Flickering bars taunt me from the top of the screen. The call won't connect, and I end it to dial again. It's still struggling when the front door to the hotel opens. The clerk rushes out, clutching a cordless phone.
“Go back inside!” I shout.
There haven't been any more shots, but that doesn't mean there won't be. She doesn't need to be running around out in the open making herself the perfect target. Though I don't think she's who the bullets are meant for.
“Are you alright?” she asks, rushing toward me and reaching for my hand.
“You shouldn't be out here,” I tell her.
Seconds later, tires crunch across the gravel and her head snaps toward them, her face relaxing.
“Oh, thank goodness,” she says.
I stand up cautiously, expecting to see a police car. Instead, a dark blue truck sits at a diagonal across three parking spots just inside the lot. I know that truck and the face that's going to come out of the driver's side any second. Watery eyes meet mine, and scuffed boots hit the ground.
“Chief, thank you for getting here so fast,” the clerk says, rushing across the lot toward the truck.
“It's alright, Mirna. Just calm down and tell me what's going on,” Chief LaRoche says.
It's the first time I've heard her name, and somehow it fits her perfectly. It's the casual familiarity between the two of them that makes me pause. He came here to get the recording from the surveillance video, so she knew he was involved. I know I just saw him inside, yet Mirna said no one from Feathered Nest had come to the hotel recently. Why would she lie?
Or maybe she didn't. The pictures I took might tell me more, but I don't have time to look at them right now.
“Someone shot at the hotel. They almost hit a lady,” Mirna says.
I cringe. This is going to be a fun conversation.
“What lady?” he asks.
“Me.”
I stand and walk out from around my car. LaRoche's eyes narrow as he takes a step toward me.
“What are you doing here, Ms. Monroe?” he demands.
“I could ask you the same question. You got here mighty fast coming in from three towns over, Chief. Come to think of it; it's a little strange that an emergency call from here would go all the way to Feathered Nest,” I say.
“I have a police scanner in my truck,” he explains. “Not that I need to justify anything to you. What are you doing here?”
“Is there a reason I need to justify anything to you?” I ask.
“When you're standing in a parking lot that just got shot up, not to mention interfering with an active investigation, yes, you do,” he says.
“I'm not interfering with anything. I have every right to be here. And what do you mean active investigation? I thought you said Ron Murdock was killed by the wayward bullet of a hunter. An accident.”
“That is what happened.”
“Then why would you need to investigate it? If you already know, and you are sure it's an accident, wouldn't it be closed?” I ask.
His eyes narrow, but before he can say anything else, Mirna takes an imploring step toward him.
“Am I safe?” she pleads. “Is someone after me?”
“Mirna, no one has any reason to be after you.”
The way he said you hangs heavily in the air as the wail of sirens cuts through the tension, and blue and red lights sweep across his face. LaRoche's head snaps to the side to watch the police cars speed into the parking lot. The police Mirna actually called have arrived, and Mirna rushes up to them.
“Thank you for coming. I don't know what happened,” she says.
I listen to her launch into the story of the shooting but can still feel LaRoche's eyes on me. He's staring through eyes rimmed with red over a jaw set so hard the muscles strain against his skin.
“You have no reason to be here, Ms. Monroe,” he says, his voice low, his words slow. “You need to go on back to your cabin now.”
“I'm sure the police will want to talk to me. I am the one who was outside when someone started shooting at the hotel,” I point out.
“Likely, but when you're done, go home.”
“Do you have me under surveillance for something, Chief?” I ask.
“No. Just don't want anyone else in danger,” he says.
The threat slithers down the back of my neck and along my spine. I feel someone step up behind me, and I force myself to turn away from the chief. The officer behind me looks concerned as he grips a pad of paper and a pen as tightly as he can.
“Can I ask you a few questions about what happened?” he asks.
I nod, ignoring the feeling of LaRoche still glaring at me.
“Go ahead,” I nod.
“Mirna says you were out in the parking lot when the shooting happened. Is that accurate?” he asks.
I'm not sure how there may be a lot of ambiguity in that concept, but I nod anyway.
“Yes. I was on my way to my car when I heard the shots,” I tell him.
“How long did you stay at the hotel?”
“I wasn't actually staying here. I just stopped by for a few minutes.”
His eyes lift up to me, and he looks at me questioningly.
“What were you doing here?” he asks.
“I would like to know the same thing,” LaRoche calls from behind me.
The officer looks over my shoulder at him.
“Chief LaRoche, I'm surprised to see you here,” he says.
“Just trying to help. I'll be on my way. Ms. Monroe… “ he pauses like he's going over what he might say, then changes his mind. “Have a nice day.”
The officer turns back to me and asks a few routine questions. I answer them as quickly as I can, not wanting to hover around here any longer than I have to. I head directly back to my cabin. Not because the chief told me to, but because I want to look through the pictures I got and see if they can tell me anything. Something makes me hesitate as I climb the steps onto the front porch. It's a tugging feeling in my gut, like it's trying to stop me, but I don't know why. I hesitate and stare down at the darkened place on the porch before turning to look out over the lake.
Something is bothering me, pricking at the back of my mind. It doesn't add up, but I can't put my finger on it. Forcing past the discomfort crawling along the back of my neck, I go into the cabin and take my pictures and notes out from their hiding place. Attaching my phone to my photo dock, I start the process of printing off the pictures I took at the hotel. My stomach rumbles, and I try to think back to the last time I had a truly substantial meal. By the time I come back from the kitchen with a bowl full of mixed nuts and a cup of coffee, the pictures are waiting for me. I scoop them up and scan them.
The registration card filled out by the mysterious man offers the exact information the police chief gave me. He said his name was Ron Murdock. The rest of the card is scantily filled out, with many of the questions left blank. I get the impression Mirna isn't exactly a stickler for having all the pertinent details about the guests at her hotel. From the look of the blonde woman stuffed in the alcove with LaRoche, I wouldn't be surprised to find out a good portion of her clientele drifts in and out on a fairly regular basis and doesn't always stay the whole night.
One piece of information the card does list is an address. I open my laptop and put the address into the search engine. It's an Iowa address, which instantly strikes me as odd. Feathered Nest is out in the middle of nowhere for someone who lives in Virginia to get to. Iowa seems obscenely far away for someone to just happen on a porch on the first night the cabin it's attached to has been occupied in months.