He thanked her and hung up. There was no question in his mind that he could trust Mary Carroll. She was definitely a woman of her word.
Hallock walked over to a coffee machine, slipped in three quarters, pushed the coffee button and then the one for milk. He watched while the cup dropped and the liquid poured in. A packet of sugar slid down a chute. He swore at this measly amount, then took his coffee over to a turquoise plastic seat.
So that was it. All four victims had a connection to that old fire. Suddenly the A's and the swastika all made sense. But the reasons for the killings were still a mystery. Or were they? Sipping his coffee, too bitter for his taste, he hazarded a guess.
Someone was systematically killing the survivors of that fire because it had somehow changed his life. And not for the better. Someone had harbored a hatred for twenty-five years; had waited and planned for just the right time. Someone whose mind was tortured and twisted. And now he was killing survivors of that terrible fire-and their relatives. The fire that totally destroyed the only nightclub Seaville had ever had: Razzamatazz.
LOOKING BACK-75 YEARS AGO
The Gazette hears considerable agitation about sprinkling the village streets with oil. If this is not done, there is a likelihood of a water famine should there be a dry summer. That there is a need for the economy of water no one in authority disputes. From the present conditions it seems that it would be good judgment to consider the oiling of the streets. The village fathers have given the question some thought.
THIRTY-THREE
Colin waited behind a billboard advertising Alfredo's Bistro in Bay View. Rumor had it that Alfred couldn't stay away from his own food and had had to have his mouth wired shut to lose weight. The ad displayed him, looking trim and handsome, holding out a steaming plate of spaghetti. Natives knew Alfredo hadn't looked that good in twenty years.
At this moment Colin didn't care if Alfredo weighed four hundred pounds or forty, the billboard offered him a shield and that was his only concern. He'd been behind it for only a few minutes, and now the main road looked clear. Was the road always so empty on a June night, he wondered, or did the lack of traffic reflect what was happening here?
Stepping carefully around the billboard, he hunkered down, dashed to the edge of the road, looked both ways, then raced across and into the woods. As he made his way toward the motel he stayed just off the path inside the trees. He could see the lights inside the office. The rooms were behind, sixty feet or so down a path, strung one right after another, nothing but a plaster wall separating each. Hallock's room was 131, but there seemed to be no point in trying to get in unseen; he had to use the phone to warn Annie, and knew the call would register in the office. Still, he thought he'd better check to see if Hallock had returned. As he approached a man and woman came out of the end unit.
"Evening," the man said.
"Hello," said Colin.
The woman looked him up and down, nodded.
He smiled at her but she averted her eyes. Did he look that bad? he wondered. He'd tried to brush himself off while he waited behind the billboard, but perhaps the damage was worse than he'd thought.
Continuing across the cement walk in front of the rooms, he found 131. The room was dark. He knocked, called Hallock's name, but there was no reply.
At the office he hesitated; what if Liz Wood knew who he was, recognized him from his picture in the paper? For all he knew, there might be a warrant out for his arrest. Even so, he had to take the chance. Hallock was his only hope.
A woman sat behind the counter. Above her head, on a shelf, a black-and-white television was playing a sitcom. She watched the screen intently, a cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth. Her copper-colored hair was wrapped around pink curlers. The light blue sweatshirt she wore said Grab a Heine, and displayed a bottle of beer. She glanced at Colin quickly then went back to her show.
"Excuse me," said Colin.
"Yeah?" she replied, still watching the television.
"I'm a friend of Waldo Hallock's and-"
She turned, leveling a baleful gaze at him. "You the one which called before?"
"No. Are you Mrs. Wood?"
"Who wants to know?" She eyed him carefully.
Did she look at everyone this way, he wondered, or was she recalling his picture from the paper? "My name is Mike Rosler," he said. "I'm a friend of Waldo Hallock's, and he asked me to meet him in his room but he's not there. I wonder if you could let me in?"
She took the cigarette from her mouth, a bit of paper sticking to her bottom lip. "Let you in?"
"In his room. To wait."
"When'd he make this plan with you?" she asked suspiciously.
"A few days ago."
"Well, he ain't back yet."
"Yes, I know," he said patiently. "That's my point. I'd like to wait for him. In his room."
"Where you from?"
It was clear now that she didn't know who he was. He wondered what place would gain her approval, and took a gamble. "I'm from the Midwest. Omaha."
"Omaha?" She permitted herself a small, tight smile. "Had a cousin lived in Omaha. He was a drunk," she said, looking at him as if he might have the same problem. "You drink?"
"Hardly at all," he answered truthfully.
"You look a mess."
He glanced down at his clothes, saw that his trousers were wrinkled and smeared with dirt. He hoped she couldn't see the bulge under his windbreaker where he'd tucked the gun into his belt. "I've been traveling." Fruitlessly, he brushed at his pants. "That's another reason I'd like to wait in the room. I'd like to clean myself up, take a shower."
"You'd be using his towels." She raised a thin eyebrow.
"He wouldn't mind."
"Good thing you're looking for Waldo. He's about the only person you could of said you was waiting on for me to let you in, considering what's been going on around here lately."
"What's that?" He hoped nothing showed in his face.
"Never mind. What'd you say Waldo was to you? Uncle?"
"No. Just a friend."
"How do I know you're telling the truth?"
"You don't. You'll just have to trust me."
"I don't have to do anything, mister."
"I didn't mean it that way. I meant, I'd like you to trust me."
"I'll bet." She stood up and reached behind her, taking a key from a pegboard. "Master key," she said to him. "I'll have to go down with you." She cast a woeful eye toward the television screen. "Let's hop to it. I don't want to miss my nine o'clock show."
Near the door Colin spied a candy machine. He rummaged through his pockets for some change.
"You coming, or what?"
"I just want to get something," he said, pointing to the machine.
"Out of everything but Clark Bars."
"That's fine." He dropped his money into the slot and pulled the handle. The candy slid into the tray at the bottom. It took control not to rip open the paper and swallow the bar whole. He put the candy in his pocket and followed her down the path.
She seemed to slide along as if she were skating rather than walking, her blue sandals spraying dirt on either side of her. At Room 131 she turned to him before putting the key in the lock.
"Hope you aren't gonna try any funny business?"
"Funny business?"
"Don't try bringing any woman down here now. I'll know if you do."
"Mrs. Wood, I just want to wait for Waldo Hallock, that's all." And eat my goddamn candy bar, he added to himself.
"Who said I was Mrs. Wood?"
"I assumed."
"Big shot," she muttered, put the key in the lock, and opened the door.
It was the usual motel room, one double bed with an orange spread, a plastic orange chair, a desk made of some synthetic material, two paintings on the wall of Keane-type children, and a black- and-white television in the corner.