He banished any thoughts about turning back. He’d come to kill a man. The mission demanded it, so he wondered how he was going to get into the house. He tried the back door. It was locked. He checked the two windows that were accessible from the back porch and discovered that they were also locked. It was a big house, with a lot of windows. He started working around to the side and discovered a window with a broken pane on his fifth try. He reached his hand through the opening, unlocked it, raised it, and climbed into the house.
While his eyes were getting used to the dark, his nose told him that the house was a dusty, dusky kind of place. He knew Morrow lived alone and that he was reconditioning the house, bringing it into the twentieth century, but he had no idea the place would be covered with a decade’s worth of dust. When his eyes allowed limited sight, he saw paint peeling from the ceiling and walls and that the room was devoid of furniture.
He reached into his pocket, took out a disposable lighter and flicked it. The flame showed him the door across the room and he followed its lead to a hallway that lead into a kitchen. Through the dancing shadows he saw a fully appointed modern kitchen, complete with built in dishwasher, oven and oversized refrigerator. There was a note stuck on the refrigerator door with a Daffy Duck kitchen. He crossed the room and read it.
Susan
You’ll find plenty to eat in the fridge. I can be reached at 713-555-3487. See you in 5 days.
Love ya — Dan
He turned on the light. He was furious. He scanned the kitchen and found the phone. He grabbed it and dialed the number.
“ King’s Pride Inn,” a female voice with a German accent answered.
“ I’m trying to reach my son, he left this number.”
“ What’s your son’s name?”
“ Sam Storm,” he lied, giving the only name he could think of on the spur of the moment.
After a few moments the woman with the accent said, “Sorry he’s not registered, but maybe he’s staying with someone else, most of our rooms have two or more kids staying in them during the summer.”
“ Why?”
“ We’re one of the cheapest motels in town and we treat the river rats right.”
“ River rats?”
“ The kids who go tubing down the Comal River.”
“ Tubing, what is tubing?”
“ They sit in inner tubes, you know, those things they used to put inside of tires before they invented tubeless.” The woman had a smart mouth. She coughed, then continued. “They float down the river and drink beer all day long.”
“ Where are you located?” Storm had heard enough.
“ New Braunfels, near San Antonio.”
“ Thanks.” He hung up.
He stood for a moment in thought. Then he left the kitchen to explore the house. With the exception of the living room, all of the downstairs rooms, he counted ten, were empty. Upstairs only one of the six bedrooms was furnished, all the others had wallpaper or paint peeling off the walls, and the hardwood floors were in serious need of repair. Many of the upstairs window screens were torn or missing and the upstairs bathrooms, with the exception of the one off of the master bedroom, were not functioning. Danny Morrow had a long way to go to get his money back from this white elephant, he thought.
Irritated, because now he had to drive the rest of the night, he made his way down the stairs. Outside he heard a car door slam. Instinctively he knew it was the girl the note had been addressed to. He turned out the light and hastened out of the kitchen to the dark hallway, where he hid in the space under the stairs.
He was cramped, but from his darkened position he could see into the kitchen and he had a clear view of the back door. He waited silently, like in ambush. He heard footsteps on the back stairs, heard a key inserted into the lock, heard the door latch click and he saw the door open.
It was the girl from the Irish Pub, Susan. Of course, he should have made the connection earlier when he read the note. She was wearing the same white skirt, but she’d changed out of the peasant blouse that had revealed so much into one that had sleeves and buttoned up to the neck.
The girl went to the refrigerator, read the note, then opened the door. She took out a quart of chocolate milk and drank from the carton. After she finished it, she tossed the carton in a waste basket. Storm readied himself for the attack, but before he moved, she turned round again, closed the refrigerator and started in his direction. He looked at her pouting lips as she approached his hiding point, and he clenched his fists, biting into his tongue. Her lips were the color of a New Orleans Hurricane. She had Hurricane lips.
She came into the dark hallway and stopped, inches from his crouching form, searching for the light switch. Her skirt brushed against his face. He could kill her so easily, but he didn’t. He held his breath, hoping she wouldn’t look down and see him, a coward below the stairs.
She found the switch and the hallway burst into light, allowing Storm to take in every weave of the cotton fabric. He started to reach for her, but something held him back. She had Hurricane lips. Louise had Hurricane lips. In the bar, behind the stage light, her lips were lighter, but now he knew they were Hurricane red, that special red that till now he had only seen on his wife. He was powerless.
She moved away and mounted the stairs. He remained until she reached the top, then he allowed himself a breath. He waited till she went into the one furnished room up there and imagined that she was using the working bathroom, probably to take a shower.
When he thought she was safely out of earshot, he eased his cramped body out from under the stairs and silently made his way to the kitchen. He opened the door with a burglar’s soft touch and made his way out of the house.
He crossed the street, a man torn in half, and slid behind the wheel. The fire inside him raged, he wanted to go back to his room and sleep, but forces beyond his control were driving him on. He reached under the seat for the road atlas and turned on the map light.
New Braunfels was about thirty miles north of San Antonio. He lay back, closed his eyes and asked himself if driving all night to kill a man he didn’t know was what he wanted to do.
Danny Morrow had done nothing to him. In fact, he told himself, if Gordon and his gang hadn’t set up their underground network, he wouldn’t have had a job for the last fifteen years. It wasn’t their fault that they were too smart to get caught in the act. It wasn’t their fault that the crime they were committing wasn’t felonious enough to keep the police interested. It wasn’t their fault that collectors all over the country clamored for the bootlegs. And it wasn’t their fault that everybody in the record industry laughed at him behind his back.
But he hated being laughed at. He started the car and drove the night away and half the next day. He was tired and sleepy when he turned off the interstate, but he still managed to find the King’s Pride Inn in less than five minutes.
He stretched, yawned and stepped out of the cool air conditioned car into a hundred and three degree West Texas summer day, where breathing was the only thing one had to do to work up a sweat.
He undid the top buttons of his sport shirt and wiped the sweat from his brow. He felt lousy. He hadn’t slept in over twenty hours. He hated the heat and he was beginning to question his actions. He was no longer sure he was fighting the good fight, but gritting his teeth, he made his way to the lobby.
He pushed open the glass door and again entered air conditioned comfort. And with the cold, the rightness of what he had done and what he was going to do flooded through him. The death of Gordon’s gang of four, followed by the death of Gordon himself would send a shock wave throughout the international bootleg community. Fear of finding themselves in the same shoes would send the other bootleggers scurrying for cover. Then, when the world was free of these record and CD pirates, he would finally be able to rest.