Be Still

by Erik Carter

  She stared and didn't respond for a moment.

  “Dale, I ... I don’t want to be alone tonight. Lie in bed with me. Please.”

  Dale shook his head.

  “I’m sorry. It wouldn’t be appropriate. I’ll sleep right beside the mattress. How about that?”

  “I keep imagining Clyde walking through the mouth of the cave.”

  “We’re safe. He doesn’t know about the cave, and—”

  “He does know this place.”

  Dale turned on her. “What? I thought you said—“

  “He found out that this was where I used to come to hide out. And he liked the place. Oh, Jesus. And so this is where he and Bill started bringing their girls for a while. They haven’t been here in months, so I don’t think he’d think I would go her, but…”

  She trailed off.

  “Oh my god,” Dale said

  “Dale ... please?”

  She looked at him, gestured with her eyes to the empty area of the bed. Utter fright painted all over her face, tears welling.

  Dale took in a slow breath, exhaled.

  “Okay.”

  Dale stood and walked over, paused, then pulled the blankets aside and got in bed.

  Dale stared at the ceiling, his mouth open slightly, feeling rather uncomfortable.

  “Thank you.”

  He felt the mattress shake beside him for a couple moments as Mira settled in. Then it stopped, and he could hear deep breathing. After everything that happened to her, he had guessed she would either fall right asleep straight away or be awake all night. He was glad she did the prior. She needed rest badly.

  As for Dale, he knew he was going to be awake for a while. His mind wouldn’t be quiet.

  Witness. Victim.

  Two words; one person.

  And Dale was lying in bed her.

  Yes, he would be awake for a while. He stared at the texture of the rock ceiling, illuminated by the tiniest bit of light.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Dale’s eyes opened. The cave was still gloomy, but there was much more light than when he’d finally closed his eyes. It was morning. Another bleak day outside. It was raining just as hard as when they went to bed.

  He felt something, turned to the side.

  And jumped.

  Mira was curled up on his shoulder.

  She must have found her way over some time during the night. Dale hadn’t noticed.

  He slowly transferred her head off his shoulder and onto a pillow then got out of the bed. He grabbed his leather jacket, walked to the mouth of the cave, and looked back.

  She slept soundly.

  He left.

  In town, Dale walked with his head hung low, avoiding eye contact, concealing his appearance as much as possible.

  He went to a newspaper box, inserted a quarter, and took out a paper. Rain pattered it as soon as he took it out.

  The top headline of the Hot Springs Tribune was:

  LATEST VICTIM OF SERIAL KILLER ABDUCTED BY FEDERAL AGENT

  Below this were two photos: one of Mira—a smiling snapshot—and beside it, Dale’s file photo, the one where he’s making a goofy face, eyes wide, cheek bulging.

  Dale folded the paper under his arm, lowered his head again, and took off at a brisk pace.

  A dingy, single-stall gas station bathroom. The smell of a hundred pisses. Phone numbers and lewd jokes scratched into the paint.

  Dale locked the deadbolt and tore open a plastic bag of disposable plastic razors, took out a few, and tossed the rest in the trash can.

  He stuck all of the razors but one in his interior jacket pocket.

  He turned on the sink, pushed the handle on the soap dispenser a few times, then used the running water to work up a lather, which he put on his cheeks.

  After a few minutes of work, Dale splashed water onto his face, washing the soap off. He examined his handiwork in the mirror. He had shaved his stubble down to a goatee.

  Not bad.

  His stubble beard was a bit thicker than usual, so while the goatee was certainly not full, the shape was defined and noticeable, like he'd decided to start growing one not too long ago. He compared his reflection to his image in the newspaper. It was enough to make him look slightly different.

  He put his sunglasses on and left.

  Dale squatted behind a tree in a wooded area atop a rocky hill. The trees were helping with the rain a bit, but he was still drenched. He was eating peanuts from a small plastic bag, and he watched the building below.

  It was a police station, squad cars parked all around it.

  The rear door opened, and Sadler walked out, taking shelter under an umbrella and heading toward an old pickup truck.

  Dale quickly stood up, shoved the bag of peanuts into his pocket, and headed down the hill. He stepped out into the parking lot.

  The pouring rain, the puddles.

  “Sadler!”

  Sadler looked up, startled. Then shock appeared on his face as he recognized Dale.

  Dale walked right up to him.

  “Conley! Some nerve, showing up at police station. What the hell have you done with her?”

  “Oh, no. That’s not how this is happening. I’m the one asking the questions. Starting with, where is Clyde Bowen?”

  Sadler’s mouth opened. He didn't respond.

  “Clyde Bowen. You know, the serial killer? The guy chopping up women around town. The guy you said is a casual acquaintance but who’s actually your best buddy. The guy you tag team women with, including Mira Lyndon. You know, that guy.”

  Sadler’s confused look quickly turned into a dark smirk.

  “You don’t know shit, Conley.”

  “I know that you’re covering for Clyde Bowen. Everything leads back to you. And that stupid look on your face tells me more than any clues I’ve found yet.”

  “You kidnapped a witness, you dumb shit. A survivor. It doesn’t matter what evidence you have or think you have. You’re null and void. I can stand here, right outside the police station, look you in the eye, and tell you with zero fear that you’re goddamn right I’m covering for Clyde. I’m running local side of this investigation. I know this town, its people. And by the time this is all over, I’ll make that little bitch Mira Lyndon look like a petty, vindictive, jaded woman who was willing to pin something horrific on a boyfriend just because he liked to fool around.”

  “I know something too.”

  “Is that so?”

  “I know that they’re gonna give me a damn medal when I bring your ass in.”

  Sadler let out a laugh.

  “Are you kidding me, Conley? The whole city and the National Park Service are after you. And the FBI, too. They just got into town. Again, you kidnapped a witness, a victim, and the suspect’s girlfriend all rolled into one. So no matter what you think you know, I’ll be the one getting the accolades once I bring your ass in.”

  Dale smiled.

  “Well. May the best man win.”

  They stared at each other. Sadler threw his umbrella aside. Another moment of staring.

  And then they both sprang into action.

  They collided, arms instantly entangled, and after a quick flurry of grappling, their hands were at each other’s throats, eyes locked, mouths snarling.

  Sadler got a foot angled in front of Dale’s leg and gave him a solid shoving, sending him flying at the truck. Dale collided with it, hard, snapping his head back. The truck squeaked on its ancient suspension.

  Sadler lunged at him, and at the same time, Dale swung a fist. Sadler’s forward momentum met the motion of Dale’s punch, and the timing of the collision was perfect, cracking hard against Sadler’s eye socket.

  Sadler stumbled back, badly shaken. The area around his eye where Dale had slugged him was violently pink, and some blue was already showing up. It was going to be one hell of a black-eye. Dale pushed off the truck and smashed into him.

  There was another flurry of action as Dale struggled with the dazed Sadl
er, getting his arms behind his back.

  Then there was a noise.

  Dale looked up, saw the back door open again.

  A uniformed officer stepped out, saw Dale.

  “Hey!”

  He ran toward him.

  “Shit!”

  Dale threw Sadler’s shirt over his head then ran back up the rocky hill and into the trees.

  He quickly lost himself in the trees and positioned himself around a tree trunk, plastered himself against it, held still, listened.

  The cop’s footsteps approached, getting louder.

  Dale scooted around the tree, keeping himself out of sight.

  The footsteps stopped. Paused. And then continued on, getting quieter as they got farther away.

  Dale stole a glance around the tree and then headed back down the hill to the police station.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Bill Sadler’s pickup truck came to a stop across the street from the Stately Arlington Hotel in downtown, a tall building that capped the end of Bathhouse Row. There was a pause then the door opened, and Sadler got out.

  For several moments, the trucks sat there motionless. And then a tarp in the back rustled. Stopped. And then it flew to the side.

  Dale’s head popped up. He peered out over the top of the truck bed. Scanned the area. He found Sadler and watched as he crossed the street, heading toward the hotel.

  Dale sank back down, lower into the truck’s bed, and looked through the junk Sadler had stored back there. There was a rake, some rusting exercise weights, an old bird cage… He found a red flannel and grabbed it, stuffed it under his arm. He kept looking and came up with a filthy, sweat-stained trucker cap. He sniffed it cautiously.

  “Eww.”

  He hesitated for a moment then put the hat on. He hopped out of the truck bed and onto the sidewalk. He looked around cautiously, scanning for people. Which was stupid. No one was out in the pouring rain. So he quite conspicuously went to the driver-side door and tried the handle. Unlocked.

  He climbed in, getting out of the rain. He scanned in the gaps between the seats, the ashtray, under the floor-mats, and finally found what he was looking for tucked under one of the visors. A spare set of keys. He shoved the keys in his pocket, threw the baggy flannel on over his leather jacket, and went back out into the rain.

  He crossed the street to the Arlington. There was a colonnade running along the front of the building with lots of fancy chairs and accompanying table. He saw Sadler ahead, by the hotel’s entrance, talking to someone he recognized. A tall woman in her late fifties, silver-white hair, business suit.

  It was Alberta Ventress.

  Holy shit. They’d called in Ventress.

  For a split second, he was proud of his roguishness—being able to pull in that kind of heat—but this pride was quickly replaced by a more rational reaction.

  Ventress’ presence here spelled bad news for Dale.

  Very bad news indeed.

  Sadler and Ventress finished their short conversation and entered the hotel.

  Dale continued on, getting closer to the front doors. He took a seat at one of the fancy chairs, grabbed a discarded newspaper from the small table next to it. He opened the newspaper, feigned reading. It served as a nice tool to to shield his face while he watched the entrance.

  Nash appeared around the corner. And he wasn’t alone. He was being escorted. Like a prison. A very well-dressed black man—whom Dale didn’t recognize—had him by the back of the arm and guided him through the entrance. A moment later, Dale’s boss, SAC Walter Taft, appeared around the same corner. It was such a nice surprise seeing the familiar face, that Dale’s instinct told him to run over and say hello. But instead he hid himself further behind the newspaper.

  Taft’s presence made the fact that Alberta Ventress was there even more deadly to Dale’s situation. They’d brought Dale’s boss in. They were planning something big.

  For a couple moments, no one else appeared. Dale stood, dropped the newspaper back on the table, and went into the hotel.

  The moment he pushed through the doors to the Arlington Hotel, Dale’s heart ached even more at travesty of Taft’s second-cheapest lodging policy. This was where Dale should be staying in Hot Springs. It was massive and grand and you could smell the history coming out of the place. Indeed, Dale knew that the Arlington had a fascinating history, and it would have been great to stay at the place and explore not only the building itself, but also the small museum-style historical display he saw set up in the back.

  But he couldn’t concern himself with what-might-have-beens at the moment because he saw the group he’d followed head to a door not far from the historical display and filter into the room beyond, taking their seats at a conference table. The door shut.

  Dale crossed the luxurious lobby to the desk where a thin, balding gave him a small smile and tried to conceal the fact that he was eyeballing Dale’s soaking wet trucker cap and red flannel.

  “Excuse me,” Dale said. “The meeting room back there. I saw an old friend step in there. Would it be possible for you to grab him for me? I’d just like to say hi.”

  “I’m sorry, sir,” the man said. “Once the door’s shut, we’re not permitted to interrupt.

  Dale nodded. He strummed his fingers on the counter, thinking. He spotted a stack of small, complimentary notebooks with the hotel letterhead on the top. Beside this was a cup filled with pens. He grabbed one of each.

  “Would you mind getting a note to him when they break from their meeting?”

  “Certainly.”

  Dale scribbled out his note.

  When he was done, he asked for an envelope, which the man provided. On the front he wrote: TAFT.

  He gave the man the note, thanked him, and crossed back to the front entrance.

  As soon as he pushed through the doors, the sound of the pouring rain greeted him. The fishy smell of never-ending downpours. At least there was the collonade. He could get a few feet of protected walking before he had to get soaked. again.

  He took off down the colonnade. And he spotted someone at the far end. Coming his direction. Someone he recognized. A cop. In uniform.

  It was Brennan.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Brennan spotted him.

  And immediately bolted toward him.

  “Hey! Freeze!”

  Dale didn’t freeze. He didn’t run away either. Instead he did something that was surely unexpected to Brandon.

  He started running right toward him.

  Talk about the element of surprise.

  And when they met, Dale extended his arms, striking Brennan in the chest.

  Brennan let out an oomph and stumbled back.

  Dale kept running, and he could hear Brennan’s footsteps hot on his heels, echoing down the colonnade.

  It had been a nice attempt on Dale’s part. But he hadn’t gotten the separation. Brennan was right behind him. So Dale vaulted over the cement guardrail beside him and into some sopping-wet bushes, losing his balance and falling over back into the branches.

  Brennan landed beside him, nightstick drawn. He swung it the moment he saw Dale, catching Dale in the stomach.

  Dale bent in half.

  Brennan grabbed him by the flannel, pulled him in close.

  With one hand still on his stomach, Dale swung a fist, catching Brennan in the ribs.

  This gave Dale a bit of separation, but Brennan still had hold of him by the flannel.

  The flannel was flimsy and had been exposed to the elements in the back of Sadler’s truck, likely for a very long time. So Dale thought that if he pushed off hard enough, the sleeve might just rip right off, so he—

  His train of thought immediately changed gear.

  Because he’d spotted something.

  The wall he and Brennan had vaulted—the guardrail of the colonnade—had a sign that read WET PAINT, which had been hung right below a green accent strip. Someone had started a job a couple days ago before the rain and
not finished. Dale could be sure of this because a couple feet away from the sign was a quart-sized paint can with drips of dried green paint running down the sides.

  And its lid was not sealed.

  Dale grabbed the paint grab and swung it toward Brennan. The flew off, somersaulting into the bushes, and the paint flung out in a bright green slice, slapping Brennan right in the face.

  Brennan’s hands went to his eyes. And he screamed.

  Paint to the eyes … yeah, that probably hurt like hell.

  His face was completely covered, and he clawed at his eyes, still screaming. There was a big stripe of green paint running diagonally across his dark uniform.

  Dale’s instinct was to reach out and help. This guy wasn’t a bad guy, after all. He was a cop.

  But Dale didn’t have a moment for moral reflection. He had to get the hell out of there.

  He sprinted away.

  He crossed the street, continued across a patch of grass, through some trees, and ended up on the brick pathway of the Grand Promenade area.

  He looked down at the red flannel. It was marred by green paint and looked ridiculous.

  And attention-grabbing.

  He tore it off and stuffed it into the next trash can, beside one of the benches.

  He lowered the trucker cap further over his face, dropped his gaze brickwork, stuffed his hands into his pockets, and continued on, trying to look as casual as one possibly can strolling through the pouring rain.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  “You didn’t have a goatee when you left,” Mira said with a smile, pointing at the impromptu grooming job Dale had done on himself when he was in town.

  He smiled back. A weak smile. The best he could muster.

  “Enough about my fashion choices. Why aren’t you resting?”

  Mira bit her lip. “Too anxious.”

  “You need to take it easy and recover for a little while.” He paused. “Because tonight we’re leaving Hot Springs.”