by Harlan Coben
There was something else to consider: Another set of fingerprints had been found i n Sister Mary Rose's room-- more specifically, on her body.
Okay, Loren thought, suppose Darrow was working with someone else-- a partner m aybe. They'd stay together, right? Or near each other, at the very least.
Darrow had been staying at the Howard Johnson's.
She checked the file. The rental car company LuxDrive-- they had a counter at the s ame hotel.
So that was where it all started. At the Howard Johnson's.
Most hotels have security cameras. Had Trevor Wine checked out the ones at the Howard Johnson's yet?
Hard to say, but it would definitely be worth it for her to check it out.
Either way, it could wait until morning, right?
She tried to sleep. She sat in bed and closed her eyes. She did this for well o ver an hour. From the other room, she heard her mother's snores. The case was h eating up. Loren felt the buzz in her blood. She pushed back the covers and got o ut of bed. There was no way she could sleep. Not now. Not when there was s omething of a clue in the air. And tomorrow she'd have a whole new set of p roblems, what with Ed Steinberg calling the feds and Trevor Wine getting i nvolved.
She might be taken off the case.
Loren threw on her sweats, grabbed her wallet and ID. She tiptoed outside, s tarted up her car, and headed for the Howard Johnson's.
Chapter 27
NOTHING WORSE than crappy porn.
Lying in the motel room bed, that was what Charles Talley had been thinking b efore the phone rang. He'd been watching some weirdly edited porno on the Spectravision Pay-Per-View channel. It had cost him $12.95, but the damn movie c ut out all the good stuff, all the close-ups and, well, genitalia both male and f emale.
What the hell is this crap?
Worse yet, the movie, in order to make up for the lost time, kept replaying over a nd over the same parts. So the girl would be like sliding down to her knees and t hen they'd show this guy's face tilting back and then they'd go back to the g irl sliding down, the guy's face, the girl sliding down . . .
It was maddening.
Talley was about to call down to the front desk, give them a piece of his mind.
This was the friggin' United States of America. A man has a right to watch porn i n the privacy of his own hotel room. Not this chicken-ass soft stuff. Real p orn. Hardcore action. This stuff, this soft porn-- might as well be put on the Disney Channel.
That was when the phone rang. Talley checked his watch.
About time. He'd been waiting for this callback for hours now.
Talley reached for the phone, put it to his ear. On the screen the girl was p anting the exact same way for, what, ten minutes now. This crap was beyond b oring.
"Yeah."
Click. Dial tone.
A hang-up. Talley looked at the receiver as if it might give him a second r esponse. It didn't. He put the receiver down and sat up. He waited for the p hone to ring again. After five minutes passed, he started to worry.
What was going on here?
Nothing had turned out as planned. He'd flown in from Reno, what, three days ago n ow? Hard to remember exactly. His assignment yesterday had been clear and easy: Follow this guy named Matt Hunter. Keep a tail on him.
Why?
He had no idea. Talley had been told where to start off-- parked outside some big l aw office in Newark-- and to follow Hunter wherever he went.
But the guy, this Matt Hunter, had spotted the tail almost immediately.
How?
Hunter was strictly an amateur. But something had gone very wrong. Hunter had m ade him right away. And then, worse-- much worse-- when Talley called him a few h ours ago, Matt Hunter knew who he was.
He had used Talley's full name, for chrissake.
This confused Talley.
He didn't handle confusion well. He placed some calls, tried to find out what w as going on, but nobody had picked up.
That confused him even more.
Talley had few talents. He knew strippers and how to handle them. He knew how to h urt people. That was pretty much it. And really, when you thought about it, t hose two things went together. You want to keep a strip joint running and h appy, you need to know how to put on the hurt.
So when things got muddled-- as they were now-- that was always his fallback p osition. Violence. Hurting someone and hurting them bad. He had spent time in p rison for only three assault beefs, but in his life Talley guessed that he'd p robably beaten or maimed fifty plus. Two had died.
His preferred method of putting on the hurt involved stun guns and brass k nuckles. Talley reached into his bag. First he pulled out his brand-new stun g un. It was called the Cell Phone Stun Gun. The thing looked, as the name s uggested, exactly like a cell phone. Cost him sixty-nine bucks off the Web. You c ould take it anywhere. You could have it out and put it to your ear like you w ere talking and bam, you press a button and the "antenna" on the top wallops y our enemy with 180,000 volts.
Then he pulled out his brass knuckles. Talley preferred the newer designs with t he wider impact area. They not only spread out your area of collision, they put l ess pressure on your hand when you laid into someone good.
Talley put both the stun gun and brass knuckles on the night table. He went back t o his movie, still holding out hope that the porno flick would improve. Every o nce in a while he would glance at his weapons. There was arousal there too, no d oubt about it.
He tried to think about what to do next.
Twenty minutes later, there was a knock on his hotel room door. He checked the b edside clock. It was nearly one in the morning. He quietly slid off the bed.
There was another knock now, more urgent.
He tiptoed to the door.
"Talley? You in there? We need to talk."
He peeked through the peephole. What the . . . ?
It was Matt Hunter!
Panic flooded in. How the hell had Hunter tracked him down?
"Please open up, Talley. I just want to talk to you, that's all."
Talley did not think. He reacted. He said, "One second."
Then he crept back toward the bed and slipped the brass knuckles on his left h and. In the right, he held the cell phone to his ear, as if he were in the m iddle of the conversation. He reached for the knob. Before he turned, he looked i nto the peephole.
Matt Hunter was still there.
Talley planned his next three moves. That was what the greats did. They planned a head.
He would open the door, pretending he was on the phone. He would signal for Hunter to come forward. As soon as he was in range, Talley would hit him with t he stun gun. He'd aim for the chest-- a big target with the most surface area.
At the same time he'd have the left hand prepared. With the brass knuckles, he'd u se an uppercut to the ribs.
Charles Talley opened the door.
He started talking on the phone, pretending someone was on the other line.
"Right," Talley said into the stun gun. "Right, okay."
He gestured with his chin for Matt Hunter to step inside.
And that was exactly what Matt Hunter did.
Chapter 28
MATT HESITATED in the doorway to Room 515 but not for very long.
He had no choice here. He couldn't stay in the corridor and try to talk to him.
So he started to move inside. He still was not sure how to present this, what r ole Talley was playing. Matt had decided to play it fairly straight and see w here it led. Did Talley know he was part of a setup? Was he the guy in the v ideo-- and if so, why had the other picture been taken at an earlier time?
Matt entered.
Charles Talley was still talking on his mobile phone. As the door started to c lose, Matt said, "I think we can help each other out."
And that was when Charles Talley touched his chest with the cell phone.
It felt like Matt's entire body had suddenly short-circuited. His spine jolted
u pright. His fingers splayed. His toes went rigid. His eyes widened.
He wanted the cell phone away. Off him. But he couldn't move. His brain shouted.
His body would not listen.
The gun, Matt thought. Get your gun.
Charles Talley reeled back a fist. Matt could see it. Again he tried to move, t ried to at least turn away, but the electrical voltage must have stopped c ertain brain synapses from firing. His body simply wouldn't obey.
Talley punched him in the bottom point of the rib cage.
The blow landed against the bone like a sledgehammer. The pain burst through h im. Matt, already falling, dropped onto his back.
He blinked, his eyes watering, and looked up into the smiling face of Charles Talley.
The gun . . . get the damn gun. . . .
But his muscles were in spasm.
Calm yourself. Just relax. . . .
Standing over him, Talley had the cell phone in one hand. He wore brass knuckles o n the other.
Matt idly wondered about his own cell phone. The one on his belt. Cingle was on t he other end, listening. He opened his mouth to call out to her.
Talley hit him again with what must have been a stun gun.
The volts raced through his nervous system. His muscles, including those in his j aws, contracted and quaked uncontrollably.
His words, his cry for help, never made it out.
Charles Talley smiled down at him. He showed him the fist with the brass k nuckles. Matt could only look up and stare.
In prison, some of the guards used to carry stun guns. They worked, Matt had l earned, by overloading and thus disrupting the internal communication system.
The current mimics the body's own natural electrical impulses, confusing them, t elling the muscles to do a great deal of work, depleting energy.
The victim is left helpless.
Matt watched Talley pull back his fist. He wanted to grab his Mauser M2 and blow t he bastard away. The weapon was just there, in his waistband, but it might as w ell have been out of state.
The fist headed toward him.
Matt wanted simply to raise an arm, wanted to roll away, wanted to do anything.
He couldn't. Talley's punch was aimed straight for Matt's chest. Matt watched as i t moved as though it were in slow motion.
The knuckles smashed into his sternum.
It felt as if the bones had caved in on his heart. Like his sternum was made of Styrofoam. Matt opened his mouth in a silent, anguished scream. His air was g one. His eyes rolled back.
When Matt's eyes finally regained focus, the brass knuckles were heading toward h is face.
Matt struggled, but he was weak. Too weak. His muscles still wouldn't obey. His i nternal communication network remained shut down. But something primitive, s omething base, was still there, still had enough survival instincts to at the v ery least turn away from the blow.
The brass knuckles scraped off the back of his skull. The skin burst open. Pain e xploded in his head. His eyes closed. This time they did not reopen. From s omewhere far away he heard a voice, a familiar voice, shout, "No!" But that was p robably not real. Between the electrical currents and the physical punishment, t he brain's wiring was probably conjuring up all sorts of strange delusions.
There was another blow. Maybe another. Maybe there were more, but Matt was too f ar away to notice.
Chapter 29
"TALLEY? You in there? We need to talk."
Cingle Shaker perked up when she heard Matt's voice through the cell phone. The s ound wasn't great, but she could make out enough.
"Please open up, Talley. I just want to talk to you, that's all."
The reply was muffled. Too muffled to make out. Cingle tried to clear her head a nd concentrate. Her car sat double-parked by the front entrance. It was late.
Nobody would bother her.
She debated heading inside now. That would be the smart play. Matt was on the f ifth floor. If something went wrong, it would take her a while to get up there.
But Matt had been fairly adamant. He felt his best chance was to brace this Talley guy alone. If she was spotted before they talked, that would only c omplicate matters.
But now that there was a muffled voice, Cingle could be reasonably sure that Talley was not in the lobby. In fact, from her vantage point, nobody was in the l obby.
She decided to head in.
Surveillance was far from Cingle's forte. She was simply too noticeable. She had n ever been a Rockette or dancer of any sort-- yes, she'd heard all the rumors--b ut she had given up trying to dress herself down years ago. Cingle had started d eveloping at a young age. By twelve, she could pass for eighteen. Boys loved h er, girls hated her. With all the years of enlightenment, that was pretty much t he norm.
Neither one of those attitudes bothered her much. What did bother her, e specially at that young age, were the looks of older men, even relatives, even m en she trusted and loved. No, nothing ever happened. But you learn at a young a ge how longing and lust can twist a mind. It is rarely pretty.
Cingle was just about in the lobby when, through the phone, she heard a strange s ound.
What the hell was that?
The lobby's glass doors slid open. A little bell dinged. Cingle kept the phone p ressed against her ear. Nothing. There was no sound, no talking at all.
That couldn't be good.
A sudden crashing sound came through the earpiece, startling her. Cingle picked u p her pace, ran for the elevator bank.
The guy behind the desk waddled out, saw Cingle, pulled in his gut and smiled.
"May I help you?"
She pushed the call button.
"Miss?"
There was still no talking coming from the phone. She felt a chill on her neck.
She had to risk it. Cingle put the phone to her mouth. "Matt?"
Nothing.
Damn, she'd put on the mute button. She'd forgotten about that.
Yet another strange sound-- a grunt maybe. Only more muffled. More choked.
Where the hell was that damn elevator?
And where the hell was that mute button?
Cingle found the mute button first. It was on the bottom right-hand corner. Her t humb fumbled before touching down. The little mute icon disappeared. She put t he phone to her mouth.
"Matt?" she shouted. "Matt, are you okay?"
Another strangled cry. Then a voice-- not Matt's-- said, "Who the hell . . . ?"
From behind her, the night man asked, "Is something wrong, miss?"
Cingle kept pressing the elevator call button. Come on, come on . . .
Into the phone: "Matt, are you there?"
Click. Silence now. Absolute silence. Cingle's heart beat as though trying to b reak free.
What should she do?
"Miss, I really have to ask you--"
The elevator door opened. She jumped inside. The night man stuck his arm out and s topped the door from closing. Cingle's gun was in her shoulder holster. For the f irst time ever in the line of duty, she pulled it out.
"Let go of that door," she said to him.
He obeyed, taking his hand away like it didn't belong to him.
"Call the police," she said. "Tell them you have an emergency on the fifth f loor."
The doors slid closed. She pressed the five button. Matt might not be happy a bout that, about getting the police involved, but it was her call now. The e levator groaned and started ascending. It seemed to move one foot up, two feet d own.
Cingle held the gun in her right hand. With her finger off the trigger, she r epeatedly pushed the five button on the elevator console. Like that would help.
Like the elevator would see that she was in a hurry and pick up speed.
Her cell phone was in her left hand. She quickly redialed Matt's cell phone.
No ring, just his recorded voice: "I'm not available right now--"
Cingle cursed, pressed the end button. She positioned her body directly in front o f the
crack in the door so as to get out of the elevator in mid-opening and as s oon as humanly possible. The elevator buzzed with each floor, a signal for the b lind, and finally came to a halt with a ding.
She hunched over like a sprinter starting in the standing position. When the d oors started sliding open, Cingle pried them apart with both hands and pulled h erself through.
She was in the corridor now.
Cingle could only hear the footsteps, not see anyone. It sounded like someone r unning the other way.
"Halt!"
Whoever it was did not let up. Neither did she. Cingle ran down the hall.
How long? How long since she'd lost contact with Matt?
From down the corridor Cingle heard a heavy door bang open. Emergency door, she b et. To the stairwell.
Cingle was counting off the room numbers as she ran. When she reached Room 511, s he could see far enough up ahead to see that the door to Room 515-- two doors a head of her-- was wide open.
She debated what to do-- follow whoever was running down the stairs or check in Room 515-- but only briefly.
Cingle hurried, turned the corner, gun drawn.
Matt was flat on his back, his eyes closed. He was not moving. But that wasn't t he really shocking thing.
The really shocking thing was who was with him.
Cingle almost dropped her gun.
For a moment she just stood there and stared in disbelief. Then she stepped f ully into the room. Matt had still not moved. Blood was pooling behind his h ead.
Cingle's gaze stayed locked on the other person in the room.
The person kneeling next to Matt.
The face was tearstained. The eyes were red.
Cingle recognized the woman right away.
"Olivia."
Chapter 30
LOREN MUSE TOOK the Frontage Road exit off Route 78 and pulled into the Howard Johnson's lot. A car was double-parked by the front entrance.
She hit the brake.
That car, a Lexus, had been in the MVD lot less than an hour ago.
This could not be a coincidence.
She maneuvered her vehicle by the front door and snapped her gun onto her belt.
The shield was already there. The handcuffs dangled off her back. She hurried t oward the car. No one inside. The keys were still in the ignition. The door was u nlocked.