Varney could not delude himself into believing that any action of his had prevented his death from happening. All that had saved him was that Prescott could not have explained things afterward. Varney’s hands were numb and tingling. He stripped off his clothes and ran the shower, then stepped into it, letting the hot water slowly restore his body heat.
As he closed the curtain, he caught sight of himself in the mirror over the sink. His hair was stiff and dirty from the surface slime in the boat harbor, his face pinched and white. Even the muscular torso he had worked so untiringly to build looked white and slack, like the flesh of a fish’s belly. This trip had been a disaster. He had talked to Prescott on a whim, and gotten so outraged at everything about him that he had decided to take a quick trip out here to put him away. That had been two days ago. Only two days.
He had not needed to do this. Prescott had made it clear that he wasn’t even planning to come after Varney yet. Varney had thought that this made now a good time. He had gotten the cops within a few hours after his plane had landed. Then he had gone after Prescott. He had done everything right. Getting into that office building as a security guard had seemed clever, but what had it accomplished? It had forced him to kill two security guards without any hope of ever getting a dime for it.
Now he was worse off than he’d been at the start. Prescott had heard his voice and seen his face. Prescott had found out one of his identities. Prescott probably hadn’t seen the plane ticket hidden in his suitcase, but if he hadn’t, it wasn’t because Varney had outsmarted him. The ticket would have told him the airport Varney had left to fly to Los Angeles. Varney had given all of that to Prescott. All he could do now was get out of town. But first, he had to leave a message.
After he had showered and dried his clothes, he took a nap. When he awoke it was four A.M. He walked to the airport and rented a car using the credit card that Prescott had compromised already. There was no question that Prescott and the cops would find out about it later. That would give Prescott the impression that Varney had not figured out that Prescott knew about it. Later this morning, Varney would give Prescott something else to wonder about.
Varney drove past the motel in Marina del Rey. He parked a half mile away, on a street that ran inland from the ocean, took the tire iron from the trunk of the car, and walked back. The parking lot was about as full as it had been when Varney had gone out eagerly to get Prescott. His mood was terribly different now.
Varney knew he would not have long to wait. It was nearly six. The maid who had cleaned his room in the afternoon was the one he had seen arriving yesterday a bit before seven in the morning, and the desk clerks seemed to change shifts at about the same time.
He came around the side of the motel to the entrance to the courtyard where the pool was. When he had checked into the motel, he had studied it with his usual attention to detail. Whenever the maids cleaned a room, they always threw open the curtains on the big glass doors to the courtyard to give themselves some light. Sometimes they opened a window to air out the room while they worked. When they finished, they closed and locked the window, but they left the curtains open.
He walked along the row of glass doors, searching. The fifth set had its curtains open. He could see the smooth surface of the bedspread pulled tight across the mattress, the pillow still plumped and covered. Varney had already found that the quickest, easiest way to open the sliding doors was to use a telephone calling card, so he used the one he had again, stepped inside, and slid the door shut.
Varney waited and watched through his small front window until he saw the door to the office open and the night clerk walk across the parking lot to a car along the fence, toss a lunch box and a thermos onto the back seat, get in, and drive off. Varney stepped out of the room, made his way to the office, and entered.
The day clerk was just putting his jacket on a hanger in the back room. Varney heard him put something on the rack in the small refrigerator, then heard him close the door, the insulating rubber gasket making a little smack as it sealed. The clerk came out to see Varney leaning forward with his left forearm on the counter. Varney could detect surprise, but no fear. Prescott must not have told him anything about the man he had been there to look for.
The clerk stepped closer. “Good morning, sir,” he said, smiling. “Are you coming back to stay with us again?”
Varney smiled back, and nodded. The man looked down and bent slightly at the waist to reach the blank registration cards on the shelf under the counter. Varney’s right arm brought the tire iron up from beside his leg, over the counter, and down on the man’s skull in a single, smooth stroke. He followed the blow by vaulting over the counter. He landed with both feet on the man’s back, but there seemed to be no huff of air, not even a tightening of muscles. Varney straddled him and swung the tire iron twice more. The man’s skull was now partly visible through clumps of hair, like shards of a broken bowl of red pudding.
Varney left him, went to the back room, and looked around. There were filing cabinets and a card file to keep track of the current guests. There was a table where people probably sat to take their breaks, and a door on the other side. He could see a couple of cardboard cartons, and the top of one was open. He looked inside, and saw that it had a blanket inside wrapped in plastic. He unwrapped it and tossed it over the clerk’s body to cover it so he wouldn’t get blood on his shoes. He noticed that his face felt strange, and realized that he had smiled at the clerk, and forgotten to stop smiling. He let the muscles go slack.
A couple of minutes later, he heard the maid’s cart rolling along the sidewalk beside the building. He waited until the sound stopped, then cautiously moved to the front window.
He could see the maid had opened one of the room doors and propped it open with her cart. He stepped along the row of doors to the room and listened for a moment, staring into the cart. When he heard her move into the bathroom and begin running water, he pushed the cart the rest of the way in, and quietly closed the door. Then he took a pillow case from the cart and stepped in behind her. She was bent over, cleaning the tub. He wrapped the ends of the pillow case around his fists, waited patiently until she began to rise to her feet, then quickly looped it over her head and around her neck.
She was a small woman, but she bucked and kicked furiously, even after he tightened the pillow case enough to cut off her air and lift her off the ground. He kept tightening it patiently until he was sure she was dead. He lifted her body and dropped it into the bin in her cart that was for dirty linens. Then he tossed over her the pile of sheets she had torn off the bed.
He took a last look around him, closed the door, and walked back to his car. He drove a couple of miles before he stopped at a pay telephone and dialed Prescott’s number. He waited until the answering machine beeped. Then he said, “I’m leaving. I left you a couple of good-bye presents at the motel in Marina del Rey. They’re to remind you never to come after me again.”