Keep No Secrets

by Julie Compton

  "I love you, Dog," Jack says to the screen, and Michael just looks at him curiously. He gives him the phone and says, "Dial the Clarksville number again, then hand it back to me."

  The clerk at the front office informs Jack that the Nash's have already checked out.

  "Do you know when?" he asks, trying to disguise any sense of urgency.

  "This morning."

  Well, no shit, he thinks. But he forces a pleasant and non-threatening tone. "Oh, could you tell me what time?"

  There’s a silence at the other end as the clerk checks his records. "Looks like a few minutes ago." His tone, in contrast to Jack’s, is one of being put upon. "Maybe twenty minutes."

  Jack closes his phone and signals the answer to Michael with a shake of his head.

  "What are we gonna do?" Michael cries. "They know!"

  "First, you’re going to calm down, okay? You've gotta calm down." Michael presses his back against the seat, which Jack supposes is the equivalent of I’m calm. He checks the clock on the dash.

  "We’re less than thirty miles from the exit. They have no reason to think we’re heading their way. All they know from your texts is that she told you she’s going back to Florida. We—"

  "Yeah, and that I was trying to figure out exactly where they are. And that I know what he’s done to her."

  "True. But as far as they know, you have no clue where they are, and you never mentioned you’re already on the way. Let’s just get there and find out more, and we’ll take it from there."

  Michael grunts, but gives up the fight.

  The first thing Jack notices as he circles the parking lot is a large freight truck with Florida plates. The truck is parked just below the entrance to Room 224, which faces the highway at the rear of the building. The words "Southern Freight"

  fight for attention with layers of dirt and cinders splattered on the side.

  Underneath the name is a website and phone number.

  "You wouldn’t happen to know if the boyfriend is a truck driver, would you?"

  Jack asks.

  "I don’t know."

  He circles the lot again to see if any other cars have Florida plates. They don’t.

  He parks close to the lobby but on the street side, out of sight of the room. "Stay here."

  "But I—"

  "I said stay here. I’ll be right back."

  Before he gets out, he adds, "While you’re waiting for me, get on the internet with your phone and find out what you can from that website listed on the truck. But keep your eyes open."

  Except for the clerk behind the desk, the lobby is empty. Jack isn't surprised, given the early hour. The clerk, a skinny kid in a black T-shirt, well-worn jeans, and tattoos covering both emaciated arms, once again claims that they checked out, though he can’t describe any of them.

  His attitude is even larger than on the phone, and it pisses off Jack.

  "I would think it’d be unusual for guests to check out so early. How could you not remember them if they’re the only ones who’ve been in the lobby this morning?" With his elbows on the counter, Jack leans closer to the punk. A small, aluminum ashtray rests on the desk and a half-smoked cigarette smolders at the ashtray's edge. He can’t be older than twenty-one, twenty-two, but Jack sees he’s lived hard. "Isn’t this a non-smoking hotel?"

  "Who the fuck are you?"

  "I’m someone who might want to rent a room. Can’t imagine your boss would appreciate you talking to me like that."

  "They checked out remotely, using the TV," he says, apparently deciding to now answer Jack’s earlier question.

  "What kind of vehicle did they have?"

  "I don’t know, man. I told you, I didn't see them leave."

  "Maybe not. But your records know, don’t they." Jack's tone makes clear he’s not asking.

  After reaching for the cigarette, the guy pushes at the desk to roll his chair out.

  He rocks the chair and looks at Jack with narrowed eyes as he takes a long drag.

  "Dude, you look familiar."

  "Yeah, a lot of people tell me that."

  Jack slaps a twenty dollar bill down on the counter. "This is important. One of them is in danger."

  "No, seriously, man. Where do I know you from?" He slides the bill off the counter and down onto the desk as he questions Jack.

  Fuck him. "I'm the DA." Jack flashes his credentials so fast that the clerk can’t read that Jack doesn’t mean the local DA.

  This is becoming a bad habit. "And you're this close"—he holds up his index finger and thumb to demonstrate—"to being charged with obstruction of justice."

  The guy stares at Jack, thinking, and Jack sees a slow wave of recognition travel his face. One side of his mouth rises in a smart-ass grin. He reaches for the cigarette that still dangles from his lips on the other side and holds it over the ashtray, pushes down a few times to extinguish it. "You're not shitting me, are you? I know now. You're that guy who’s been on the news, the one who’s on trial for nailing that high school girl."

  Jack swipes hard at everything on the counter separating them. The grin slips from the kid's face as he watches items scatter—brochures, a bowl of candy, some sort of hotelier award in a small frame. Some land on the floor, some land on the desk in front of him. The clerk stands, and Jack reaches across, clutches a bundle of the T-shirt in his fist, and pulls him so close he smells the stale cigarette breath. "Listen, you little prick! Answer my questions or I'll come over this counter and make you eat that fuckin’

  cigarette. What were they driving?"

  "I told you, man! I don't know! We have a space on the registration form for vehicle information, but no one ever bothers to fill it out. I'll check, but I’m telling you, it won’t be there. Last I saw’em, the mom came in here asking where the nearest twenty-four hour drug store was. Something about her husband having a migraine. That’s the last I’ve seen of them. I swear."

  "Before or after they checked out?"

  "Just a few minutes ago. Maybe five minutes before you came in."

  "You’re not making sense. When I called earlier, you said it had been twenty minutes since they checked out. It took me another twenty or twenty-five minutes to get here. If she asked about the drug store only five minutes before I came in, that means they were still here for forty minutes or so after they checked out.

  Why would that be?"

  The clerk shakes his head in confusion, trying to do the math. "I don’t know!

  You’d have to ask them, man." He squirms, but Jack holds tight to the Tshirt. "Let go of me and I’ll pull up the records and you can see for yourself!"

  Jack lets go but not without a strong shove, which causes the clerk to fall backwards onto the chair.

  "Christ, dude!" the guy hollers, flapping his arms to regain his balance before the chair tips over. With a glare at Jack, he rolls back to the desk, grabs the computer mouse and starts clicking.

  "How far is the drugstore?"

  "We don’t have any in town that stay open all night. We always send people to the Walgreens in Madison, a little north of Nashville. It’s about a 45 minute drive south." He turns his computer monitor so Jack can see the screen. "See, they checked out at 4:11."

  Jack glances at his watch and sees it’s now 5:06. He and Michael pulled in the parking lot ten minutes ago, at most, which means Lillian Del Toro asked about the drug store around 4:50. What’s going on? "Did she go alone?"

  "Dude, I told you. I didn’t see them leave."

  "Who drives the truck? The Southern Freight truck?"

  "What? Oh, that’s Walt. He’s a regular, every Monday night like clockwork."

  So it’s not Torpedo’s truck. "Have you been in the room since they checked out?"

  "No. The cleaning lady will clean it when she comes on duty at seven."

  "So you really don’t know if anyone’s in there or not, do you?"

  Like Celeste. Alone. With Torpedo. The clerk gives Jack a blank look.

  "I need
to get in that room. Right now."

  "I can't—"

  Jack leans close again. "You unlock that room right now or I'll break the window to let myself in. You got it?"

  "But—"

  Jack leaves the lobby. He hears the guy yell, "Wait!"

  Outside, the sky is still dark but the walkways are dimly lit. The fertile, humid scent of the spring morning overpowers even the exhaust fumes of vehicles on the nearby interstate. He weaves his way to the rear of the building, the clerk on his tail. He catches up to Jack on the stairs.

  "You can’t just barge in if somebody’s inside! At least let me knock and make sure no one’s in there and then I’ll let you in."

  "You don’t get it. I want in if someone’s in there." But the clerk’s words reach one part of Jack’s brain even as another part causes his feet to continue forward. He’s not like people u no. The clerk’s right. If Jack barges in, it’s not likely Torpedo will go down without a fight, and he might take everyone else down with him. Jack may be capable of battling the guy in a courtroom, but he has no idea what awaits him, physically, behind the door to Room 224. Flashing credentials won’t cut it with a guy like Torpedo. "Look, I won’t barge in, but I need you to get in there and find out what's going on while I call the cops."

  "Oh, trust me, dude," the clerk looks Jack up and down as if he’s an escapee from an insane asylum, "I already did that."

  On the balcony at the top of the steps, Jack sees Michael running across the parking lot in their direction. Unable to shout for fear of being overheard, Jack waves to warn him away. Michael

  stubbornly ignores him.

  "I want you to knock on the door and pretend like you’re housekeeping or maintenance or something. I need to know if anyone’s in there."

  "And if there is?"

  "Try to get in. I don’t care what pretext you use. Just try to get in without setting off any alarms. Act like there’s a plumbing emergency. Anything. And then stall. Don’t let them know I’m out here."

  "What the fuck are you trying to send me into? I ain’t going in there if there’s some sort of shit going down."

  "Look, the only shit that might be going down is a rape. I’m trying to prevent it before it happens, or if I’m too late for that, I need to stop it in progress. Got it?

  You gonna help me? Or you want that on your conscience?"

  "You serious?"

  Michael appears at Jack’s side,

  breathless. Jack puts his arm out to stop him from going any farther. "I’m serious.

  I suspect the guy in there sent the mom on an errand for a reason."

  The clerk stares at Jack, and Jack sees he’s scared.

  "You have nothing to worry about as long as you stick to your hotel role. If you see it’s a guy alone with a girl, just stall, okay? Whatever you do, don’t let him close the door on you."

  "Is she still here?" Michael asks, panting.

  "We’re about to find out."

  The clerk looks down at the master key card in his hand. "If you don’t want them to know you're here, maybe you should stay on the steps until I’m in the room.

  He may come out."

  Jack nods. "Just hurry." He pulls Michael back with him. "I told you to stay in the car." When Michael doesn’t respond, he adds, "Stay behind me, and do not leave this landing unless I give you explicit instructions to. Okay?" Michael nods. "And keep an eye out for the cops."

  "I called them."

  "What?"

  "I called the cops and told them what was happening. I overheard what you said to Mom about guns blazing, so I told them to try to arrive without anyone knowing about it."

  As soon as the words are out of his mouth, Jack hears the clerk’s knock on Room 224 and his yell, "Maintenance!

  Anyone in here?" He puts his fingers at his lips again to remind Michael not to speak anymore, but with the hand closest to his son, squeezes his arm to tell him he’s proud of him for what he just revealed.

  Jack grows more nervous when the

  clerk repeats his call, which is followed by the sound of the door opening but then abruptly stopped by the security chain.

  He can’t hear if anyone speaks on the other side of the door, but someone must have finally shown himself because the clerk says, "Sorry, dude. The computer showed you checked out already."

  "Yeah, we did." The voice Jack assumes belongs to Torpedo has the low rasp of someone who smokes two packs a day.

  "But that was before I got hit by a migraine. We’ll be leaving as soon as my wife gets back with some medicine and I get some relief. You’re gonna have to come back later. We have ‘til noon, right?"

  Michael’s frantic eyes go wide, and Jack raises a hand. Just hold on.

  "Sure, but I first gotta get in there to check on some pipes. We had a report of a gas leak and we think the problem’s originating from this room. I need you to wait on the balcony."

  "I haven’t smelled anything. Look, I’m in massive pain here." The fake friendliness has given way to a more threatening tone. "I need to lie down and close my eyes."

  Jack hears a voice from inside the room that he thinks is Celeste, but he can’t make out what was said.

  "She’s right, it may be the gas causing your migraine," the clerk says. "Sorry, man, I don’t have a choice. State law."

  Jack suddenly loves the guy for how well he’s playing the part.

  "Come on, Cee," Torpedo says angrily.

  To the clerk, "We’ll be out in a second."

  He must try to shut the door because Jack hears a thud—the clerk’s palm hitting the door?—followed by, "Sorry, dude, you gotta keep the door open."

  Michael taps Jack on the shoulder to point out two police officers quietly making their way along the wall near the front office to the stairwell. Perfect timing.

  Jack repositions himself so he can see the balcony outside the door. He watches as Celeste comes out first, Torpedo right on her heel. She wears purple pajama pants and a white thermal shirt with long sleeves, an odd choice for the warm, muggy weather. Her hair is frizzy from the humidity, and tangled from what Jack hopes is just sleep. She's tall like Jenny, but she looks tiny next to Torpedo, who towers over her with the wide, bare-chested muscles of a body-builder. A barbed wire tattoo circles his large left bicep; a snake design curls around the other. His stringy brown hair is pulled back in a ponytail, revealing a

  pockmarked but incongruently boyish face.

  As soon as the clerk disappears into the room, Torpedo leans against the railing with his arm around Celeste. She visibly tenses when he pulls her close, and her reaction alone convinces Jack that everything she told Michael is true.

  Torpedo bends close to her ear, his lips touching her hair, and whispers

  something as he casually brushes his free hand against her breast. Celeste lowers her eyes, her mouth screws up in fear and revulsion, but otherwise she doesn’t move.

  "What’s happening?" Michael whispers.

  The first cop reaches the landing just as Jack turns to shush Michael.

  "Mr. Hilliard?" the cop asks. "Jack Hilliard?" Jack nods and moves toward him. He silently signals with one hand as he reaches for his credentials with the other, but the cop stuns Jack when he grabs his wrist and executes a maneuver that spins him so quickly he doesn’t have time to object. He advises Jack that he's under arrest for contempt of court and begins to recite Miranda as the second cop grabs hold of the other arm and together the two men cuff him. Jack doesn’t try to verbalize their mistake for fear of being overheard by Torpedo, but Michael, whether lacking the same restraint or perhaps foresight, cries, "He's not the one! He's trying to help her!" Jack hears Celeste cry, "Mike?" just as the first cop pushes Michael against the wall and shouts, "You need to stay quiet, son, until we tell you to speak!" The second cop abandons Jack and starts in the direction of Celeste's voice while Jack starts talking at the first cop, just tries to get as much of the story out so the man will move to assist his partner. His prayers are a
nswered when the second cop issues an order—"Step away from her"—and then shouts, "Morris, I need back-up!"

  Michael, hearing Step away from her, assumes the worst and takes off to follow Officer Morris. Jack yells " Michael, stop! "

  in a tone he’s heard come out of his own mouth only one other time, when a four-year-old Jamie came within seconds of propelling himself off an icy hill of plowed snow into the path of an

  approaching SUV. It works. Michael halts, and Jack exhales his relief.

  He hears Celeste crying as the second cop again orders Torpedo to step away from her.

  "Whoa, officers, slow down there,"

  Torpedo says. "You're scaring her. I'm just a guy trying to get some rest before driving my family home to Florida."

  With his arms still trapped behind him, Jack edges back to his former viewing spot and sees Celeste is now standing slightly in front of Torpedo as insurance against the cops, who both have their guns trained on him. He grips her shoulders in a casual, fatherly stance. The frightened clerk stands with his back pressed against the doorframe. Jack hears helicopter rotors in the distance and knows the media is about to descend upon them. Morris knows it, too; he glances at the sky and mutters, "Damn it!"

  When a curious guest opens the door to the room at the end of the balcony, he orders her back into her room. To Torpedo, he says, "Step away from her and then we'll sort this out."

  "I will, I will. Just lower the guns, will ya? You got the wrong guy." Torpedo spots Jack. "There he is, Cee." He squeezes her shoulders. "Tell ‘em, cupcake. Tell them who really hurt you."

  Celeste keeps her eyes aimed at the ground.

  "Cee?" the second cops says gently, using the name he heard Torpedo use, "is this man your father?"

  She shakes her head. Torpedo says,

  "I'm her mom's boyfriend. She's known me for years. Her mom will be back any minute and she'll tell you. She just went to find some medicine for my migraine."

  "Is that right, Cee?"

  This time she nods, still refusing to look at anyone. Jack can't stand it anymore. "Celeste, tell them what you told Mike. Tell them what he's done to you." But she pretends not to hear. "He raped her," he tells the cops.