Every Part of the Animal

by Duncan Ralston

  "Off duty now?"

  "Uh-huh. Miss Layne's room is 201. We also have a room booked for Dawson, first name Darius." She traced the screen with a finger. "Ah, 203. Adjoining."

  "Thank you. Could you call up, please?"

  "I'd be happy to." She picked up the phone and pressed a few numbers. Okalik heard the ring despite the receiver being tucked between the young woman's ear and shoulder, shrouded by a sheaf of her hair. The clerk's eyes rose in vague impatience. "It appears she's not there. Would you like me to try Mr. Dawson's room?"

  "Please."

  The same routine, with the addition of the clerk blowing her bangs out of her face with slight exasperation. "I'm sorry, they must have stepped out for the day. Would you like me to leave a message, or…?"

  "Would you happen to have a home number for Miss Tweed?"

  Her cheery features expressed regret with difficulty. "Oh, I'm not allowed to give that out—"

  "You'd be doing Miss Layne a big favor."

  Those dimples again. "Let me speak to my manager."

  The desk clerk wandered off to the back room, and Okalik turned to survey the gigantic foyer. The laughter of children made her grin. She'd never been big on kids, aside from her sister's two boys, but hearing their easy laughter made her feel—for a moment, at least—that everything was all right in the world. She stored up that laughter, those happy moments with her nephews, for times like these, when cautious optimism was required.

  Then she'd get called to a robbery-homicide, or a domestic gone from bad to worse, or a drunk driving incident where the head of the sober driver had rolled into the ditch, and all of that good, all of that niceness would vanish like morning mist.

  The evil that men do, she thought.

  "Offic—sorry. Detective?"

  Okalik turned. No dimples this time, just a small, tightened mouth.

  "Here's her number. Please let us know if we can assist you in any other way."

  "If you could give me the keys to those rooms, that would be excellent."

  "I could send someone up with you…?"

  "I'd rather see to it myself, thanks."

  There were duplicates in a drawer. Reluctantly, the clerk got them. Handed them over the counter.

  "Thank you, Regina," Okalik said, reading her name off the tag on her rust and forest employee vest. "Which way to Room 201?"

  The clerk pointed toward the stairs with her entire hand flat, palm out. A non-aggressive gesture establishments like this instructed their employees to do instead of the accusatory one-finger point. "Up the stairs, first hall to your right. And I do hope there's nothing wrong?" Her smile this time was hopeful, showing too much teeth.

  "Nothing to be worried about."

  Okalik dialed the number on her cell on the way to the stairs. It rang a half-ring, and was picked up by the answering service. "This is Donna Tweed." An elderly voice. In the background, a very young girl shouted, "Grandma!" Two or more children laughing. "I'm not available to come to the phone right now, but if you leave a detailed message…"

  Typical answering machine message, aside from the kids. As she rose the stairs, Okalik's guts began to tighten like a knot. She left a brief message, asking her to call when she woke. She'd worked the night shift for several years, knew how difficult it could be to get back to sleep once it's interrupted. The woman probably turned her phone off so as not to be disturbed. Blackout curtains and a fan running constantly to block out any evidence of daytime outside the bedroom.

  The life of a vampire. Sure don't miss that.

  Room 211 was the first door on the right. Hotels like this annoyed her. 201 should naturally come first, not be at the far end of the hall. You open a book, you can usually expect it to start at page one.

  The carpet reminded her of the old hotel in The Shining, orange and brown. Earthy tones. The far end of the hall was open to sunlight. Beyond the window pool sounds floated up, splashing and laughter. She wondered how could anyone relax in a place like this.

  The ice machine dumped a fresh load of ice as she passed. She'd always hated that; they always seemed to purge when she was alone in the hall, often late at night. It was like streetlights winking out as you passed under them. The timing was disconcerting.

  She stopped in front of Room 201. The first keycard didn't work. The keys weren't labeled. She tried the second. The green light flashed, and the maglock disengaged.

  The door opened with a gasp of air conditioning, the room frigid.

  Her eyes immediately spotted signs of disarray, though she supposed they weren't out of place in a popstar's hotel room. Emptied miniature liquor bottles on the dresser. A suitcase spilled all over the king bed, the covers a mess. The TV on mute, some R&B video with a man dressed in a tailored suit running his hands up and down the cocoa-buttered skin of a model, making excruciated faces as he sang.

  The door to the adjoining room remained open partway.

  Okalik entered the bathroom. Before stepping in she saw the counter littered with what Layne most likely called "products" in the mirror. The wall unit hairdryer hung from its springy cord, more scattered liquor bottles, cotton balls blotted with dark makeup. Pills spilled from a small prescription jar, little green pills with the grainy texture of Flintstones vitamins, imprinted with dollar signs—MDMA, she assumed. The toilet lid up, crusted vomit on the inner bowl, spit and toilet paper floating on the surface.

  "Someone had one helluva party," Okalik said to herself.

  Bloody tissues in the trash, though they hadn't been used to clean up blood, just to blow a bloody nose. Maybe allergies. She wouldn't immediately jump to assuming cocaine use because of the girl's profession.

  The open adjoining door drew her attention. She crossed the room, toed it open all the way. It squeaked on the hinges. Okalik peered inside.

  Aside from the pillows stacked on the bedcovers, Dawson's room was neat. His suitcase unzipped, clothes in tight, precise folds inside. Remote upside down on the dresser, along with a couple of crumpled sweets wrappers and a handful of coins. Bible on the bed. Nothing else out of place.

  Two people disappear overnight, one of them famous. No Twitter or Instagram posts since late last night. Layne's last few tweets a quote from John Lennon's "Give Peace a Chance," and something about her emancipation from her father, referencing her song, "#LoveIsThickerThanBlood." Nothing about her whereabouts, or what she'd planned to do last night. Her last Instagram photo at 8:36 P.M. a candid of herself flashing devil's horns in the bathroom mirror, drinking a mini bottle of tequila, with the hashtags: minibar, tequila, crunk, and YOLO.

  If she'd brought an entourage with her, finding her would have been easy. But according to her Rep, Layne and Dawson often traveled alone. Okalik had done a quick internet search when Layne's Rep called in her concern, and had found Layne had often called herself a "lone wolf," in several interviews. "Just my dog and my bodyguard," she'd said when a reporter asked her, during a press conference, whom she'd be bringing to protest the wolf cull.

  Okalik's cell rang. She picked it up on the second ring. "Detective Okalik," she said. "Oh, hi, Donna, thank you for calling back. Hope I didn't wake you." The voice on the other end seemed bright and chipper. "I wanted to ask you about you shift last night. Did you happen to see Rainey Layne leave the hotel? You did? About what time? Okay. Thank you. Well, you know how teenagers are. And a Mr. Dawson? Her companion. Yes, that's him. Did he…? Oh he did? What time was that, do you happen to recall? From the hotel bar. Fergus… R-e-d…? Did he make any other calls? Just the cab. Okay, thank you, Donna. You've been very helpful. Get some sleep now. Bye-bye."

  She hung up, a picture beginning to form in her mind.

  Darius Dawson spends an hour in the hotel bar. Returns upstairs. Comes down in a hurry, straight out the front doors, where he finds the Escalade missing. Rushes back in, up to the front desk. Looking frantic. Asks about Layne. Donna tells him she staggered out singing while he was in the bar. Gave a male guest a "rude gesture." Da
wson asks for car rental services in the area. Cheap. Donna directs him to her cousin's husband's rental operation, Wreck Rental. Dawson uses the desk phone to call, then waits on a cab to take him to Fergus Redican's.

  Drunk and high, Rainey crashes the car in the meantime. Judging by the amount of blood on the airbag and passenger seat, she'd suffered a broken nose. Staggered off down the road in a daze.

  But to where? The closest residence? Into the woods, like the lone wolf she thought of herself as? And what the hell happened to her bodyguard?

  Her first thought in a situation like this would have been kidnapping. For ransom, or a crazed fan. But with Dawson gone too, not returning his calls…? He likely felt responsible for her disappearance, slugging back drinks in the hotel bar when he should have been watching Layne. Maybe he wasn't returning calls because he'd gone Lone Wolf himself. A retired cop, you'd think he would have reached out to law enforcement. But maybe he'd gotten a look at the yokels he'd be dealing with and thought it would be easier not to have them weighing him down.

  If so, she knew the feeling.

  She just hoped that ignorant idiot Boise had his officers sweeping the roads and woods near the accident like she'd asked. She hoped she could trust him to handle that much.

  Okalik dialed his number, just to be sure. Light a fire under his ass if she had to. No way would she lose these first 48 hours because some Podunk law enforcement outfit mishandled the search.

  Layne had to be found alive.

  THE HOUSE WAS quiet when Bo returned. She hoped that meant the girl hadn't tried to start trouble, but she figured that was hoping for too much. Regardless, the table hadn't moved, meaning she hadn't tried to escape.

  Caleb's eyes moved rapidly under the lids when she stepped into the room. The dog showed his teeth as she approached the bed, twisting off the lid of the bottle.

  "Caleb?" His eyes flicked. "Caleb, I got some medicine for your stomach."

  He woke, his eyes lucid, though the lids were half closed. She brushed the dog off the bed. It whimpered as it fell to the floor, and stood at her feet, growling, as she sat on the edge of the bed.

  "Sit up for me, okay?" He rose from the bed. She poured the pink liquid into the lid, and held it to his lips. "Were you sleepin?"

  "I had a nightmare."

  "Oh?"

  He nodded weakly. "They come to take you away from me."

  "Who did?"

  "The police. They said you was bad, and you had to go to jail."

  "That's not gonna happen, Caleb."

  "Momma, we kidnapped Rainey Layne. Someone's gonna come lookin. We gotta let her go."

  "It's just not that simple. We killed a man. If we let her go now, I'll stand trial for murder."

  "But it was me who…" He swallowed. His gaze fell on the dog.

  "I not gonna let you go to prison. This is my mess and I've got to take responsibility for it. Now she's close to making a deal that'll get us all off the hook. In a few hours, we'll go to the police ourselves."

  Caleb shook his head.

  "What do you mean 'no'?"

  "What makes you think she's gonna go along with anything you say, Momma? You got her locked in the damn cellar!"

  Bo's hand shot out, the sound of the slap ringing in her ears before she could stop herself. The hand, palm stinging, went to her lips and rested there as his cheek turned red. "Honey, I am so sorry, I didn't mean to—"

  "You didn't mean to do nothin!" Spittle flew from Caleb's lips, his eyes welling with tears. "Nothin's your fault, Momma! Heck, this was probably just an act of God! Or maybe it was Daddy's fault, he seems to get most of the blame when things go wrong, and he ain't even been around!"

  Her heart caught in her throat like a knife blade. She stood, cut to the core by a ten year old—her own flesh and blood. The dog snarled. Instinctually she raised her foot to kick it. Lowered the foot again, and crossed to the door muttering, "Drink your medicine" as she left.

  Funny how it all came back. Those old habits. The violence. The rage.

  Those old boots still fit nice and snug. She walked them back across the floor to the hatch.

  9 – Skeletons

  AS THE HATCH came open, Rainey sat in the dirt and slipped her arms back behind her. A moment later, the bitch's butt-ugly face gazed down at her from the square of sunlight above.

  "This ends right now," she said, meaning for her to be scared. Rainey wouldn't give her the satisfaction. The kid was wrong. This wasn't a time to be real. Kayla Daniel was weak. A sad little poor white trash girl from Atlanta with a dead momma and a daddy who drank too much and sometimes got out of hand. Rainey Layne was strong. Rainey Layne didn't stand for shit from anyone. Everybody wanted a piece of her, and nobody even came close.

  I'm a lone wolf, she thought. "You gonna give up?"

  The woman's nod surprised her.

  "You gotta be kidding me."

  The bitch shook her head. Rainey gave her a skeptical look.

  "I'm not gonna hurt you again. I promise. I just wanna show you something." The bitch gave her a miserable smile, as if she was the one who'd been beaten and kidnapped, holding out her empty hands in peace. "Then I'll turn myself in, if that's what you want."

  "You're fuckin A, that's what I want." She wriggled her legs. "You gonna untie me? I gotta piss something fierce."

  "All right. I'll untie your legs, for now. If you kick me, if you run… the deal's off."

  "I'll do whatever you want, but I'm not gonna lie about Darius," Rainey told her. "He was a good man, even though he could be a real stubborn son of a bitch sometimes. He's got a kid. A boy, just like yours. Six years old. If I say what you want me to, he's gonna grow up thinking his father was a rapist. That kinda scar won't heal easily. I can't do that to Elon. He thinks his daddy's Superman."

  "I understand."

  "Where's Cal's daddy, huh?" Rainey asked, hoping to hit a sore spot. "He run off with another woman, or something?"

  Bo grinned. "Let's take care of one thing at a time, missy."

  The stairs creaked as she descended. She knelt in front of Rainey, and began to untie the impenetrable knot around her legs. It loosened, and Rainey slipped out of it, rolling her sore ankles, thankful to be free.

  Bo stood and stepped back. Rainey pushed herself eagerly to her feet, wincing as the shard of glass in the back pocket of her jeans bit into the soft flesh of her ass.

  When the time is right, she told herself, and couldn't help but grin. For some reason the thought reminded her of the Kool & the Gang song, "Ladies Night."

  "You first," Bo said.

  Rainey stretched her legs, then took the stairs. The kid wasn't around. Neither was Hottie. The house was silent, and smelled of mustiness. The bitch came up the stairs behind her. She thought about turning on her heels and kicking her in the face, slamming the hatch down on her head. The idea was so tempting she had to bite the insides of her cheeks to keep herself grounded in reality.

  Let her play this out. She could be telling the truth. Even if she's not, what's to keep her down there? No lock on the door, otherwise she wouldn't have moved the table over it. Maybe I could get to one of the guns on the rack before she gets out, but I don't know how to shoot, if they're even loaded… and I'm fucked with my hands still tied.

  She decided that would be the first thing she did when she got back home. Learn to shoot a gun. Big ones, small ones. Didn't matter. Then she'd keep one with her at all times so nothing like this could happen again.

  Or someone grabs it from you and blows your fuckin head off, like what happened to Darius.

  She kept her feet planted firmly on the floor, letting Bo step out behind her.

  "Where are we going?"

  "Outside."

  "Okay…" Rainey headed for the door. "Are you gonna tell me what this is all about, or…?"

  "You'll see in a minute."

  She stepped outside. Squinting from the sun, she tried to look in all directions at once, suddenly certain Bo had one or mo
re of her hillbilly friends out in the woods with rifles aimed at the door.

  Start thinking about guns, and suddenly everyone's an armed maniac out to kill you, when the real maniac's the one smiling at your back.

  Rainey thought about the glass. Could the bitch see its outline in her back pocket? A cold sweat dribbled down her ribs from under her arms.

  "Around back," Bo said.

  The only vehicle parked out front was the shitbox truck. The Escalade, whether it had crashed like the bitch claimed or not, was nowhere in sight. Neither was whatever vehicle Darius had come here in. She remembered enough vague details about the earlier part of the evening to know they'd gotten in an argument about him bullying her into apologizing to the bitch for siccing the protestors on her truck with the kid there beside her. Darius had gone down to the bar while she got mashed on tiny bottles of booze and dropped a few mollies. She knew she'd gotten into the Escalade and peeled out of the lot on her own… after that, the night was a blur of vague, violent images.

  She trudged through the dirt toward the side of the cabin. Behind it was a small clearing, pine needles littering the ground. A beaten, rusted tin shed attached to the back. An old rundown woodshed, with an axe set in the chopping block.

  "Why do you got such a love for animals, huh?" the bitch said, conversationally. "What makes them so special?"

  "Because animals aren't capable of evil."

  "You oughta tell that to Caleb. He thought the same thing as you, I bet, until his damn dog bit him on the face."

  "Maybe he was playing too rough," Rainey suggested, looking over her shoulder.

  "He was three. If an animal can't distinguish between a baby pawin at her playfully and an adult beatin on her, well then that animal's gotta be put down. What you got against people, anyhow? Seems like you animal lovers don't got much love for your fellow humans."

  "People can't be trusted. People are violent, for no reason. For the fuck of it." She threw a sly grin over her shoulder. "I think you proved that last night."

  "No reason… Look at this, you see this?"

  Rainey turned reluctantly to see the woman had raised her ugly flannel shirt to reveal a scar along her abdomen. C-section, she guessed, but it looked too new, and too ragged to be surgical.