The Girl in the Motel

by Chris Culver

  “That admission betrays a much bigger problem,” she said, reaching down to the knife she had plunged into him. “If you’re worried about this, you can calm down. I was an ER nurse for several years. The left ventricle will seal small puncture wounds as it contracts. It will only leak blood when it relaxes. I’ve seen people survive hours with wounds like this. You’ll be just fine until I sweep the blade to the left and open you up.”

  “You stabbed me,” he said.

  “Yeah,” she said, nodding. “Sorry.”

  He closed his eyes and swallowed. “Please take me to the hospital. We’ll say we had an accident.”

  “Oh, honey,” she said, exhaling. “That’s not going to happen. You don’t trust me. I love you, but I can’t be in a relationship with someone who doesn’t trust me.”

  Sherlock licked his lips and said the only thing that came to mind.

  “I love you, too.”

  She smiled at him. Her eyes were almost teary.

  “You don’t know how long I’ve waited for you to say that, baby,” she said. “Love is one thing, though. Business is another. Tonight, you brought a gun into my home so you could threaten me and take money I earned. If you had just asked, I would have shared it with you. I would have shared my whole life with you. Everything I owned would have become ours. I would have given you the keys to the kingdom if you had just asked.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Me, too,” she said, sliding off the bed and getting a silk robe to cover her still naked body. Sherlock slid to the side of the bed, hoping he could reach his clothes and cell phone. Diana clucked her tongue and shook her head. “The more you move, the more likely you’ll tear open the hole in your heart. That’s a bad idea.”

  Sherlock took a deep breath and lay back.

  “All right. What do I do?”

  “Stay there,” she said, pulling the sheet over his legs. “Mr. Gibson will come for you.”

  “Scott?” asked Sherlock. She nodded.

  “He works for me now,” she said, walking into her closet. She came out a moment later carrying a belted gray dress on one hanger and a long green dress on another. “Which do you think I should wear?”

  “The green one shows off your body,” said Sherlock. “I always liked that one on you.”

  She held the dress to her chest and then tossed it on the bed before going back into her closet.

  “Green it is,” she said. “And thank you. If I had known you had liked it, I would have worn it more often.”

  Sherlock watched her slip her robe off. She noticed and winked at him before closing the door.

  “It was you, wasn’t it?” he asked. “All this time, I thought Christopher ran the business, but it was you.”

  She stepped out of the closet and then walked to her dresser for undergarments. As long as he could keep her talking, he was alive. St. Louis had excellent hospitals just a few miles away. They’d have cardiac surgeons on staff twenty-four hours a day. If he could persuade her to take him there, he could survive.

  “Yeah,” she said. “Christopher provided the seed capital, and he always thought he was in charge, but he couldn’t rub two thoughts together if he tried. I did the work. I ran the girls. I held them when they cried, I selected them from the foster care office, I introduced them to Randy and helped him turn them into assets we could use. Then I used those little friends of Christopher’s to launder our money. My ex-husband was disgusting. He deserved to die in prison.”

  “I underestimated you,” he said. “I wish I had known you better.”

  “Me, too,” she said, slipping a bra over her shoulders.

  “So what now?” asked Sherlock. “You kill me and then run away with Christopher’s money?”

  “No,” she said, shaking her head. “You set up a terrific business deal with Mr. Mendoza. After some discussion, he’s agreed to continue the arrangement with me. I will become St. Louis’s largest distributor of cocaine and sundries. My financing was in order. Yours wasn’t. It was a real shame.”

  She walked to the bed and picked up her dress.

  “Is this formal enough to wear while meeting a new employee?” she asked. “I can’t look too flirty.”

  “It’s beautiful,” he said. “You’re beautiful.”

  She smiled at him, but instead of the usual affection he saw, he found anger.

  “Flattery won’t help. You fucked up, baby. You can’t walk away from this.”

  Her expression was flat as she walked to the bathroom to get ready. He slid to the right, ever mindful of the knife in his chest. It hurt, but he didn’t feel as if he were dying. Even still, he trusted Diana’s medical judgment. If he could get to a phone and call 911, he’d have a chance. If he couldn’t, he was dead.

  When he reached the side of the bed, he heard a soft beep. Diana came from the bathroom wearing that green dress that hugged her body so well.

  “Mr. Gibson’s here,” she said, crossing the room. She knelt beside him and looked into his eyes again. He saw affection and real love staring back. “Believe it or not, I love you. I’m sorry, but this is business.”

  She reached for the knife. It was just a quick movement, but he gasped and felt the change come over him as the blade slit his heart open. She pulled the knife out. Sherlock’s skin felt hot as blood rushed out of him. He tried to speak, but the words caught in his throat. She kissed his lips and stroked his hair, staining her beautiful dress with his blood.

  “It’s okay, baby,” she whispered. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

  He tried to reach up and squeeze the life out of her throat, but he couldn’t get his fingers to work right.

  “I’m here,” she whispered, batting his hands away as if he were a child. “Just listen to my voice and let yourself drift away.”

  His vision grew white and then black. His eyes felt heavy, but he needed to say something before he died. She leaned close as he whispered.

  “Go ahead, love,” she whispered. “I’m here.”

  “You deserved him, bitch,” he said. “Christopher. You fucking deserved him.”

  It filled him with joy to see the pain in her eyes as his closed for the last time.

  37

  I had expected to find a reporter with a video camera on the front lawn. Instead, I found Christopher Hughes hiding behind a tree. He was pointing a revolver at my dog. I put my shotgun to my shoulder and took aim.

  “Christopher, drop your weapon!” I screamed.

  He looked at me as if he were lost. My finger slipped past the trigger guard and to the shotgun’s trigger. Around here, people used shotguns to hunt game birds and deer. I didn’t use mine to hunt animals, though. I kept mine to defend my home. It had a rifled barrel, and it shot one-ounce lead slugs at almost two thousand feet per second. Few animals on Earth could survive a well-placed shot from a weapon like that.

  Human beings were not one.

  “Drop your weapon!” I shouted again.

  “You won’t shoot me in the back.”

  Before I could process that, he had already turned and run. And he was right. I wouldn’t have shot him in the back. I would have chased him and tried to tackle him, but I wouldn’t have shot him. My dog, though, didn’t play by the same rules I did. The moment Christopher ran, so did Roger. They reached the far side of the road in front of my house at the same time. Roger got in front of him and growled, but Christopher couldn’t slow down enough to avoid a collision.

  They fell in a mass on the ground. Roger yelped, and Christopher grunted. I sprinted after them, holding the rifle against my chest with both hands. Christopher got up first, but Roger wasn’t slow to follow. They ran again, this time disappearing into the woods across from my house.

  Where Roger could move well on trails, his short legs had difficulty in the weeds.

  “Roger, freeze!” I screamed. It was one of the most important commands I had ever taught that dog. It kept him from running into the street after other animals, it kept hi
m from chasing cars, it kept him from treading on glass when people threw bottles on the side of the road. It had taken weeks to get the command right. He should have stopped everything he was doing and come to a complete stop.

  He didn’t, though. The excitement was too much.

  He pushed through the thick underbrush at the edge of the wood to the clear, virgin forest inside. There, his speed was his undoing. Christopher turned and fired the revolver behind him. A round buzzed past me while another thwacked into a tree. The third brought about a yelp that broke my heart.

  Roger tumbled and rolled on the ground before coming to rest against the base of a big tulip poplar. Christopher stopped running. I couldn’t see well in the dark, but I raised my shotgun to my shoulder. I wanted to check on my dog, but I couldn’t yet.

  “Drop your weapon!” I shouted.

  “He was coming after me,” he said. “Your dog would have bitten me. He was crazy.”

  “Toss your weapon down and lay on the ground.”

  Christopher glanced at his weapon and then to me.

  “I shot your dog,” he said. “You’ll kill me if I do that.”

  My heart pounded as adrenaline coursed through me.

  “Drop your weapon. If I wanted you dead, you’d be dead.”

  He considered me for a moment and then dove behind a tree. I ducked and scrambled to my left as he fired. Dried leaves crinkled and sticks popped beneath me as my torso hit the ground. Christopher ran. I held my breath and pushed myself to a kneeling position. My left elbow was on my left knee, stabilizing the barrel of my weapon as I lined up a shot.

  Christopher turned as he ran and raised the gun, just as he had toward my dog. I didn’t give him the same chance Roger had. I squeezed the trigger. The heavy pump-action shotgun pounded against my shoulder, rocking me back. I chambered another round and lined up another shot as Christopher fell to the ground. For a few seconds, nothing moved. Roger whimpered, but I couldn’t go to him yet.

  “Get up, motherfucker,” I whispered, holding the barrel of my gun in Christopher’s direction. “Run. I dare you.”

  I counted to ten and then to thirty, just watching for movement. When Christopher didn’t get up, I crept toward him. He was, maybe, thirty feet from me, and when I reached his body, I saw why he hadn’t moved. I had hit him square in the back, just below his shoulder blades. Likely, it had clipped his heart. I felt his neck for a pulse, but he wasn’t breathing.

  The man who had raped me all those years ago, the man who had ruined my life, was dead. I had killed him. I had dreamed about killing him, but I’d never believed it would happen. A wave of disgust came over me. I spit on his corpse and then kicked him in the ribs.

  “Fuck you, Christopher,” I said, kicking him again. His body barely budged, so I kicked him again, almost wishing he would cry out in pain. He didn’t. He was dead. I kicked him until my leg grew so tired I couldn’t kick him again. Then, Roger whimpered once more, bringing me back to the present.

  I leaned my shotgun against a tree and knelt beside my dog. He licked my hand and mewled as I cradled him. Christopher had shot him in the chest near his shoulder. Nothing I could do would stop the bleeding, so I petted him once more and then stood.

  “I’ll be back, sweetheart,” I said. “Mommy loves you. I’ll be right back.”

  He whimpered again. I wanted to stay with him, but he needed help. I sprinted home and picked up the phone in my kitchen. My first call was to 911, but my second was to Roger’s vet. He agreed to come out. Before going back out, I grabbed clean towels from the kitchen, a flashlight from near the back door, and my shoes.

  When I got to my dog again, his breathing had slowed, but already I could hear sirens in the distance. He lifted his head as he saw me, and I held him and pressed towels against his wound, hoping the bleeding would stop.

  “Please don’t die, honey,” I whispered. “Please stay with me. You’re my buddy. I need you.”

  As I held my dog, a squad car skidded to a stop in front of my house with its lights blaring. I waved my flashlight around.

  “I’m here,” I shouted. “In the woods.”

  A man came running toward me. It was Sasquatch. His eyes were wide.

  “That your blood all over your shirt or someone else’s?”

  “It’s Roger’s,” I said. “I’m fine. Christopher is somewhere.”

  More officers came within minutes. I lost track of things for a while until Travis knelt with me and tried to pry me away from the dog.

  “No,” I said. “He’s mine.”

  “It’s okay,” said Travis. “Your vet is at the road. We’ve got a back brace. Sasquatch and Vince will carry him. They’ll make sure he’s okay. You and I will go to your house, and you’ll change into some clean clothes. Your mom and dad are on their way. Everything’s okay.”

  Travis put a hand on my elbow and helped me stand. Roger was alive, but he didn’t look good. He wasn’t moving much. Sasquatch and Vince transferred him to a back brace and then carried him toward the road. I looked around me. There were a dozen officers with me in the woods, and they all had flashlights or lanterns.

  “Trisha’s at the house. Your neighbor, Susanne, is there, too,” said Travis. “They’ll get you cleaned up. We’ll figure this out.”

  I nodded. Travis kept a hand on my shoulder as we walked.

  “I shot Christopher,” I said.

  “I know,” he said. “Your lawyer is already on the way. Some detectives from the Highway Patrol will try to talk to you at the house. Don’t tell them anything until you’ve talked to your lawyer first.”

  “I spit on him,” I said, drawing in a breath. “Then I kicked him. I wanted him to hurt.”

  Travis said nothing until we reached the edge of the road.

  “I’ll take care of you. Your mom and dad will be here soon.”

  As Travis had said, Trisha and Susanne met me on the front porch. I was a little shell shocked, but I didn’t feel drunk anymore. The two of them stayed outside my bedroom while I changed. Afterwards, Trisha bagged my blood-stained clothes as evidence and then gave me a hug before leaving the house. Susanne made coffee and then sat with me on the front porch until Dad and Julia arrived.

  They had to park up the road, but they ran from their car when they saw me. Julia threw her arms around me. Dad put a hand on my back.

  “I killed the son of a bitch,” I whispered.

  “I know,” said Julia.

  “It’s over,” I said. “It’s over.”

  “He’ll never hurt anyone again.”

  And she was right. Christopher wouldn’t hurt anyone again. I had made sure of that. Part of me screamed that I should have felt sick to my stomach, that I should have felt guilty.

  But I didn’t.

  For the first time in years, I didn’t feel afraid. When I went to bed, I wouldn’t have to check beneath my bed or in my closet to make sure he wasn’t there. I wouldn’t have to leave a loaded shotgun in my front closet to protect myself. I didn’t have to leave a light on in my hall in case he came in the night.

  For the first time in years, I was no longer Christopher Hughes’s victim. I was me. Just me.

  I was free.

  38

  Since Christopher had never made it past the tree in my front yard, the police stayed out of my house. Dad and Julia made coffee for them, though, and played host while I slept in my room. At about six, Dad woke me up and said Roger was out of surgery. He had lost a lot of blood, but the vet thought he would live. I almost cried.

  Roger had saved my life. I couldn’t ask for a better friend. I ordered the largest rawhide bone I could find on the internet and had it overnighted to the house so he’d have a treat when he came home.

  After that, I slept until about nine. By that time, the emergency had passed, so detectives from the Highway Patrol had begun focusing on laying blame. They started by interviewing me. Travis had warned me not to talk without having a lawyer present, but I had nothing to hide.
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  The detectives spent about two hours with me. They asked a lot of questions, but I had few answers to give them. Those officers left at about noon. After that, Dad drove me to The Barking Spider so I could pick up my car. Then, I went to the animal hospital to see my dog. He didn’t wake up, but he was doing okay. That was all that mattered. Long term, this would take a toll on his health. I didn’t know how much longer he had with me, but he was mine for as long as he drew breath.

  My vet had patients to see, so I didn’t stay at the animal hospital long. Instead, I went by the grocery and picked up food. I didn’t know what Dad wanted to make for dinner, so I grabbed beans, ground beef, tomatoes, and everything else he’d need to make chili and cornbread. When I got to the house, there were two marked police vehicles in my driveway. One was from St. Augustine, but the other was from St. Louis County. I groaned and then parked on the grass so I wouldn’t block anybody in.

  This didn’t promise to be fun.

  Inside, I found my dad, Julia, and Travis in my living room staring at two people I didn’t know. There were empty coffee cups on the end tables, so they had been there for a while. I stopped in the front door and then looked to Travis.

  “Hey, boss,” I said. “Sorry I wasn’t in. I was checking on my dog.”

  Two strangers, a man and a woman, stood. The woman was in her late forties and had short brunette hair, and she wore a fashionable navy blazer over a white shirt. The man was younger than her but not by a lot. He wore a black suit and black tie as if he were going to a funeral.

  The woman held out her hand.

  “Lieutenant Beth Rampbell,” she said. “The gentleman with me is Detective Ezra Garza. We’re with the St. Louis County police.”

  “Beth and Ezra work homicide,” said Julia. “They’re here to talk about James Holmes.”

  I furrowed my brow and looked at them. “Christopher Hughes’s lawyer?”

  “Yeah,” said Beth. “Someone murdered him.”

  “That doesn’t explain why you’re interested in my daughter,” said Dad.