The clerk was a wide-eyed boy in his late teens, with bowl-cut, sandy hair and halitosis. His name tag identified him as ‘Oliver’. Her parroted the trademark welcome, Carla produced the booking receipt that her boss’s secretary had supplied, and he laboriously keyed the reference number into an unbelievably decrepit computer that Carla was pretty sure was running Windows 95.
“There you go.” he announced at last. “Your room is on the second floor, to the right of the elevator. Breakfast is from seven ‘til nine. Enjoy your stay in the Gilman House Exec Lodge Hotel and do please let us know if we can help to make your visit with us more comfortable.”
“Is the dining room closed?” was all Carla wanted to know.
“I’m af-f-fraid s-s-so, Miss” he blurted. It seemed that once he left the corporate script Oliver had a wild stammer. “D-d-dinner is from six o’clock ‘til half past seven.”
“Is there any way I can get a sandwich or something?”
“N-n-n-no, Miss. It’s against th-th-the rules. There are some s-s-s-snacks available at the bar. You know. P-p-p-peanuts and th-things” he added helpfully, though not without a light shower of spit.
“Fine. Thankyou.” Carla turned and headed for the elevator before he could muster any more wet plosives.
There was a tacky plaque by the elevator, mock bronze with a mock wood surround. Carla read it while she waited for the car to reach the lobby.
Carla read it twice, trying to parse some sense into it, before giving up. She really hated these places.
Her feet almost sighed when she took her shoes off. She was ravenous, but she wanted a shower more.
The room was sparse and functional – and rather cold – but it was at least clean. The curtains and upholstery were a bit drab, in muddy, 1970s colours, but she’d stayed in worse. Even the phone was an analogue, rotary dial model. There was a radio, but the only station she could find featured some angry, right-wing demagogue calling for war with Syria, so she turned on the television to get some music instead.
Ten minutes under the shower woke her up a bit and left her feeling more positive. Maybe she would walk across to that bar she’d seen, see if they did food.
She let the laptop boot up while she brushed her teeth, and looked for a wireless signal while drying her hair. There wasn’t one. Not to be defeated, she plugged her cellphone in and used it as a modem. It was slow, but better than nothing.
E-mails trickled steadily into her inbox. Nothing from the guys in Colorado, or her boss. Just routine notices about car parking, mugs disappearing in the office, a reminder to sign-in all visitors… There were a few forwarded e-mails with titles like ‘Beat the midweek blues!’ and ‘Ten reasons why are terrorists like cats!!!’ which she deleted without opening.
The only thing of any possible interest was a message from her mother. How many times had she told her not to send things to her work address? How had she even got her work address? Carla thought about bouncing it back, but in the end morbid curiosity overcame reluctance, and she double-clicked.
dearest child! GOD grant that u b well in yourself and in HIS eyes. HE has a plan 4 us all that is part of HIS great and blessd plan and knows what is in r hearts. i need u 2 ring ur sister 2 talk about CHRISTMAS and were u will b 4 it. she talking about gettng a divorce. ayla is not well and expects 2 b called 2 HIM soon. i say she will last longer than all of us! i expect u are busy. GOD bless.
Not too bad. At least it was short. Ignoring the usual religious claptrap – and the rather snotty jibe about her being busy (challenging her not to reply) – there was nothing that required an immediate response. Tomorrow. She could reply to it tomorrow.
A few minutes driving around brought her to a Macdonalds, where she grabbed a burger and fries. She took it to eat in the car, despite the chill from the missing window – the local kids horsing around in the eatery hadn’t exactly regarded her lovingly, and she’d already had enough trouble for one night. Normally Carla would have hated herself for being so easily intimidated, but on this occasion she figured she had an excuse.
Back at the hotel, she decided to get a nightcap at the bar. Oliver was serving now. Carla had already had unpleasant experiences with the house wines in Exec Lodge bars. She ordered a gin and tonic, figuring that even Exec Lodge couldn’t spoil that. She was wrong. Too much gin, too cheap gin, and the only tonic they had was Slimline.
There was one other guest drinking in there. He looked like a salesman of some kind, and perked up as soon as Carla walked in. Carla wasn’t sure whether he was envisioning some illicit romantic encounter, or just pleased at the prospect of someone to talk to, but was determined to disappoint him just the same.
She took her drink and her laptop to a corner table and returned to the folder of Innsmouth documents, scrolling through it until she found the autopsy reports on the four dead teens.
Wayne Ramsgate, the driver of the car: he had been impaled on the steering column. The vehicle was old, it had no airbags, and none of the occupants had been wearing their seatbelts.
The toxicology screen had found a significant quantity of methamphetamine in his system, and a blood alcohol level that was way above the legal limit for driving. At night, in the rain, on a winding road, the crash was starting to look like something of an inevitability.
Shaznay Parker, aged 14. The impact had thrown her through the windshield and into a tree, killing her instantly. Her bloodstream was flooded with barbiturates, more of which had been found in her boyfriend, Wayne’s, pocket. The officers on the scene seemed to think that the disposition of her corpse, where it had rebounded onto the hood of the car, indicated that she had not even been awake at the time of the crash. Her parents had apparently taken this as evidence that Ramsgate had abducted her against her will.
Carla scrolled on. Ramone Ramsgate, Wayne’s step-brother, had also been thrown clear of the car, and drowned, unconscious, in the ditch. Their step-sister, Kara Ellis, was found in the passenger-side footwell with a broken neck.
Photos of the accident scene and the post-mortem procedures had not scanned well, and it was hard to make out details amongst the general carnage. There was a separate folder of pictures of the particular features that had led the county medical examiner to report the teenagers to the CDC.
A shadow fell across her. “No need to ask if you’re from around here. I can already tell that y’ain’t.” It was the salesman. Great. Carla decided to give him short shrift.
“Nope. Hence the hotel.”
“Heh, yeah, I guess that figures.” He gave a short, mirthless laugh. “Name’s Alby. Alby Trent. Salesman b’trade.”
Carla kept her eyes fixed on the laptop screen. “You married, Alby?”
The salesman seemed genuinely shocked by the question. “Why, no! Certainly not! Look here, I’m not that kind o’ guy. Just makin’ conversation. See? No weddin’ ring.” He waved a pudgy hand in front of her. “See?” He wagged his hand around for a few more seconds. When Carla didn’t acknowledge it, he dropped it back to his side and turned uncertainly to go. “Fine. I’ll, ah… leave ya be then.”
He sounded so crestfallen, and so pathetic, that Carla found herself relenting. She closed the laptop. “Alby!” He looked over his shoulder, uncertainly. “So… what do you sell?”