Retreat

by J. F. Gonzalez

  The job paid squat, but he got free room and board. After being unemployed for so long, the free room and board were important to Dale. Of course, he had to pay for his dry cleaning and laundry, had to pay for his meals, but that was no big deal. They’d given him a room, and during his off hours he often hung out with the other staff members. They usually hung out at the employee bar-and-grill, shot the shit over a game of darts, whatever. As long as they didn’t frequent the areas of the resort that was reserved strictly for the guests, it didn’t matter. Dale wouldn’t patronize Bent Creek even if he had the money. The people that paid to come here weren’t his kind of people.

  Dale moved his arms in a circular motion. Whoever had knocked him out had tied him up pretty good. They’d wrapped coils of rope around him, binding his arms to his sides and tying his legs together at the thighs and ankles. The last three days of being trussed up had been hell on his circulation. His limbs had gone numb, which he’d had to address by rolling over and flexing his muscles whenever and however he could. That had worked, and little by little sensation had crept back in. One thing he hadn’t anticipated, though, was the rapid loss of weight he experienced. They hadn’t brought him any food, had hardly given him any water, and his body had begun to compensate.

  Dale Lantis was what most people would call a Big Boy. Standing five foot six and weighing two hundred and seventy-eight pounds, he was a roly-poly man, all triple chins and quivering stomach and buttocks. His upper arms were ham hocks. He could inhale a twenty-ounce T-bone steak, baked potato with all the trimmings, vegetables, soup and salad, and one of those appetizer plates and still have room left for a dessert of cake, pie, and cookies. Bottom line, Dale loved to eat. He loved his food, and like his mama always taught him, he made sure to clean off his plate with each meal.

  Only three days of no food and very little water had set his body against him. It had begun breaking up the fat in his system, converting it to much needed nourishment. The waste it produced left his system via his urine. His slacks had been constantly soaked with it since his incarceration; a spreading puddle of it had drenched almost every inch of him, including his short, wiry hair. Likewise, when he’d had to eliminate his bowels he’d had to do it in his trousers. At first he’d been embarrassed, and he’d cried to himself in frustration amid the rising stench of his shit as it caked onto the back of his thighs. The more dehydrated he got from lack of water, the more it turned what was left in his bowels to burning diarrhea.

  And with this seeming betrayal of his body had come something else.

  A rapid loss of weight.

  Dale flexed the muscles of his arms. The ropes that bound his arms to his body were very slack now. He had more flexibility in his upper chest; had even more in his thighs. He’d probably pissed away twenty pounds of excess fat. Well, maybe not that much, but it sure seemed that way. It was amazing how much fat the body could use in such a short period of time. Another day or two, he might have enough room to wriggle out of these bonds.

  But with no water, that wouldn’t matter. He’d be dead.

  Dale sighed, trying to calm himself down. He couldn’t let himself get worked up. When he got worked up like this, his heart raced. Felt like he was on the way to a heart attack. He had to stay calm. Had to stay focused. Had to stay—

  From somewhere close by, a door opened.

  Dale froze. Somebody came in every few hours or so. Opened the door and checked on him. Whoever it was never touched him, just looked him over and left. Sometimes this person gave him small sips of water from a water bottle. Dale never caught a glimpse of who it was; the light from wherever his captor was standing in was too blinding for Dale. The only thing Dale could see was a large silhouette. Whoever his captor was, he was of average size. Maybe a bit on the pear-shaped size, but surely not grossly obese like he was. That was all Dale could tell about him.

  Footsteps approached the room. Coming closer.

  Dale held his breath, his heart racing. He still had no idea where he was. Surely it couldn’t be Bent Creek; it didn’t feel like it. The concrete beneath him was rough, and he had the sense that the room he was in was small. All he knew was that he was in a small room, with a large steel door. If Dale had to describe it, he could liken it to being in a dungeon. Or a jail cell.

  The shadowy figure drew closer. Dale shrunk back, heart beating rapidly. Dressed in tan khaki’s and a red polo-shirt, the figure stooped down. Dale could see the man’s face, but he didn’t recognize him. The man’s face was round, framed by gray beard stubble and short, wispy graying hair that revealed male pattern baldness. His eyes were liquid pools of blue. Those eyes appraised him now, as he crouched over Dale.

  “What...” Dale began. “What do you want?”

  The man reached out and began touching Dale. His hands roamed over his body—chest, belly, the flab of his love-handles, his thighs and buttocks. They caressed the meat of his thighs and ass, then moved up to appraise his biceps. Dale tried to squirm away from the man’s grasp, revolted at the sudden shock of what was going on. The way the man was looking at him, with a hungry sense of lust, seemed to whisper sexual predator to him. Oh shit, is this guy one of those serial killers? Like a Jeffrey Dahmer? Is he going to keep me as his sexual slave and then kill me when he gets tired of me?

  The bonds were too tight to allow Dale much movement, so he was forced to endure the man’s assessment of his flesh. “Very nice,” the man said. “Very nice and supple.”

  A well of emotion rose in Dale. He felt his vision blur as tears sprang to his eyes. “Please,” he said. “Please...don’t hurt me.”

  The man’s hand trailed down to Dale’s piss-soaked slacks, lingered there. “I bet you want to get these slacks off and wash yourself off, don’t you?”

  Dale nodded vigorously. “Yes, I do....please!”

  The man smiled. His eyes flicked toward the center of the room, about five feet away from where Dale lay trussed up on the floor. He hooked both hands beneath Dale’s bulk and gently rolled him over once toward the center of the room. Dale felt his heart leap—was the man getting him in a better position to free him? Dale felt cold pee that had accumulated in the folds of his slacks spill down his leg. He flopped onto his stomach, his face a few feet away from a drain set in the center of the room. The man rose to his feet and moved behind him. Dale felt the schtick of steel, then strong fingers clutched his hair and pulled his head up, exposing his neck. A quick blur of a hand moving below his field of vision, a brief sting of pain in his throat followed by a sudden sense of incredible warmth flowing down his chest, and then he felt surprisingly light-headed. The sound of liquid splashing on the cold concrete below him barely registered as the feeling grew, and it wasn’t until he felt his consciousness fading that he realized what had happened, and by then it was too late.

  CHAPTER 7

  Sixteen Months Ago

  Joe Taylor had picked out the most recent and best photo of Carla he could find. He pushed it across the cluttered desk of the desk sergeant at the Casper, Wyoming Police Station. The desk sergeant’s name badge identified him as Ron Keene.

  “She’s twenty-three years old,” Joe said. “As I explained to you over the phone, she disappeared on August 7 of last year. Her last known residence was a Motel 6 on Lincoln Highway on the north edge of town.”

  Sergeant Ron Keene looked at Joe with a sense of weary resignation. He was close to Joe’s age, with the weariness and bulk that suggested he was at the end of a long and weary career. “Listen, Mr. Taylor, I appreciate you flying out here, but you really didn’t have to do that. Like I told you over the phone, there’s not much we can—”

  “I realize there is no evidence of foul play,” Joe stated firmly. He remained standing behind the desk, putting everything he’d learned in his long career in the business world to play. “And I realize that, as an adult, Carla can choose to disappear if she wants to. After all, she and I had an estranged relationship. But she hasn’t been in contact with her best fr
iend since she was last seen, nor her mother, who she still kept in contact with. And the Motel 6 reported she’d skipped out on her bill, which is highly unusual for her.”

  “It isn’t unusual for people living a transient lifestyle to skip out on their motel bills,” Sergeant Keene said. “Especially the kind of motels that are on the low-end of the scale. Motel 6, though, is a national chain. Those places usually require payment up front, and with a credit card to guarantee payment. How was she able to skip out on her bill?”

  “Carla could be manipulative when she wanted to be,” Joe said. He sighed. Rubbed the bridge of his nose. “She’d managed to hold on to her laptop through her financial disintegration and was able to book this particular Motel 6 through a third-party website that specialized in motel bookings that did not require upfront payment. Some of the motels that work with this site are franchises, like this Motel 6. That’s how she did it. She booked two weeks, paid a few days up front, then...” He let himself trail off.

  “I see...”

  “Later, I hired a private detective. He took a trip out here, did some follow-ups with Carla’s last known contacts. They all report that they were very surprised when Carla disappeared.”

  “How do you know she disappeared?” Sergeant Keene asked, sitting straight behind his desk. “And who is this private investigator you speak of?”

  “Dean Campbell,” Joe replied. “He works out of Los Angeles, has an office in Pasadena, where I live.”

  “Who’d he talk to?”

  “Carla’s former co-workers, Debbie Mitchum and Beth Levine. Both still kept in contact with Carla after she was let go from Braun & Meyer’s.”

  “I’d hardly call that—”

  “Mr. Campbell reported to me that Carla skipped out on her motel bill owing a little over one week’s rent,” Joe continued. “Her belongings were gone; motel staff report they did not take possession of any personal belongings, which is standard OP. The manager of the Motel 6 told my detective that Carla had taken all her belongings with her. She had no bank account, but the Walmart where she cashed her payroll checks reported that the last time she was in was three days before we pinpointed her missing. Mr. Campbell even talked to the clerk that usually cashed her check. A woman by the name of Mary Rosenberg. Miss Rosenberg claims Carla’s demeanor did not strike her as unusual, that Carla was talkative and was her usual self. No indication that she was planning to skip out. Plus, she would have had enough to cash to pay for her room. Dean was able to get a copy of Carla’s bank receipt. She had the money to pay her motel bill.”

  Sergeant Keene regarded Joe from behind his desk. “You say you’ve formally reported her missing to the Wyoming State Police?”

  Joe nodded. “Yes, I did.”

  “And you realize that all I can really do is take the info on her and put it, and her photo, out on the wire? That we can’t devote any man-hours to searching for her?”

  “Yes, sir, I realize that.”

  Keene held out his hand for the material. Joe slid the file containing Carla’s photo and the information he and Dean Campbell had compiled across the desk. Sergeant Keene slid the material out of the folder and began to read through it quietly. Joe Taylor stood in front of the desk, waiting. Behind him, the sound of late afternoon traffic grew louder as the sun went down and nine-to-fivers began to head home to the outer suburbs. Somewhere, a block away, a siren wailed, then faded.

  After a moment, Sergeant Keene set the material down. “I’d like for you to have your private detective contact us the next time he’s in town to work on this. Just so we have it on record.”

  “Of course.”

  “What agency is Mr. Campbell from?”

  “He’s freelance, but he contracts with several insurance companies for fraud investigations,” Joe said. He reached into his pocket and handed Sergeant Keene a business card. “Here’s his card.”

  Sergeant Keene took the card and looked at it. “Campbell Investigations, Limited. Good. Thank you.” He made the business card disappear. He regarded Joe from behind his desk. This time, his features were sympathetic. “My apologies for being so brusque. We get fifty missing persons reports a week, and ninety-nine point nine percent of them are resolved within a few hours. People don’t even wait a day to report that a loved one is missing either; I’ve had people report their parents missing, their wife or husband, whatever, missing after they’ve gone to the store and they’re not back by a certain time. Usually the missing person has been stuck in traffic or simply added another destination to their schedule, which made them late. Can you believe that?”

  “In this day and age, I can believe anything,” Joe said. He stepped away from the front desk and waved. “Thank you, Sergeant Keene, and have a good day.”

  When Joe Taylor exited the Casper, Wyoming Police Station headquarters, he walked down Main Street toward the parking garage where he’d left the rental car. He was only in town for two days. He was meeting Dean Campbell later that evening, for dinner. No reason to tell Sergeant Keene that Dean was in town at this point. It was best to play this their own way for now, especially since local law enforcement had proven to be not very interested in this case. Joe and Dean had confirmed this over the course of the last few weeks with repeated phone calls to the department, reporting Carla missing, followed by calls to other local agencies. This was the third time they had tried to file a missing persons report with the county sheriff’s department. Filing a missing persons report with the city and at the local level had been relatively easy.

  But at the county level—Sweetwater County, Wyoming, level? Resistance all the way. Until now.

  Joe Taylor thought about that. The more he turned it over in his mind, the more he didn’t like it.

  So the local police knew his name now. They knew Dean Campbell’s name. He’d promised Sergeant Keene that when Dean came back into town for follow-up work, he would contact the department to give them a heads-up. That was just a formality, though. Paying lip service. They were going to do no such thing.

  Not at this stage.

  CHAPTER 8

  Wednesday

  Early morning shifts were the best.

  The Bent Creek Country Club patrons were usually on their best behavior very early during the breakfast shift. That was usually because they were too zoned-out from late night partying, or the caffeine had not kicked in yet. It allowed Anna to observe her customer’s behavior, see the real people behind the facades they’d so carefully built up for themselves. She paid close attention, kept careful mental notes on everybody. Knowledge is power. And to know the enemy was to defeat him. Or so said Sun Tzu.

  Chef Munchel usually slept in during breakfast service, handing over the duties to his sous chef, Diane Winters. Diane ran the staff of four line cooks and three garnish chefs like a well-oiled machine, getting orders out quickly and always prepared to perfection. There were four wait staff on duty this morning. Two more would join their ranks as the morning wore on, then there would be a lull for much of the afternoon. Anna would get a short reprieve around ten-thirty; she’d be back on duty for the four to midnight shift.

  Anna delivered an order to table number five—stuffed French toast with bacon strips, fresh fruit and toasted baguette—to a middle-aged couple that were polite, but quiet. Anna asked them if they required anything else—a refill on their coffee carafe, or fresh orange juice perhaps? The man, who reminded her of that senator from Kentucky, John Boehner, shook his head. “Thank you, but we’re fine. The food looks and smells wonderful.”

  “Thank you very much, sir. If there’s anything you want, please ask.” And with that, Anna turned and was just about to head back to the pass to see if any of her other orders were up, when she saw that she had a new customer at table seven. She headed over.

  When she saw who the customer was, she felt relieved. It was Bob, no last name yet (or at least none she was aware of; he’d only introduced himself to her as Bob). He’d formally introduced himself to her last
night after her minor skirmish with Shane Daniels while waiting on him—the man with the movie-star handsome features. After her encounter with Shane Daniels last night, Bob had offered some kind and encouraging words to her. Anna appreciated a customer who was genuinely nice. Between him and the Ken and Barbie couple—the Johnson’s—who Anna had wound up spending the night with after her shift ended, the evening had been nice after all.

  “Good morning, sir,” Anna said through her most genuine smile. “Can I get you some coffee or juice this morning?”

  Bob offered Anna a smile. He was dressed casually in a white polo shirt, tan khaki shorts, blue tennis shoes and white ankle-high socks. Like the John Boehner doppelganger at table five, Bob had a tan. Unlike the John Boehner doppelganger, Bob was much younger—mid-forties was her guess—and much more handsome. He had longish brown hair, but not too long; barely even collar-length, giving him a youthful, boyish appearance. His face was model-perfect; finely chiseled nose and cheekbones, piercing green eyes, sensuous lips, perfect, white teeth. It looked like he partook in moderate exercise to keep in shape. He was trim, healthy-looking. In short, Bob was hot. She’d jump his bones in an instant. “Coffee will be great,” Bob said. He smiled and winked at her.

  “Coffee coming up!” Anna left the table and headed toward the pass. She checked on her orders quickly, found she had seven minutes until Chef Winters served up an order for one of her tables, then headed to the beverage station. She placed a carafe of coffee, a white saucer and a porcelain mug on a serving tray. Then, balancing the tray on her right hand, she headed toward table seven.