The Same End

by Gregory Ashe

  A sign marked the next stretch of desolate waste as La Sal, population 339. Tean had stayed far enough back until now that the Impala was just a silver dot ahead of them, but now that dot grew.

  “What are you doing?”

  “He’s slowing down.”

  “So slow down.”

  “I am slowing down, Jem. He’s slowing down more.”

  A green Chevy whipped around them, and a moment later, it passed Ammon’s Impala as well. Jem watched the silver car; it wasn’t getting any closer for the moment, which meant Ammon had found his new cruising speed.

  Five minutes later, though, when a low clump of buildings appeared on the south side of the highway, Ammon slowed again.

  “Just pass him,” Jem said.

  “What if he looks over?”

  “I’m going to move the visor and duck down. Pass him. He’s going to that place, whatever it is.”

  “What if he—”

  “Christ fuck Jesus God damn, Tean. Just do it. Please.”

  “Only because you said please.”

  Jem pulled the visor so that it blocked the upper stretch of the passenger door window. Then he slid down into the Ford’s footwell. It wasn’t big enough for him; it wouldn’t have been big enough for Scipio.

  “Don’t get any ideas.”

  “Head down a little more.”

  “That sounded very objectifying. I’m not here to provide you with your first sexual experience in a car.”

  “Head down, Jem. Oh shit, here we go.” Tean’s hand bore down on the back of Jem’s head, forcing him against the seat, and the Ford accelerated. Ten seconds, Jem counted. Twenty. Thirty. Then Tean’s hand released Jem, and he stroked the short bristles of hair and said, “Ok. You’re good.” As Jem eased back into the seat and belted himself in, Tean kept glancing in the mirror. “He’s turning in at that place.”

  “Did you see what it was?”

  “The La Sal Rooms-4-Rent.”

  “Flip around.”

  Tean slowed, pulling onto the shoulder so a tractor-trailer could pass them, and then a purple Cutlass, its paint peeling, shot past them as well. When the road was clear, Tean swung around and headed west. They came even with the motel: two stucco buildings that formed a loose L, with a flashing neon sign advertising LA SAL ROOMS-4-RENT and VACANCY – VACANCY – VACANCY. Three vehicles were parked in the lot: Ammon’s Impala, with his silhouette behind the wheel; a small white truck; and some sort of Toyota minivan with a handful of bumper stickers. It was too hard for Jem to read most of them, but he recognized the elephant logo of the Hogle Zoo.

  When Tean signaled to turn, Jem said, “No, keep going.”

  “I thought—”

  “He’s sitting in his car watching the place. Antonio’s there. Jager too.”

  “What?”

  “Russell told us Jager drives a small white truck. I’m betting that’s his. And the minivan is whatever Antonio stole when he escaped.”

  “It might belong to another tourist. Or to the motel clerk. And a small white truck could belong to just about anybody.”

  “But Ammon’s here, and he’s waiting. Park on the shoulder.”

  When the truck came to a stop, Jem grabbed the handle.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To see what Jager and Antonio are doing. Maybe ask them a few questions. My guess is that Tanner sent Jager to finish off Antonio, but I’ve been wrong before.”

  “No. No way. Jem, do not get out of this truck. Those guys are dangerous; Jager has killed before, and Antonio is a fugitive and has very little to lose. Ammon’s here—”

  “Sitting in the parking lot with a limp dick.”

  “—and he’ll take care of it. He’ll notify the sheriff or the police or the highway patrol or whoever needs to know—”

  “The same crew of assholes that has independently threatened to jail us if we don’t stop asking questions? You still think they want to know what really happened? They just want this to go away, Tean. They’ll do anything they can to get it off their plates, and that means they’ll let Tanner walk away.”

  “—so please,” Tean said, breathing deeply as he tried to continue, “let’s just sit here and let Ammon handle this?”

  “Ammon couldn’t turn shit with a stick properly.”

  “And you can? Is that what this is about?”

  “Of course. I’m a natural shit-stirrer. Keep the engine running, and make sure you don’t let anybody walk up to the window. Pull away and drive all the way back to Moab if anybody approaches you.”

  Jem slid out of the truck and shut the door. He was jogging across the highway when he heard the Ford’s engine cut off. A door opened and slammed shut. Steps came after him. Tean was swearing under his breath, a steady stream of “Damn, damn, damn, damn.” Then they reached the other side of the road, clumps of brittle brown grass and scrub scratching at Jem’s jeans.

  “I think we should do Magic Teacups first.”

  “Be quiet. Do not talk to me about that stupid swear jar.” Then, “Damn hell shit fuck damn bastard.”

  “You missed bitch.”

  “I don’t like that one.”

  “You missed—”

  “God damn it, Jem. This does not need to be a pissing match between you and Ammon. Let’s just do the smart thing and wait.”

  “Also, I don’t want to get your hopes up too much, but I’ve heard they have these things that are called Dole Whips, and they’re the best thing anybody’s ever had. Now, please go back to the truck and be a good boy and wait.”

  Wiping sweat from his forehead, Tean said, “I honestly don’t know if you’re serious right now, but if you are, you can shove it.”

  They climbed over the wire fence, Tean holding out a hand to steady Jem when he landed, and then they set off through the sage. A swell in the ground put the motel above them, the parking lot out of sight—which, Jem hoped, meant that they were out of sight of anybody sitting in the lot as well.

  “Shove it where?”

  “Up there.”

  Jem glanced over, letting his eyes grow wide and blank. “Where?”

  “Up there. You know. Your butt.”

  Jem bit the inside of his cheek and nodded.

  They rounded the back of the motel. The white truck and the minivan had been parked on the east side, where the long leg of the L ended. They hurried past a window A/C unit that chugged steadily. A bead of condensation fell as they passed, swallowed up immediately by the thirsty dirt. A few gnats spun in the air here, drawn by the faint moisture. Jem didn’t blame them; he was already baking again; the skin on the back of his neck felt ultrasensitive, and he figured he was due for a sunburn.

  The sound of music grew steadily as they moved along the long leg of the L: screaming, thrashing metal. It was coming from a unit in the middle of the motel, and it was loud enough to cover the sound of their footsteps as they approached. When they reached the final unit, Jem considered the small window. The glass was frosted, but he could tell that a light was on inside. He pressed his ear to the glass and heard nothing; the shriek of the music next door swallowed everything else. For a full two minutes, he watched the frosted glass, hoping for any hint of movement on the other side. Nothing.

  “Can we go back now? This is pointless.”

  Jem shook his head. He took out the folding slim jim he carried in a pocket, and he worked it between the sashes. The lock was stuck. Probably painted shut, he guessed, although who the fuck knew in a place like this. Grunting, he applied more pressure.

  “Ok, we tried. Now let’s go back.”

  “Tean,” Jem said between grunts, “I’ve had a really bad week. I’ve had a really bad day. Right now, I could use some support or some quiet; you get to pick.”

  Tean was silent. Then he said, “You can do this. I know you can. You’re very, very good at breaking into places and doing what you’re not supposed to do.”

 
The sash lock turned, and Jem let out a hiss of relief as he withdrew the slim jim. He shook out his hand, which had started to cramp around the tool, and said, “That was very nice. A little stilted, but your heart was there, and that’s what counts.”

  “It was my first try; I’ve never had to provide emotional support to someone committing a misdemeanor before.”

  “You’ll get better.”

  “Gosh, I really hope not.”

  Jem slid the window up; flakes of paint fell, dusting his hands and the sill. He managed to raise it three inches before he saw the dead body: Antonio lay naked across the shower pan, paler than he’d ever been in life, an ugly red hole drilled into his head. A spray of blood and bone and brain covered the tile behind him. Next to the shower pan, where the water looked pink on the linoleum, was a pistol. Jem swore under his breath. The second man had fallen in the bathroom doorway; the weight of his body held the door open. Jager had been shot twice: in the chest and in the belly. On the other side of the door, in the motel room proper, scattered bullet holes marked one wall, and Jem stared at them because they made no sense at all.

  Then Jager’s chest rose and fell; pink foam outlined the wounds and frothed at his lips.

  “Go get Ammon,” Jem said. “He’s alive.”

  29

  To Tean’s surprise, Ammon’s response to all of it—seeing them here, hearing about the shooting, Jager’s condition—was calm and direct. Shaking his head, he half-smiled as he said, “The shitbird made a collect call to his mom; I was waiting for him to poke his head out. Get back to Moab right now. I don’t even want to think about what’s going to happen if you get dragged into this.”

  “But if they ask how you found them—”

  “Tean, sweetheart, go. I’ll handle this.”

  And then, squeezing Tean’s hand through the window, Ammon pulled out his phone and placed the call.

  Tean and Jem rode back to Moab in silence. When the town appeared ahead of them, a bramble outline of stucco and brick against the striated rocks, Jem said, “What the fuck was that?”

  “It’s like you said: Tanner sent Jager to get rid of Antonio, but Antonio got him too. If he pulls through, it’ll be interesting to hear the story he comes up with to explain this mess.”

  “No.”

  “What do you mean, no?”

  “No. That’s not what happened. I don’t even know where to start; it’s all wrong.”

  When Tean glanced over, Jem was staring straight ahead, his jaw rigid.

  “I think you need to eat.”

  Jem shook his head.

  But one Big Mac, two fries, two handheld apple pies, and three Cokes later, he was propping his head in one hand, elbow resting on the laminate tabletop of the McDonald’s booth. A pair of kids ran past, screaming.

  “I want Mario, I want Mario, I want Mario,” a little boy with chubby legs kept screaming.

  An older boy wearing plastic dog tags ran just fast enough to stay ahead, laughing.

  “What a little shit,” Jem mumbled. “That’s the kind of thing Tanner would get off on. He’d pretend to give you something and hold it just out of reach.”

  “Cigarettes? Junk food?”

  “Whatever he knew you wanted,” Jem said. He folded one of the apple pie cardboard sleeves. Then he released it, and the cardboard unfolded, slapping against the plastic tray that had held their food. “A devil dog from dinner. A full night’s sleep. Freedom.”

  “What do you mean, sleep? Freedom?”

  Jem shook his head. He went to take a drink, but the Coke was empty, and the straw sputtered.

  “Do you want to talk about it? About Decker. About—” What they did to you, Tean almost said. “About what happened?”

  “There were bullet holes in the wall.”

  Tean sat back in the booth. A light film, something greasy, coated the back of the seat; when he rested his hand there, his fingers came away slick. The kids made another pass; the chubby boy was crying now. Tean watched as Jem’s eyes followed them.

  “Ok,” Tean said, fighting the urge to push his hair back. “Tell me about the bullet holes.”

  “They were in the wrong place.”

  “I’m assuming that’s not an attempt at a joke.”

  “Unfortunately, no. They were literally wrong. Well, that’s not right either.”

  “Maybe next time, you should have a salad. I’m worried these hamburgers are starting to clog up your brain. You realize that trans fats and saturated fats adversely affect memory and—”

  “Stop, stop, just stop before you say something you regret.” Jem took a deep breath, and then he offered a weary smile. “Ok. Thank you. That helped; this,” he gestured at the food, “helps.” After another deep breath, he said, “Antonio was killed in the shower.”

  “Ok.

  “The water was off.”

  “Ok.”

  “Jager was lying in the doorway. I couldn’t see blood on the floor, and the wounds looked pretty bad, so I don’t think he got shot somewhere else and then dragged himself into the bathroom.”

  Tean made a considering noise. “Ok. But the bullet holes in the wall are in the wrong part of the room.”

  “Exactly. There are a lot of ways to make a story out of some of the details, but all together, they don’t add up. For example, let’s say those holes in the wall, that’s from Antonio shooting at Jager when he came into the room. They both miss, which explains the holes in the wall, and Antonio retreats to the bathroom.”

  “And takes a shower,” Tean said.

  “Yup.”

  “Maybe Antonio was already in the shower. He came out for something right when Jager was breaking in, they exchanged shots, and Antonio retreated.”

  “Nope. No water on the bathroom floor except right near the shower.”

  “Maybe he hadn’t gotten in the shower yet. He’s naked, he’s dry, he comes out of the bathroom for something, Jager is there, shots fired, he retreats.”

  For the first time since leaving the motel, a real, true Jem smile flashed out. “You’re surprisingly good at imagining murder scenarios.”

  “We have to do this with poaching and animal attacks, figure out how everything happened.”

  “And I’ve corrupted you.”

  Tean sighed and nodded.

  “It’s a good theory, but it doesn’t make sense because who turned off the shower? It couldn’t have been Jager because he got shot when he came through the bathroom door.” When Tean opened his mouth, Jem added, “And there aren’t bloodstains on the floor, so he didn’t drag himself to the shower and turn it off and then drag himself back to the doorway.”

  “Antonio hit the faucet handle when he fell. A weird, tiny probability.”

  “Nope. It’s the old-fashioned kind: two knobs that are so rusty you probably have to crank them to turn off the water.”

  From a table on the other side of the dining room came shouting: “Broderick, give Sage your toy right this minute!” Both boys exploded into outraged wailing. Someone on staff must have had a low threshold for that kind of thing because the next minute, the volume of the TV mounted overhead increased. A man who looked like the human equivalent of saddle leather was bellowing golf scores.

  “Someone else was in that motel room,” Tean said reluctantly.

  “Tanner,” Jem said, leaning forward and drilling a finger into the tabletop. “Tanner was in that fucking motel room. I know he was. He was cleaning house. He killed Andi. He killed Blake. He killed that deputy—Jager helped him cover it up—and now he’s got Antonio and Jager out of the way. All he’s got to do is pick up that shipment on Tuesday, cap Kalista and Nick, and he can ride off into the sunset with a few million dollars.”

  Tean was silent.

  “What?” Jem said. “You think I’m wrong?”

  “I think we shouldn’t make any final decisions yet.”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “I’m
not saying you’re wrong, I’m just saying—”

  “I know what you’re saying. Let’s ask Ammon. Then you can nod and smile and be his little fucking puppet as he tells us what he thinks is going on.”

  Tean slid the tray toward him and began gathering their trash. His movements were mechanical. He fumbled the Big Mac box, and it slid off the table. When it hit the floor, the top popped open, and a few watery strands of shaved lettuce fell on the floor. Tean grabbed a napkin and bent, but Jem caught his arm.

  “I’ll get it.”

  “No, I’m doing it.”

  “No, I’m a piece of shit, and it was my Big Mac. You just had a few wisps of desert air, parboiled, plated with the powdered scale of an iguana.”

  Before Tean had any idea how to respond to that, Jem had wiped up the lettuce and special sauce. As he was straightening in the seat, his hand clenched tight around the napkin, and he muttered, “Fuck my life.”

  “I thought I’d find you two here,” Ammon said. Dark circles ringed his eyes, which Tean hadn’t noticed at the motel. His shoulders slumped as he came to a stop at their table.

  “You did?” Tean said.

  “Well, there’s only one white truck in town with the DWR logo.”

  “How bad is it? Sit down.”

  “Bad,” Ammon said, sliding into the booth next to Tean. “Come on. We’ve got to pick up Scipio and leave.”

  “No,” Jem said.

  “Why?” Tean said.

  Ammon threw a glance at the door. His partner, Kat, stood near the entrance, hands on her hips, watching them. The politest term that could be used for her expression was murderous.

  “The sheriff and Chief Nobles didn’t exactly believe my story about an anonymous source. Even that highway patrol trooper got pretty heated. I believe his exact words were, ‘I told those shit-birds to get out of town.’ So the general consensus is that the first one who sees you gets the pleasure of arresting you for obstruction.”