Chapter 45
At nine fifteen Father Bob called in an order to room service—as he expected, they told him it would be forty-five minutes to one hour for his order. He wasn’t really hungry but ordered a full steak dinner and a chocolate milkshake—two rich things he rarely allowed himself once a month, much less in one meal. It could be his last meal and he could enjoy a little of it, even if he didn’t have the heart to eat all of it. The room service meal was just a means to an end—he needed the card that would work Taylor’s private elevator. Earlier he had conversed with the maids, telling them they could skip his room and giving them ten dollars each to clean it well tomorrow for him. They were amazed and happy to talk to a padre that could speak in their native Spanish. And as he talked to them about their babies and jobs at the Azteca, they had told him that the last three rooms past him were vacant and they would be done on his floor in half an hour. He also asked how the security in this hotel was, and they had told him it was very safe and that there were security cameras on the elevators and in the waiting areas by the elevators.
He could hear the approach of the room service cart in the hallway and then a knock at the door. “Just a minute,” Father Bob called, turning up the volume on the set and pulling his gun from the bag. He tucked the weapon into the back of his waistband and opened the door. The young man was Hispanic. He rolled the cart into the room and Father Bob closed the door behind him. The young man was about to uncover the food, but Father Bob brought the gun out and pointed it at him. “No necesito, gracias.”
The young man turned pale, but Father Bob had a way with people, even with an enormous pistol in his hand. He explained to him in Spanish that the patron of this hotel worshipped El Diablo and he was here to stop him and to do so he needed Juan’s room service card. Juan was surprisingly cooperative and told him many of the employees believed this very thing and moved on to other casinos after working only a short time at the Azteca. Juan had thought they were being superstitious, but now that he thought about it, the owners did seem dark. He made the sign of the cross and then told Father Bob how to use the card and where Mr. Taylor’s office was. He asked nervously where he was going to hide him, because they would come looking for him and the cart. Father Bob told him how he had jammed one of the locks on a room down the hall when the maids had not been looking, and that although it looked closed, it was quite unlocked. Juan liked this idea and suggested they go now, as room service was very busy this morning and would miss him soon. Father Bob handed Juan a hundred-dollar bill and praised him for his help, asking him to tell security that someone had knocked him out and tied him up in the other room after stealing his pass card. Juan did not want the money, but the priest insisted. Father Bob did keep the gun on Juan, but Juan was good to his word, wheeling the empty cart to the vacant room and submitting to bind and gag. Father Bob promised to call security and have him released as soon as possible.
Father Bob went back to his room and amazed himself by eating most of his meal and half of his milkshake. At about ten thirty, room service called and asked if he had received his meal. He said he had and that it was quite good. He hung up the phone and slipped Juan’s elevator card into his back pocket, put his gun back under the Bible in his bag and headed out the door.
He took the elevator to the lobby, called the front desk from a courtesy phone and complained about noise in the room he had left Juan in; he hung up and bought the paper, heading to the bench by valet. Again he hid behind his paper taking notice of the rich and sometimes famous people that were arriving for Ash’s memorial. The paper had a story about the memorial and said that all of the passes for the general public had been snapped up the day the memorial had been announced; even the standing room only passes were gone the next day. Evidently there had been a similar situation with the VIP passes, and except for the row reserved for family, seating would be first come, first served—hence this early arrival of the important people.
At about a quarter till he saw the tall form of Richard Taylor leave the private elevator and head across the lobby to the main elevators that could take him to the convention center. This time he was preoccupied and didn’t even glance at the man on the bench behind the newspaper. Father Bob waited sixty seconds before he folded his paper and stuck it under his arm and casually sauntered to the private elevator and inserted the room service pass key. The elevator doors opened and he pushed the executive offices button. He sighed with relief as the doors closed and he was on his way to the top alone.
The offices were empty, as he hoped—even the receptionists had gone to the memorial—but he called out “Hello!” several times just to be sure. Though the offices were at the top of the casino and had amazing windows and light, that old feeling of claustrophobia came over him. His throat felt dry and he couldn’t swallow. In his mind’s eye he could see his throat closing up like in anaphylactic shock. He opened his mouth and breathed deeply, forcing his brain to register his chest pumped full of air, and slowly he released his breath. He did this several times … slowing his mind and fighting the irrational panic that screamed at him, urging him to lose it. It was the evil, same as before, only this time he recognized it for what it was. It was not hard to figure out which office belonged to the big boss—it was the huge one that had its own bar and panoramic view of the strip. It was strangely blank though, no photos of loved ones, no artwork other than some hideous African masks that leered at him from high on the wall. Father Bob resisted stepping into the room. He already knew the claustrophobic feeling would be cranked up to madhouse level.
He turned his back to the office and walked away. Part of him felt weak and cowardly, but he knew a successful businessman quasi Satanist like Taylor would not keep anything incriminating in his own office, if he kept anything at all. He walked slowly back the way he had come, searching quietly for the hunch that nibbled at the edge of his consciousness. He paused at the doorways of the other rooms one by one, knowing what he was looking for was not there. At last he reached the little corridor that led to the restrooms. At the very end was a room marked maintenance. As he read the word, his pulse increased and he felt a little dizzy. How he knew, he could not say, but he had learned long ago that his intuition was always right. He supposed it might be the Holy Ghost or his guardian angel helping him out, and he thanked them both silently as he opened the door. It was exactly what the sign on the door indicated—maintenance—more like a glorified broom closet. The room was full of mops and dusters and shelves of cleaning supplies. He might have turned on his heel and given up had it not been for a tiny crack of light edging out behind one of the shelves. As he approached, he could feel a concentration of evil spike, much worse than what he had felt before. He began to sweat even though he felt ice cold. He could still breathe, but it was an effort. Here was the mother lode; he knew it. A careless someone had not quite closed the hidden panel behind the shelving and had left the light on as well. The design of the shelves and the panel were ingenious and the secret would have remained if it had been closed properly. But now Father Bob simply slid the shelves back and lightly pressed on the panel and another room was revealed to him. Shelves and filing cabinets and cupboards were set along the walls in a tidy format that should please the eye with its order and exactness, but Father Bob could see into some of the jars on the shelves and identify their contents and could only guess at some of the others. It reminded him of high school science lab run by ghouls.
Chapter 46
He shifted in his seat, the premonition he felt earlier expanding every second that Susan’s chair beside him at the memorial remained empty. It was nearly time to begin and still she wasn’t here. The low murmuring of the crowd’s conversation filled his ears; it reminded him of the low droning of a beehive and it set him further on edge. The feeling of losing control was tightening his chest and making his stomach cramp. He tried to still his nerves by gazing at Ash’s sand-filled casket; it was a gleaming black, so shiny that you could see the reflectio
n of the white calla lilies resting on its lid. Had it only been a week? Ash was gone and his entire world was crumbling in the space of seven short days. He straightened in his seat and glanced at the funeral director. The man was less of a funeral director and more a disposal director for many casinos in Vegas. The man raised his eyebrows in question as in “Shall we begin?” He nodded. He wouldn’t be surprised to see Susan waltz in at the last minute or even ten minutes into the memorial. Even at her own brother’s funeral she would be looking for the spotlight.
He wondered what was keeping Billy. He had sent him to fetch Susan or at least see where she was and that was ten minutes ago. The funeral director had finished introducing the man who was giving the eulogy: the director of the local children’s club. The director began his story of how much the Taylor family, especially Ash, had helped the organization. The man stacked praise on Ash, and he knew this was well earned—he had encouraged Ash and Susan to work hard on a charity, as it added to their reputations and helped disguise their true work, but he also knew that the children’s club stood to receive many thousands in donations in Ash’s name from the bigwigs here in the crowd today.
At last Billy glided quietly into Susan’s chair and whispered in his ear. “Sir, she took off in the helicopter early this morning.”
He felt his face color, but he held his reserve. He really wanted to jump to his feet and curse Susan and slam his fist into someone, something. He nodded, but did not look at Billy, and Billy stayed motionless waiting for his next order. His mind raced, first cursing Susan and then himself for not keeping better tabs on her, for not changing the security system for the helicopter access. Finally, he stopped the chattering in his head and tried to regroup. It was obvious where she had gone. She had been mad with “getting the cowboy” even though he had told her that was the least of his concerns. She was drunk with it. There. It was his problem, but now also perhaps his solution. Susan, gone mad with grief over her dear brother Ash, had decided somehow in her crazed mind that the town of Sweetwater and some of its citizens were to blame. It didn’t make sense, but it didn’t have to if she was crazy, did it? She had surely made a paper and computer trail a mile wide looking for info on the cowboy and where he lived. All he needed was for her and Weasel to check out and his problems would be folded up together like an old newspaper ready for the fireplace.
His mind hummed with this idea and he began to relax. Suddenly, he got the strong urge to go up to the hidden room. Someone was in there, and it was the someone that had set him ill at ease since this morning. He wondered at the timing but got up and walked out of the memorial as quietly as he could. Of course, they would all guess at the reason for his departure, but he hoped most of them would believe he was unwell, overcome by grief.
Billy followed Uncle out of the room. The boss had long legs and once he was out of the convention room, his pace had quickened and Billy had to jog to keep up with him.
Billy knew better than to question his boss, and they rode the elevator to the executive offices in silence. When they reached the top floor Uncle said, “Draw your gun, I think we may have an intruder.” Billy wondered a bit at this; he had been up here minutes ago and the place was a ghost town. He pulled his pistol out and braced it in front of him as the doors opened. It was the same as before—dead quiet, but Uncle moved out ahead of him and stopped at the corridor that led to the restrooms. “Your weapon, Billy.” Uncle’s voice was emotionless and it scared Billy. For one moment he thought the man wanted to kill him, but as he held his hand out for the gun he said, “Wait for me here. I’ll call you if I need you.”
Uncle left him and entered the maintenance room, gun pointing to the ceiling. Billy wondered again when he did not come right back out of the little room. Jake had told him once that this casino had as many hidden rooms and twisted secrets as the Winchester Mystery House, but Billy hadn’t believed him. Now he wondered. A person heard all kinds of strange stories in this industry, and Billy had worked here for five years now and noticed a few things that didn’t make sense—guests apprehended by security that he never saw the cops pick up; Steve and Weasel transporting weird shaped packages or going off on errands at odd hours of the night. He was the low man on security though and had not been privy to many secrets and he was good with that. It was probably better for his health that way.
Billy glanced at his watch. He would give his boss five minutes and then go in after him.
Chapter 47
Susan could see no sign of the cowboy returning from the canyon, so she probably had a little time, but she jogged anyway. It would be ideal to have the cowboy’s whole family secured in the helicopter when he got back—then she could focus on him alone. She had seen the girls running off in the direction of the old red barn—it shouldn’t be hard to find them or to lure them out. She smiled at the sweet vulnerability of children—how many had she swiped using such tactics? “Your mommy is hurt at the hospital and she wants me to give you a ride so she can see you. Quick, get in and we’ll go see her.”
Or when they recognized that she was up to no good: “Get in the car. I’ve got your mother and I’ll kill her if you don’t.”
These girls would be even easier, because they knew she had their mother and baby brother.
She saw movement on the other side of a large round corral. The boards were wide and heavy, and she might not have seen the girls if they hadn’t moved.
As she started to walk around she saw them move in the opposite direction—they were going to use the corral as a giant roundy-round to keep away from her. Susan glanced in the corral and saw a couple of cows and calves. She would hop the fence and cut the girls off. She didn’t think they could outrun her, but if they could, she would shoot them. She preferred to take them alive and then kill them in front of their parents, but she wasn’t going to let them get away.
The girls obviously hadn’t planned on this and stood there stupidly for a moment as Susan raced across the corral after them, then they turned heel and ran towards the barn. They ran, looking back over their shoulders at her, and then they stopped after only a few yards.
Susan stopped and pointed the gun at them. “Come here, girls. I’ve got your mommy and …” What was the baby’s name? “Landon. And if you come back I won’t …”
This last word hung in space as Susan saw something in the girls’ faces, at the same moment she sensed something behind her. She didn’t have time to turn as something struck her in the middle of her back and drove her into the ground.
Time slowed down and sound and vision altered for her. She couldn’t breathe or move for long seconds, but to her credit she still had her pistol in her hand, although it took her too long to remember it was there.
The old red cow was furious, snotting and blowing and stomping. Because Susan was so small and the cow was so angry, it was having a hard time with accuracy. Susan at last caught her breath, rolled over and shot a hole in the cow’s side. The cow staggered a bit and trotted away. Susan fell back in the dirt and lay there motionless. The cow had stepped on her numerous times and butted her two or three times in the thirty seconds or so that she had knocked Susan down, but Susan knew those were just bad bruises, perhaps bone bruises, but survivable. She was afraid for her back. The beast had hit her hard and dead center and now she feared to move.
She allowed herself to lay in the dirt for a few minutes, summoning the courage to try and stand up. It did not hurt much laying here, but she was badly worried about standing, much less trying to walk.
The cow was shaking its head, and though it must be fatally wounded, it looked like she was thinking about coming back for round two. Susan drag rolled herself to the fence and under the lowest rail. It hurt, but not as much as she feared it would. The cow galloped up and blew snot and dust on Susan. Susan stared for a moment, hate and rage flowing in her veins as she watched the dumb animal that had ruined her plan and perhaps her body. She shot it in the mouth, knowing it would suffer and be unable to eat or
drink and that it would die a miserable death. The cow staggered away bellowing, and Susan put her gun in its holster. She put both hands on the second fence rail and tried to pull herself to her knees. She screamed and the day seemed to darken, but she fought unconsciousness, found her knees and slumped against the fence, panting.
The helicopter seemed miles away, but now the idea of the cowboy showing up gave her fear as fuel. What would he do to her when he found her here helpless, especially once he found his wife severely beaten and prisoner in the helicopter with his baby son? Using the fence, she hauled herself to her feet. Amazingly, this was easier than getting to her knees. Holding the fence she slowly limped around the corral to where she started. There was something seriously wrong with her back, but if she walked ramrod straight and very slowly, with no bending, the pain was bearable. She learned this the hard way—the couple of times she had tried to lean forward, the pain had come and she had started to black out. The cow had hit her on the face too, below her right eye. Susan realized this area was swelling and, as she touched it cautiously, bleeding too.
Her plan was evolving into crap. She was now about halfway to the helicopter and she could see the dust from the cowboy’s truck. He must have seen the helicopter from the way he was driving; she hurried as best she could, her steps those of a lame, old woman, but she knew that she could still beat the pickup if she controlled her steps and didn’t push it. Losing consciousness now would be her end. She would not think about the long hours ahead of her in the helicopter; her revenge on the cowboy could still be completed. It was not going to be as good as she hoped, but she could still hurt him, even if he lived. Susan believed that living while the ones he loved died would hurt the cowboy unbearably.
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