Louder Than Words

by Brett Baker

  Before I returned to the desk I searched for Tyler Jo Hawkins. A series of deeds, land transfers, and mortgages returned, the most recent of which was dated three weeks earlier. But I knew where to find Hawkins. I still had no idea where to find information about Coulson.

  “No luck,” I said to the woman the desk.

  “That’s odd,” she said. “Most people find something. Unless your guy lived off the grid, it’s unusual for his name not to appear there. But maybe we’ve got some records related to criminal charges, property taxes, marriage licenses, or divorce decrees. Who are you looking for?”

  “Martin Coulson is the name. I don’t have a middle name, so I hope you don’t need that.”

  The woman had been writing on a paper form, and when I said Coulson’s name she stopped writing and looked up at me. She seemed shocked and froze for a second, before gathering herself and looking back down at the form. “I don’t think we’ll find anything, but we’ll give it a shot.”

  “Why don’t you think we’ll find anything? Is there a reason we wouldn’t find something? Do you know Coulson?”

  “What?” the woman asked, looking back up, her voice full of alarm. “No, I don’t know him. I don’t recognize the name.”

  “So the name Martin Coulson means nothing to you?”

  “Of course not,” the woman said. “Should it?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “But when I said his name you looked alarmed. If the name meant nothing to you I don’t think you would have reacted like that.”

  “Oh, I don’t think I reacted. The name means nothing to me. But let’s see if we can help you.” The woman put on a smile that implied she understood that she had no choice but to be friendly.

  She pounded away at the keys on her computer, and clicked a few times. Every minute or so she jotted something on the form, before turning her attention back to the screen. Five minutes later she said, “There’s nothing here about him. I checked every database we have, and no version of his name appears.”

  “I see,” I said, unconvinced by her claim. “Thanks for your help.”

  “I’m sorry we didn’t find anything,” she said. “Let me know if I can do anything else for you.”

  As I reached the exit, I stopped to return to the desk. The woman hadn’t moved, and seemed to be watching me as I walked out. When I turned back toward her she averted my gaze and looked down toward a stack of paper on the desk. As I approached she didn’t look up, but I had the sense that she could feel my presence.

  “One last thing before I go,” I said.

  “Oh, of course,” she said, looking up and feigning surprise to see me again. “What can I do for you?”

  “Do you have anything on Tyler Jo Hawkins?”

  The woman could not have looked more surprised if I confessed to being Martin Coulson. Her eyebrows shot upward, and she let out a small gasp, which she tried to conceal, but failed. “Uh, yes. Let me check. Tyler Jo Hawkins. He is around here. I know that. Do you know him?”

  “I don’t,” I said. “He’s just another name that someone gave me.”

  “Is that from your cousin?”

  “No, this is something unrelated,” I lied. “I have a few questions about him, too.”

  “Let me see what I can find,” she said, as she grabbed another sheet of paper and began writing on it.

  “Actually, never mind. I’ll come back. I should do one thing at a time. First Coulson.”

  “What do you need to know about Tyler Jo Hawkins?” she asked.

  “It’s not important,” I said. “Thanks for your help.”

  I left the building and returned to my car. The lady’s reaction when I mentioned Tyler Jo Hawkins surprised me almost as much as how she reacted to hearing Martin Coulson’s name. I had no doubt that she recognized both names, which made wonder why she denied knowing Coulson. And she all but admitted knowing Hawkins, but expressed the same look of surprise when I mentioned his name, as if she couldn’t believe I knew his name.

  As I pulled away from the Dixie County Courthouse, I had a feeling I hadn’t seen the last of it.

  Chapter 6

  It seemed that answers wouldn’t come easy in Dixie County, so I decided to familiarize myself with the area. Sometimes I can arrive in a new place, do what I need to do, and get out of town. Other times I have to almost put down roots in order to familiarize myself with the people and find the answers I need. This seemed like it would fall under the latter category.

  I drove almost every mile of road in Cross City, which didn’t take too long. Little differentiated one street from another. Most houses had carports attached to one side, a mix of palm trees, oak trees, and sweetgum dotted the landscape, and the yards were equal parts grass and gravel. I saw few street names that weren’t numbers. Names like 223rdAvenue and 118thStreet dominated, along with numbered county roads. The main road through town carried a triplicate U.S. highway numbering: 27, 19, and 98.

  I followed county highway 351 southwest for 20 miles from Cross City and ended up in Horseshoe Beach, which is a beach in the same way that Cross City is a city, which is to say not at all. What the town lacked in sand it made up for in Old Florida charm. It seemed like the type of community unknown to the rest of the world until a category 5 hurricane makes landfall there. Someone from the Weather Channel would show up for a special report and find that all the town’s citizens remained in place because they’d survived the Great Hurricane of 1960-something and there’s no way this one could be as bad as that. Fishing seemed the key industry of Horseshoe Beach, as someone could stand anywhere in town, throw a rock, and hit a bait shop.

  Much to my chagrin I saw no signs that read, “Martin Coulson information here” so I returned to Cross City.

  Near the edge of town I found a motel whose two wings came together in a V-shape. With sunset approaching, I had no problem seeing the neon sign out front that read “Vacancy”, although I did note that the neon N from the previous word had fallen off, so the most the sign could ever say was “o Vacancy.” The El Hombre – that was the name of the motel – had two cars in the lot, so I figured they had at least one room available. As I pulled into the parking lot I noticed a sign on the small building in front of the motel that read, “Christian Outlet.” The name confused me for a moment. Wasn’t every church an outlet for Christians? But then a secondary sign read, “Cheapest Bibles Around”, which I assumed meant they were inexpensive, not that they proselytized a less-pure version of Christianity.

  Although I often found myself requesting some version of supernatural help while engaged in missions for The Summit, I wasn’t interested in discounted bibles at the moment, but rather a clean, comfortable room. I parked in front of the office at the center of the V, and walked inside.

  A large glass display case extended the length of the back of the room. It had two shelves, and every square inch was covered with glass, ceramic, and bronze ashtrays in every shape and size. Standing behind the counter, with her hands spread out along the edge, an old woman stared down at the ashtrays. Her hair looked like it used to be blonde, but had taken on a dirty yellowish tint. As I approached the counter and got a whiff of stale cigarette smoke, I suspected it was the hair-coloring culprit.

  “Is that your collection?” I asked.

  “I guess so,” the woman answered in a voice built on decades of inhaling smoke. “I didn’t intend to build a collection. I just liked ashtrays. Of course, much of our lives are filled with things we didn’t intend.”

  “It’s quite impressive,” I said.

  “Are you sure you know what that word means?” the woman asked. “Impressive.” She paused a moment as if to give me time to answer, but I hadn’t expected such sarcasm from a little old lady. “It’s just an ashtray collection.”

  “Sorry,” I said, without knowing why I was apologizing. “I just meant that I like your collection.”

  “Well I’m getting rid of it. So if you like it that damn much I’ll sell you the whole
thing for seven hundred dollars.”

  “Wow,” I said, unable to hide my surprise. “That’s a lot of money.”

  “And it’s worth every damn penny. I’m ripping myself off, in fact. See this one?” she said, reaching down to her right and pulling a glass ashtray from the bottom shelf and placing it on top of the case. “This is the naked double-decker,” she said, as if her description should leave me amazed. The ashtray had a plain glass bottom, which was covered by a second piece of glass with a picture of a bikini-clad woman on a beach chair. “Produced only for Christmas 1967, and only sold south of the Mason-Dixon line. You put your cigarette in this bottom part, and the heat builds, and the glass on the top part warms up and the lady on the beach chair loses her bikini.”

  “Are you serious?” I asked with a chuckle.

  “These things are art,” the woman said. “I don’t think most people appreciate the care that goes into creating these. You look like someone who appreciates good art though. I’ll tell you what. I’ll give you the entire collection for six-fifty.”

  “Thanks, but I’m just here to get a room,” I said.

  “You just need a damn room?” the woman asked. “Why the hell are you wasting my time with these ashtrays then?”

  I gave her my best sympathetic smile, but said nothing.

  She opened a binder on top of the case, and said, “Room 13. Last room to your right, my left. How many nights?”

  “Let’s start with two,” I said.

  “Start with two?” the woman asked. “But if you like it you might move in?”

  “I’m just not sure how long I’ll stay,” I said.

  “Welcome to paradise,” the woman said. “Now that you’re here you’ll never want to leave.” She looked at me as if awaiting a reaction, but I said nothing. “Erline is our cleaning lady, but she doesn’t come unless we need her. Do you want her to clean your room tomorrow?”

  “Is it clean now?” I asked.

  “Should be,” she said. “That’s what we pay her for.”

  “Then she doesn’t need to come tomorrow. I’m not that dirty.”

  “Good. Fastest way to increase room rates. Having to pay more people. Best deal in town here at the El Hombre. Part of that’s because Erline only comes in when we need her.”

  I nodded, but had nothing else to add.

  “Here’s your key. Seventy-three dollars per night. Two nights, that’s one forty-six.” I handed her the exact amount, and she said, “Cash is best. Thanks.”

  Ashtray asked for my name before I left, wrote it in her binder, and then wished me a restful night of sleep. I parked my car in front of room 13 without giving it a second thought. I have no superstition.

  I spent the rest of the night watching glimpses of shows on the thirty-year-old television set in room 13. I half-expected to see new episodes of Cheersor Knot’s Landing, or some other show to indicate that I’d actually stepped into a time machine when I checked into the El Hombre. With no leads on Martin Coulson, and little idea of how to proceed, I had no plan for the next day, but assumed that a good night’s sleep couldn’t hurt, so I turned in for the night just after ten o’clock.

  Chapter 7

  Throughout my life I’ve heard people describe themselves as light sleepers or deep sleepers, and neither description ever made much sense to me. I did both, and always had. When I had little time to sleep, or felt especially tired, I’d fall into a deep, restive sleep. But when I needed to be alert, or a danger presented itself I could shake out of a slumber with the slightest spark.

  So although I didn’t hear anyone enter my room, and I didn’t sense either man approach my bed, as the pillow neared my face I awoke to complete awareness of the situation. The man to my right jumped on top of the bed and straddled my chest with his legs as he brought the pillow down upon my face, and the man to my left threw his body on top of my pelvis. A sudden increase in the pressure he exerted on me told me that he’d reached down and grabbed the railing of the bed frame for more leverage. Not an amateur move.

  However, using a pillow to kill me indicated that either they were amateurs, or they had no idea what turbulent fury they’d unleash when I discovered their presence. For someone who doesn’t kill many people, a pillow might seem a perfect weapon. It induces suffocation, which does not leave an obvious trauma the way that a gunshot, stabbing, or strangulation does. It provides a chance for the offender to get away with murder.

  But this ain’t my first rodeo. More competent killers than these two nincompoops have tried to kill me before, and anyone with a will to live and a bit of self-defense skill can counteract a pillow smothering with ease, even if some fatso is draped across her midsection.

  Instead of fighting the pillow off of my face, I turned my aggression toward the man straddling my chest. I stiffened my pinky finger, reached up, and jabbed it in his left ear, puncturing his ear drum before he even knew I’d lifted my arm. His yelp sounded like Scooby-Doo had just caught his tail in the sliding door of the Mystery Machine. He let go of the pillow, grabbed his ear with both hands, and collapsed off the bed, onto the floor, hitting his head on the wall of the small room in the process.

  His partner remained draped across my legs, but with Scooby out of the way, and the pillow no longer covering my face, I sat up and delivered a quick punch to the side of the man’s neck. He let go of the bed frame and reached up toward my face, but I landed a second punch in the same exact spot as the first, and he Tootsie-rolled down my legs, and off the foot of the bed.

  I turned on the lamp next to the bed, kicked Scooby in the back of the head, and jumped to the foot of the bed. Tootsie had made it to his knees, and as he tried to stand he delivered an uppercut that I sidestepped before kneeing him in the face. He fell on his back on the floor, and I pounced on his chest with both knees, knocking the wind out of him.

  “Why are you here?” I asked. “Who sent you? My name’s Mia Mathis. Are you sure you’re in the right room?” Other than the townsfolk who I’d met during the day no one else knew I was in Cross City. Before disposing of these two yokels, I wanted to give them the chance to convince me that this whole thing had been a big misunderstanding, and I should let them see the sunrise.

  Tootsie said nothing, though that might have been because his body couldn’t speak with no air and my knees digging into his chest. I punched him five times in the face, and lifted my fist to deliver a final, windpipe-crushing blow when Scooby caught my hand from behind and pulled me off his partner. He heaved me into the closet where I banged my head on a 1970s-era mirrored sliding door, and then crashed into a luggage rack. He came toward me, still holding his ear, and kicked me once in the chest. As he reached down and grabbed my hair, a hanger fell right into my lap off of the rack above. The bottom rounded bar opened and swiveled away from the wooden shoulder of the hangar. Scooby pulled me to my feet, and dragged me out of the closet, but before he could deliver another punch or throw me to the ground, I swung my arm toward him, and brought the metal rounded bar toward his face, plunging the blunt end into his skull through the part of his eye where the eyelid and the nose meet. A fountain of blood erupted from his face, and he fell back on the bed. I leapt onto the bed and used the heel of my foot to drive the bar deeper into his face. He shrieked and then fell silent.

  I turned just in time to feel Tootsie’s arms wrap around my waist, lift me onto the bed, and flip me over his head, onto the ground behind him. My feet hit the mirrored sliding door, but it didn’t break. The fall stunned me, and I crawled into the closet to gain a couple of feet of separation from Tootsie so I could figure out what to do. Like his partner before him, he leaned over and grabbed my hair, pulling me to my feet. As he did, I saw a cord dangling from the shelf above. I pulled it, and an iron fell off the shelf as Tootsie delivered three body blows to my stomach. I pulled the cord off the ground in one hard tug, and caught it in my hand. Before Tootsie knew what happened I hit him in the forehead with the pointed front of the iron. He pulled both hand
s to his forehead, and I swung the iron once more, hitting him in the side of his head. He fell to his right, collapsing against the wall. I jumped on top of him and hit him in the head with the iron until he stopped making noise.

  Chapter 8

  I kneeled on the floor in front of the window, pulled the curtain back a couple of inches, and peeked out. My car appeared undisturbed in front of the room, and I scanned the parking lot looking for another car, but saw only the two other cars that had been there hours before. No new guests at the El Hombre.

  Scooby and Tootsie remained dead on the floor, and I remained tired. Despite the obvious threat to my life, I decided it best to get some sleep and worry about the two dead guys in the morning. It seemed safe to assume that they hadn’t decided to kill me on their own. I hadn’t interrupted a robbery, and they didn’t try to sexually assault me, so they had intended to carry out a hit. I’d eliminated both of them, but whomever ordered them to visit me remained at large. The next few days would require me to be mentally and physically sharp, so I went to sleep. For the next few hours I slept a deep, rejuvenating sleep, while also remaining ready to jump to attention should a friend of the two poor dead slobs arrive to try and finish the job. The rest of the night remained quiet though, so when a sliver of sunlight peered through the curtain and woke me just after seven o’clock, I felt energized.

  Puddles of blood soaked the carpet around Scooby and Tootsie, but since I hadn’t request Erline’s presence, I didn’t worry about anyone seeing them. I showered, dressed, and returned to the El Hombre’s lobby.

  Much to my surprise, Ashtray greeted me as I walked in. She stood in the exact same place that I’d seen her the night before, her arms outstretched, hands supporting her weight on the glass counter.