The tawny-haired woman took the paper out of his hand. "Okay, everybody, listen once more to the lyrics and then we'll take our best shot. If Todd's mother won't let us sing it during the ceremony, we'll do it at the reception at the club."
Brother Verber wanted to give her a hug to express his gratitude, but instead drained the glass and gave her a broad grin. Who said young folks had lost their appreciation for that old-fashioned religion?
Saddam was snoring like a rock-crusher. Joy had staggered into the bedroom half an hour earlier and was currently stretched out across the bed, her feet twitching every now and then like she was a dog dreaming about a coon hunt.
Jim Bob eyed the crumpled bills on the floor next to Saddam's feet. A few of them might solve his problem with paying for a taxi back to the hotel, but might also lead to an unpleasant incident with a chainsaw if Saddam woke up and discovered his loss.
And how the hell did he think he was going to find a taxi, anyway? If there was one in this pissant town, the driver surely had been alerted to watch for the escaped prisoner last seen holding up a convenience store in the company of two of the most disturbing people Jim Bob had ever met.
It was hard to know exactly where he was. He'd seen flat fields on all sides when Joy had careened up the road and slammed on the brakes in front of the sorry excuse for a house. Headlights had flashed on a distant line of trees. He had an idea which direction the highway was, but if he headed that way, Saddam would know where to look for him.
Holding his breath, Jim Bob turned the knob and eased open the door. There was no sudden bellow from behind him. He stepped down on the cement block that served as a porch, pulled the door closed with only the faintest grate, then sprinted around the corner of the house and ducked behind a tool shed.
He made himself stay down until he'd counted to a hundred. What moonlight there was was filtered though clouds, but he could make out trees not more than a hundred yards away. Even if Saddam woke up, he might figure Jim Bob had stepped outside to piss. In a couple of minutes, though, he would realize what was happening.
Jim Bob wasted a second considering the wisdom of his actions, then began to zigzag across the field, grazing his knuckles on the jagged stalks and praying he didn't make a decent target. Chainsaws demanded proximity; guns didn't.
The field was a mess of mud and icy puddles, and it wasn't nearly as level as it had looked. Jim Bob lurched across endless rows, tripping and sprawling every third step or so, trying his best not to imagine a gun aimed at the middle of his back. If he'd ever wondered where his hackles were, he was damn sure he knew now.
When he reached the line of trees, he was gasping so raggedly that he could see blotches of light inside his head. He threw himself down and rolled under what proved to be a patch of briers. The stench of decay was nearly overwhelming, but he burrowed deeper until he was sure no flashlight could penetrate the branches.
He wasn't technically a fugitive from a chain gang, he thought with a sigh, but there were some noticeable similarities.
Martha Hitebred studied her reflection in the mirror. Changing clothes in the church was not only difficult in the dark, but a bone-chilling ordeal as well. Now, with her father down there, most likely hunkered on his desk like a turkey vulture, she could take her sweet time adjusting her skirt and combing out her hair. She didn't quite have the nerve to smoke a cigarette in the house, but she put one between her lips and pretended she was a slinky torch singer in a nightclub thousands of miles away.
"Anton," she murmured to an invisible suitor, frowning ever so slightly, "how presumptuous to think I'll share a bottle of champagne with you this evening. I am leaving for Paris at midnight. Go away."
Anton obediently faded. Martha pinched her cheeks until they pinkened, turned out the lights (her father seemed to equate the electric bill with the national debt), and went out to her car. She couldn't trust the old fart to stay at the church all night, but she figured she was safe for several hours. Even if he came home, he'd assume she was at the homeless shelter, as she claimed to be several nights a week, spreading the gospel.
Close enough.
17
I brooded long enough to hatch an illusionary egg or two, then went back into the hotel and down the hall to the private offices in the netherworld behind the registration area. Mackenzie was seated at his desk, scribbling what was apt to be a vaguely worded press release to explain away a teeny disturbance on the eighth floor.
"I have a question about security," I said as I sat down and propped my feet on the corner of his desk. The posture wasn't as comfortable as in my personal domain in Maggody, but it was not time to be picky.
"Shoot," he said, then winced. "Poor choice of words. What's your question?"
"Let's say I arrive at the hotel in search of my great-aunt, who's eloped with her hairdresser. I don't want her to know I'm on her trail. If I slip the desk clerk twenty bucks, will he tell me her room number?"
"Absolutely not. It's grounds for immediate dismissal. The only jobs in this region are in the hotels and casinos, and all of us crosscheck references very thoroughly. Nobody with enough wits to determine the room number would dare give it out."
"That's what I figured," I said, frowning. "I wonder how he knew which room Stormy was in."
Mackenzie sighed. "Is this an obscure reference to this enigmatic bald man? Give it up, Miss Hanks. The police have the killer in custody. Twelve witnesses have sworn that no one else could have been in the hotel room."
"I ran into the ladies earlier, and I have to agree that they seemed reasonably sharp."
"Well, then, if you don't mind, I need to continue working on my report of the incident." He picked up a pen and began to shuffle his notes.
Politely overlooking his hint that I make myself scarce, I said, "Actually, there were thirteen witnesses. The ladies from Tuscaloosa and the guy from room service. Did you talk to him about it?"
Mackenzie slapped down the pen. "No, I did not. I have no idea if Chief Sanderson or Deputy Jones bothered with him. I hope not. The food service employees are an edgy group; the presence of a uniformed officer in the kitchen area would have caused a major stir."
"I want to talk to him."
"Out of the question. This is a very busy time for them. Besides, his appearance at dawn suggests he's working the midnight shift. If you're going to be stubborn-and I can see you are-then perhaps I can arrange for you to meet with him early tomorrow morning."
"I really don't want to spend the night in this chair, Mackenzie. Can you get me a rollaway bed?"
Glowering, he snatched up the receiver and jabbed a button. I felt a twinge of sympathy for whoever had the ill fortune to answer at the other end. "Cutting here," he snarled. "I want to know who delivered a tray to the east wing on the eighth floor this morning around six. I don't know the room number. Once you have the name, find out if he's currently on duty. Call me back as soon as possible."
He hung up and gave me a chilly look. "Satisfied, Miss Hanks?"
"Want to play a couple of hands of gin while we wait?"
Estelle searched through Cherri Lucinda's bag, not sure what she thought she'd find that might explain who the bald man was. She found nothing more damning than some dingy bras and a lace nightie with some mighty peculiar holes. All the plastic bottles of shampoo, conditioner, and moisturizer in the bathroom seemed innocent, although she was afraid to dump out the contents to make sure there were no precious jewels at the bottom.
She was about to open the closet and rummage through coat pockets when she heard a key slide into the lock. Her heart pounding, she scurried over to a chair and was reaching for the clicker when Cherri Lucinda and Rex came into the room.