, “Tommy, quit screwing around. Get in here!”
She saw a shadow move. Across the parking lot, behind a tree. She stepped out onto the concrete walkway in front of the room. “Very funny. Would you stop with the bullshit?” She glanced left and right, then took a few steps and stood beside her Volvo. The shadow seemed to have vanished. Or was that someone peeking out at her?
“Tommy?”
Right behind her, a voice said, “Expecting someone?”
Smedley could tell that he was lying on something hard, like a floor, rather than a bed. It felt like there was a wet cloth across his forehead, and his head was throbbing with each heartbeat. He had a hell of a headache. He got those sometimes, from too much sugar. Almost enough to make him cut down on the Twinkies.
He heard voices, far off, maybe in another room. He wanted to speak up, ask somebody where he was, but he didn’t have the energy. He couldn’t open his eyes, either; he seemed to have forgotten how. One of the voices was speculating that “Maybe the guy needs stitches,” with the other saying, “Naw, he’ll be all right.” Smedley wondered who they were talking about. Some poor guy had gotten injured. But he couldn’t worry about that now. He had to go back to sleep.
Smedley awoke again, maybe five minutes or five hours later, and this time he seemed to remember a car wreck. Had he been involved in a collision? He tensed for a moment. Had Maria been with him when it happened? He couldn’t remember…. probably not. Where would they have been going? No, most likely he had been alone. He recalled lying in Maria’s bed, then leaving for some reason. What was it? Something to do with Vinnie-having to follow Vinnie.
With a massive effort, he managed to lift his eyelids. He was staring at a pair of fluorescent lights on the ceiling. Everything was foggy, but the lights were bright enough to make him squint. He tried to lift a hand to rub his eyes clear, but his arms were immobile.
He drifted again…
He had hit that red truck, that’s what it was. He remembered that now. The wiseguys had tricked him, parking right in the middle of Highway 281. Shit, they had almost killed him. His head was pounding and he figured he must have slammed it against the steering wheel. What the hell had happened with the airbag?
He groaned and opened his eyes. Still a little muddy, but much clearer than before. He tilted his head to the left and saw two desks against a wall, with several filing cabinets between them. To the right he saw a leather sofa. Above the sofa, on the wall, were several plaques and certificates, one of which read, BETTER BUSINESS BUREAU.
Two figures stepped up and loomed over him. The hit men. One was a big guy, maybe six and a half feet tall, built like a nose tackle. Smedley could relate. The other guy was of average height-slim. Both with four or five days’ worth of facial hair, wearing ballcaps with logos on them, work shirts, and blue jeans. Smedley instinctively noted all of this in about two seconds, and he felt reassured that his skills of observation were intact. His vision was blurry, but his thinking was fairly clear.
He tried to lift a hand to probe the injury on his forehead, but his wrists were bound together. He raised both arms and saw that they were lashed with duct tape. He attempted to reach a sitting position, which was futile, because he hadn’t done a sit-up since the elder Bush was president.
“Easy there, pardner,” the slender man said. “You ain’t goin’ nowheres anyhow.”
Smedley eased his head back onto the floor. “Water?” he croaked. His mouth felt like someone had swabbed it dry with cotton.
The smaller man nodded at the big man, who left the room and returned with a small Styrofoam cup. He bent down and helped Smedley take a few small sips at a time. Eventually, the cup was empty.