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.
"Estelle?" said Cherri Lucinda. "What are you doing in here? I found a note saying Arly was going to sleep in the other bed. Has there been a change in plans?"
"I decided to sit in here in case the hospital calls. Why's he here?"
Rex smiled so broadly that Estelle couldn't help but think of crazy old Merle Hardcock in his Evel Knievel period. "Cherri Lucinda offered to loan me a bit of money for a few hours," he said.
"But you have to pay it back," Cherri Lucinda said primly. "Jim Bob won't like it one bit if he gets out of jail and finds out you took his winnings from last night."
"No problem," he said. "I have analyzed and identified the flaw in my method. Once corrected, the contents of the casino coffers will be mine, and you will have your cut. I'll even add a chip to Jim Bob's stash. We'll all have champagne for breakfast."
"I don't much care for champagne," said Estelle, feeling contrary for no good reason. "Rex, would you step out to the balcony for a minute? There's something I want to ask Cherri Lucinda here."
"Girl talk, I suppose," he said, chuckling as he opened the sliding door and went onto the balcony. "Don't be all night, please. I'd like to get back down to the casino and start raking in their money. Unlike the three of us, the night is young."
"What's his problem?" Estelle demanded as she pulled Cherri Lucinda into the bathroom. "Is he drunk?"
"I don't think so. He was kinda mopey when he found me downstairs, but once I said he could borrow Jim Bob's chips, he cheered up. Do you know anything about Jim Bob? Do they have strict visiting hours at the jail? Should I take him a toothbrush?"
"Now that Mrs. Jim Bob's here, you'd better pretend you never met him." Estelle peeked out the bathroom door to make sure Rex was still on the balcony, then said, "Who was that bald man you were talking to in the bar earlier?"
Cherri Lucinda studied her reflection in the mirror. "Him? He came into the club the other night and bought me a drink between shows. I don't recollect him telling me his name, but most of the customers don't. The ones that do are all named John or Joe. Strange, isn't it?"