O'Clair looked behind him and saw a good-looking woman about forty, coming across the street, wearing a gardening belt, carrying pruning shears in her hand. He got on his feet and took off moving into the woods. He was unsteady, trying to find his legs. The air was dense and humid, sweat rolling down his face, as he followed the terrain downslope to a creek that wound its way through the woods, mosquitoes feasting on him. He crossed the creek, doing a balancing act on a tree trunk that had fallen across it, and went east up a steep slope and came out at Southfield and Maple, his shirt drenched, breathing hard.
It occurred to O'Clair at that moment he was getting old, tired from walking up a hill. He heard sirens and saw cars pulling over, a police car zipped by, followed by a mobile rescue unit and a yellow lire truck speeding through the intersection. It looked like this rich suburban town had been waiting for a little excitement and now they had it.
O'Clair waited for the parade of emergency vehicles to pass and the light to change, then he crossed Maple and walked three blocks back to the hotel. In the lobby, he ran into the bellhop who'd helped him earlier. His name was Colin, a thin little guy with white-blond hair and skin that was so fair it almost looked blue.
Colin said, "What happened to you?"
"Get me a copy of her bill." O'Clair could feel sweat running down his face that stung from the impact of the airbag and the mosquito bites.
"I don't know," Colin said. "I'd have to find a computer."
O'Clair handed him a damp, crumpled $20 bill.
Colin took it in his hand, made a face like he didn't want it, opened his fingers and saw the amount. He looked at O'Clair and said, "I don't know if I can-"
"I'll be in the coffee shop."
"Okay," Colin said, "but it's going to take some time."
"You've got ten minutes," O'Clair said. "Don't make me come looking for you."
Colin put the bill in his pocket now, figuring he was going to earn it, and headed toward the reception area.
O'Clair was drinking the hottest fucking coffee he'd ever had in his life, scalding his tongue, sitting at a tiny white circular wrought iron table in the coffee shop of the Townsend Hotel. The coffee and blueberry muffin he ordered came to $4.51 including tax. O'Clair asked the girl behind the counter if she'd made a mistake.
"No sir, it's a $1.75 for the coffee and $2.50 for the muffin.
See, it says so right here," she said pointing to a menu open on the counter between them.
O'Clair saw Colin, the bellhop, come in the room, looking around and he waved him over.
Colin handed him an envelope. "Sir, here's your bill."
O'Clair took it from him and pulled out a piece of neatly folded off-white stationery, the paper heavy, the hotel name in shiny gold type. Colin said he had to get back and moved away from the table. O'Clair opened the bill, studying it. Karen had made four phone calls, two to the same number. The cost for two nights, including room service and a couple movies, came to $963-more than O'Clair's mortgage payment.
Chapter Twenty-one
Bobby had dropped Lloyd off at the trailer park about 7:30, listening to him complain the whole way there, and then drove home to rethink things. He'd definitely underestimated Karen. She'd made fools of all of them. He parked and went to his apartment, searching his brain on his way up the stairs, trying to remember anything Karen had said that would help him find her. Where would she go? With over a million dollars, anywhere she wanted.
Bobby opened the door, went in and stopped. He couldn't believe it, the place was trashed. His fish tank was shattered on the living room floor. He saw the piranha on its side against a wall, beached on a strip of shoe molding. He saw his golf clubs in a pile on the soggy carpeting. Saw a cocktail glass on the coffee table, like whoever broke in was sitting there having a drink, Jesus, drinking his booze. Bobby had the.32 in the waistband of his pants, his olive button-down J. Crew hiding it. He drew it and went into the kitchen, tiptoeing through an inch of water. He saw the Green Giant pack ripped open on the counter. He went to the bathroom and checked the Band-Aid box. They'd found that money too. Just about everything he had. He left the apartment, walked down the stairs to his car and got in. He was nervous looking around the parking lot, thinking for sure someone was watching him. He drove out of the lot, checking the rearview mirror, no one was following him. He pulled out, cruised past cars parked on the street. Didn't see anything suspicious, nobody sitting in a car watching him.
Karen had it all planned that was obvious. They'd rob the safe; she'd take off, direct Samir's men to Bobby's apartment. "You want the mastermind, the one who organized it?" Bobby could hear her saying. "He lives over in Troy. Take 1-96 to 75 and get off at the Big Beaver/Crooks exit. Somerset Apartments, 2335 Sprucewood, you can't miss it."
He drove back to the Chateau Estates Mobile Home Community in Southfield, and parked down the street from Lloyd's trailer as a precaution. He'd looked in the rearview mirror, checking to see if anyone was following him on the way over. No one seemed to be. Bobby walked to Lloyd's trailer and knocked on the door. Lloyd opened it and Bobby said, "I need a place to hang out for a while."
"I thought you didn't like mobile homes," Lloyd said, a can of beer in his hand. "And now you want to stay here, huh? Sure this is good enough for a royal Canadian such as yourself?"
The shit Bobby had to put up with anymore. But it was only for a night he told himself. Then he told Lloyd about the apartment. Someone was on to him.
Lloyd said, "You think they're going to come here?"
"I don't know." And he didn't. He'd been wrong about everything, lately.
"Well if they do," Lloyd said, "we're going to be ready for them."
Lloyd's bravado made him feel better. "You still have the.45?" Bobby said.
"Yeah," Lloyd said, "and I've got something better."
What could be better than a.45? Did he have a machine gun in there somewhere? Lloyd left the room and came back carrying a strange-looking bow and a quiver full of arrows.
"It's a Hoyt Pro-Star," Lloyd said, handing the bow to Bobby.
It looked like a weapon designed by aliens, the strange shape with its lacquered curves. "It's a real beauty," Bobby said. What were you supposed to say about a bow?
Lloyd took the bow back and gave Bobby one of the razor-tipped arrows. "These are Zwickey 2310 broadheads. You can bring a grizzly down with this rig."
"Keep it handy," Bobby said, picturing a gang of Chaldeans attacking the trailer park on camels, carrying those swords with the curved blades. Scimitars, he thought they were called.
Lloyd said, "Since you're staying, I'll give you the grand tour?"
The grand tour? Bobby was in the main room, could see the whole trailer without taking a step. Was this Lloyd's dormant sense of humor kicking in?
Lloyd said, "My bedroom's in the back next to the bathroom. Check it out. It's got a sliding door that opens onto the deck. This model is called the Ver-sales. It's a French word."
Bobby liked the fact that they didn't abandon the chateau theme. This was good, a trailer named after a famous French chateau and Lloyd didn't have a clue. "What are the names of the other models?"
"There's one called the Vouv-ray and another called the Chartrez," Lloyd said.
Somebody had a sense of humor: the contractor or the marketing people who named the place.
"Well make yourself at home." Lloyd headed toward his bedroom with the bow and arrows.
There was a brown armchair, a beat-up old plaid couch, a coffee table piled with carry-out containers and empty beer cans.
Lloyd was quite a little homemaker. The TV in the corner was turned on to the WWF. Lloyd came back in carrying two cans of Molson Ice, handed one to Bobby, and Bobby said, "Who's your favorite wrestler?" Lloyd just stared at him for a couple seconds.