by Geonn Cannon
Lazareva examined the man's bloody face, then turned and walked away without answering. Mallory stood and followed her down the walkway to the next crime scene. A coroner and his assistant had lifted the second body onto a gurney and were about to push it out the door. Mallory held up her ID and brushed past Lazareva. "Hold it. FBI. I need to see that body."
"Yes, ma'am," the coroner said. He unzipped the body bag as Lazareva and Mallory took positions on either side of the gurney. The two halves fell away and revealed the slack, pale face of Garth Pope.
Lazareva whispered, "What the hell? He was in the back room with Hadley and the others. I interviewed him earlier today."
Mallory turned to the coroner. "Have you touched anything in this room?"
"Just the body."
"How did he die?" Mallory asked.
"He took several vicious blows to the head," the coroner said. He used his pinky to indicate a cut over the man's left eyebrow. "This is from that nightstand over there. I think he hit his head during the struggle, which caused a subdural hematoma. After that, he just laid there and died."
"He and the killer fought?"
"Pretty fiercely," the coroner said. "Both of his eyelids are bruised, and both eyes show petechia...uh, bleeding into the whites. We think the killer tried to blind him. But that's not all." He half turned to his assistant. "Take the body out to the truck. That is, if these ladies are done with it?" Mallory nodded and the assistant zipped the bag shut. The coroner motioned for them to follow as he walked out of the room and down to the first crime scene. They stepped around the body of Kevin Keating and the coroner stopped between the beds.
"Someone slammed the room door open — as you can see there's a bit of blood on the back of the door — then there was a struggle inside the room. They fell over the bed and onto the floor, here." Mallory stepped closer and looked down. The blankets had been pulled off the bed, as if following the motion of a falling body. "I think at that point it was two against one, because then the action moves over here." He turned and indicated a crushed portion of drywall about eye height.
"The killer was fighting one of them," Mallory said, "probably Garth Pope. Then Kevin Keating joined the fight, pulled her off, and they moved over here. While those two were fighting, Garth got up and left the room."
The coroner nodded. "Could be."
"What name was the other motel room registered under?"
"Detectives said it was an Elaine Lake," the coroner said.
Lazareva held her breath and watched Mallory for a reaction to the name. Mallory's jaw tightened and she turned away. She put her hands on her hips, looked out the window, and spoke without looking at the coroner. "Anything else?"
"Dead man here, you said his name was Keating? He was holding a gun. We think that the killer was acting in self-defense, or in defense of the second, unidentified woman who was staying with her."
Mallory nodded slowly. "Did the women leave anything behind in their motel room?"
"You'll have to ask CSU for sure, but I saw some clothes in the bathroom. Nothing incriminating."
Mallory nodded sharply and walked out of the room. Lazareva thanked the coroner and caught up with the FBI agent outside of the room Lance and Gwen had rented. She put a hand on Mallory's shoulder and quietly said, "Are you okay?"
"The bitch is using Elaine's name."
Lazareva put her hand between Mallory's shoulder blades and rubbed gently. After a moment, she said, "I'm going to go find the CSU, see if the ladies left behind anything we can use. Will you be okay?"
Mallory closed her eyes and leaned back against Lazareva's hand. She nodded. "I will be. Thank you." Lazareva's hand disappeared and she walked off, leaving Mallory alone with her thoughts. Mallory looked past the police barricade and tried to calm her mind. She watched the cars speeding by on the highway, some of them slowing to look at the tragedy unfolding right in front of them. That's right, folks, no need to wait for the six o'clock news. Real life tragedy, right here in your own backyard.
She turned away and walked back to the room. She saw Lazareva talking to two jumpsuit-clad men she assumed were the crime scene techs and continued on into the room. Taking a deep breath, arms crossed over her chest, Mallory tried to envision it several hours earlier. She couldn't stop thinking that she was, once again, standing in a space Claire Lance had recently vacated. She hated always being one step behind, always playing catch up. She looked down at the floor between the beds, where Garth Pope's blood was drying on the carpet. Two more bodies for the tally. Two more deaths on Claire Lance's conscience, two more nails in her coffin. She was still staring at the blood when Lazareva returned.
"There you are." She followed Mallory's line of sight to the bloodstain on the carpet, cleared her throat, and decided to ignore the fixation for the time being. "Lance and Gwen apparently did get caught in the rain," the Ranger said. "The clothes they left behind were soaked through. They also left behind a couple of hundred-dollar bills in the pants pockets. Depending on how much money they got from the bar, they could be running low on money about now."
"Is there a security camera?" Mallory asked, still staring at the floor. Her voice was cold, detached.
"Yeah. Acheson got it before we showed up, and the tape is on its way to the police department now. They'll call if they find anything."
Mallory finally couldn't hold the question in any longer. "Why the fuck were they here?"
Lazareva shrugged. "Like we said, getting away from the storm, or—"
Mallory cut her off. "No. Not Lance and Mrs. Morse, I meant Keating and Pope. What the hell were they doing here? Depending on how fast they drove, they would've had to leave right around the same time we did. So they called us about Roy Morse's death and then...what? They hopped in a truck and took off after us? Law-abiding citizens would have stayed put and let us do our jobs. The fact these two were here, and armed, makes me very nervous." She walked out of the room and motioned a cop over. "Where is the car Keating and Pope were driving?"
"The clerk gave us their sign-in sheet." The cop consulted it, walked to the row of cars to check the license plates, and pointed to a brand new truck with Texas plates. "Right here, Agent."
"Thank you. And was there a license plate registered for the other room, the one Garth Pope was found in?"
The cop checked. "Yes, ma'am. It matched to a Pinto coupe. Looked like shit, according to the check-in guy."
Mallory nodded and walked to Keating's truck. The driver's side door was unlocked and Mallory got behind the wheel. The car was filled with the funk of cigarette smoke and body odor, the reek of two men in a car for more than a handful of miles. She steeled herself against it, forced herself to breathe through her mouth, and scanned the floorboards. She examined the console and pressed a button next to the radio. The LCD display lit up with a series of green numbers. "Their last trip was almost four hundred miles. Average speed was ninety. They were tailing us."
Lazareva put her hands on the roof and leaned into the truck. Mallory glanced to the side and let her eyes trail down Lazareva. She took a moment to admire the way the Ranger's body looked, long and lean, and then turned back to the display.
Unaware of Mallory's perusal, Lazareva, said, "Well, I guess that explains how they got here so fast."
"They were following us," Mallory said again. The confusion was evident on her face, and she stared out the windshield at the white stucco wall of the hotel. "They used us to chase down Lance and Gwen, and just happened to get lucky when the storm forced them off the road. But why?" She gripped the top of the steering wheel and thought back to Saxe, Texas. That back room at the Four Roses was like Marlon Brando's office in The Godfather. She ran her thumb over the leather of the steering wheel. "They want to get revenge for Roy's death. Whatever they had going on down there in Saxe, he was the top dog, Lance killed him...they can't let that go unavenged."
Lazareva thought on that. "You think Keating and Pope would have killed us, too?"
Mallory nodded. "If they thought we'd get in their way." She ran her tongue over her bottom lip, leaned back in the seat, and slapped her palm against the steering wheel. "What the hell was going on down there in Saxe?"
"Whatever it is, it's gotten four people killed already." Lazareva stared hard at Mallory. "Claire Lance must know. She must have found out."
Mallory looked up and met her hazel eyes.
Lazareva crouched beside the open door of the car and looked up at Mallory. She lowered her voice so none of the cops swarming around like bees would overhear her. "Look, Mallory...Faye...when we catch up to Lance and Gwen, we're going to have to keep an open mind. With the evidence we've seen here, she may have had a damn good reason for killing Roy Morse."
Mallory pushed Lazareva out of the door and slipped past her. She slammed the truck door and stepped closer so she could hear her. "I don't care what Claire Lance knows or what her reasons were, you're not going to offer her a deal. She's a fugitive, she's a killer, and she will not get off easy."
"It depends on the information she has," Lazareva said without emotion.
Mallory slapped the side of the truck and paced toward the back of the cab. She stared across the parking lot at the swarm of cops. Finally, she turned around and faced Lazareva. "My sister's murder never gets taken off the table. If you take Lance in, if you make a deal with her about this Saxe shit, you never take my sister's death off the table."
"Elaine will not be used as a bargaining chip," Lazareva said. She put her hand on Mallory's forearm and squeezed through the jacket. "I'll do everything in my power to make sure that doesn't happen."
Mallory covered Lazareva's hand with her own and rubbed the knuckles. She inhaled sharply. "Thank you." She looked at the motel room. "We're not going to get anything until the cops have had a chance to look over that security tape. Let's go."
"Where?"
Mallory shook her head. "Well, apparently Lance left all their money behind. Even if they have a stash left, Acheson's probably upped security at the airport so they aren't flying anywhere. We need to find a quiet spot and figure out their next move. Come on."
Mallory found Detective Acheson in the crowd of uniforms, gave him one of her cards, and told him to call her if they found anything on the tape. He promised he would, and Lazareva followed her back to the truck. Lazareva got behind the wheel, started the engine, and turned to face Mallory before she drove anywhere. "All right. Which way?"
Mallory hesitated and nodded to the right. "West. For now."
#
"Sign here," the guy said, pushing the paper across the counter.
Lance signed the name Laura Lake, sure that the police already knew her Elaine alias, and pushed the paper back. She didn't have ID under that name, but the guy didn't ask for it. He had a stick of a Kit Kat bar sticking out of his mouth like a cigarette and the acne scars to prove it wasn't his first. He reached under the counter and handed her a room key. The leather keychain was diamond-shaped with the number seven branded into it. "At the end of the row," he said. "The light in the awning is kinda iffy, so you might wanna keep your eyes out."
Lance almost ordered him to change the light before she accepted the key, but kept her mouth shut. She didn't want to draw attention to herself or give the clerk any reason to remember her, so she nodded, took the key, and stepped out of the office. The motel — which had the unfortunate moniker "The Bareback Ranch" — was tucked under an overpass. It faced a boarded-up storefront, and a strip mall with a liquor store and an adult video store. She had the feeling that the clerk was told not to pay too close attention to the people who came and went, so to speak.
Gwen was sitting on the bumper of the car, bundled in Lance's denim jacket and watching the road. She had her arms wrapped tight around herself, her head ducked, and in the dying light of the afternoon she looked like she was about five-years-old. Gwen looked up when she heard Lance's boots on the sidewalk, slipped off the bumper and tugged at the hem of the coat.
The sun was starting to set in a premature dusk brought on by the lingering storm clouds. It cast dark shadows across the parking lot, but Lance could still see shattered syringes and crack pipes littering the pavement. Gwen hugged herself and looked over her shoulder toward the office. They could hear muted grunts through the walls, and shadows moved against the curtains of the rooms they passed. A voice raised in anger, another crying out in pain, pleasure, or both — all combined to make the hotel seem like a place of damnation and pain. It was a living organism, and Gwen stayed as close to the edge of the sidewalk as she could. "I don't like this place," she said in a quiet voice.
"It's the best we can hope for right now," Lance said, apparently unfazed by the sounds. "Places like this generally don't ask for ID. I used my good alias at the last place and I can't risk using the ID again since the cops are looking for Claire Lance or Elaine Lake."
"I know. I'm sorry. I don't mean to complain."
Lance slid her hand around Gwen's elbow and squeezed gently. "It's okay. Come on." She walked Gwen to Room Seven and noticed with dismay that the light above the door was indeed flickering. She let Gwen go inside first, then turned and scanned the street. The only other people in the area were across the street, coming out of either the liquor store or the porn shop, and they were all too busy making sure no one saw them to pay attention to anyone else. She went into the room, turned on the light, and locked the door.
The room had one king-sized bed with a too small purple blanket untucked over the mattress. The TV was bolted down, as was the remote, and water stains tracked down two walls like painted tornadoes. The room had its own bathroom, but the door had been replaced with a dirty curtain. The walls were stained a dark brown that ended just below the ceiling like a high-tide line, and the stink of old smoke clung to every surface. Gwen shed Lance's coat and folded it over her arm, searching for a clean place to put it down. Finally, she just laid it on the pillows at the head of the bed.
Lance sat down on the foot of the bed and the springs sagged under her weight. It felt like the entire bed had just folded in half. She sighed and rubbed her left thigh. Her boots felt like they had shrunk two sizes since that morning. She groaned, "My feet are killing me."
Gwen walked over and knelt in front of her. Without saying a word, she lifted Lance's foot and eased the boot off. Cupping Lance's foot, Gwen gently massaged the arch. Lance wanted to protest, but it felt so damn good. Plus she wasn't sure she had the strength to say stop. Her fingers still working Lance's tired foot, Gwen bent forward and laid her head on Lance's lap. Lance lifted her hand, stopped, then tentatively rested it on top of Gwen's head. Tears burned in her eyes as she stroked Gwen's hair.
They had fucked in the car — couldn't call it making love — and it could be written off. Hormones, the thrill of narrowly escaping death. It didn't have to count. But she wanted it to. A quiet voice at the back of her mind protested, demanded that she think about Elaine. I've never forgotten about Elaine. Every move I've made in this past year has been because of Elaine, but I can't keep it up. I can't keep dying inside every time I think about her. I need this. Gwen needs this. I can't stop it, and I don't want to.
But she closed her eyes and took her hand off Gwen's head. Her voice was weak when she said, "Gwen, you don't have to do this."
"I want to," Gwen whispered. She placed a kiss against the denim of Lance's thigh and Lance stifled a groan.
Gwen gently massaged Lance's foot for another few seconds, then peeled the sock off and pressed her thumb hard into the high arch. Lance grunted and shifted on the bed. Gwen moved her hand up and tugged and rotated each toe. When she had taken care of each toe individually, Gwen placed the pampered foot on the carpet and repeated the progression with the other foot. The boot and sock off, her fingers expertly worked the pliant flesh. She tugged and rotated each toe, then bent down and kissed the big toe. She slid her tongue slowly from the toe down to the arch, and Lance grunted as her hips lifted off the mattress, then s
lowly sank back down.
Gwen set the second foot back on the carpet and eased Lance's knees apart. She crawled forward and carefully untucked the tails of Lance's shirt. Lance put her hands on the mattress, blinking slowly as she watched Gwen. She wasn't sure she could have asked her to stop, even if she wanted her to. Gwen undid the bottom two buttons of Lance's shirt so that she could see what she was doing.
She ran her fingers over the carved lion on Lance's belt buckle. The lion was rearing on its back legs, forepaws lifted in the air and mouth open in a silent roar. She thought she had seen it before in pictures of King Arthur and his knights; maybe it was their coat of arms. She bent down and kissed Lance's stomach. Lancelot, she thought. My knight in faded denim.
Gwen undid the buckle and slid the belt free, her hands shaking as she left the two ends hanging open. Her fingers slipped as she undid the button of Lance's jeans and eased the zipper down. Lance was breathing hard, and Gwen blushed as she took hold of the denim with both hands. Lance pushed up, lifting her butt off the mattress to let Gwen pull the pants down. Gwen followed the denim with her hands, smoothing her palms over the outsides of Lance's bare legs. Her hands were shaking as she released the pants and let gravity take them the rest of the way to the floor.
Even though Lance still wore her boxer shorts, Gwen felt like she was looking at her naked. She licked her bottom lip and bowed like a supplicant to kiss Lance's thigh. Lance drew in a sharp breath and rested one hand on top of Gwen's head. Gwen trailed her lips along the tight skin, extending her tongue to taste Lance, and finally reached the wrinkled leg of her boxer shorts. She sat up and hooked her fingers in the elastic, only pulling them down a hair or so before Lance suddenly wrapped her hand around Gwen's wrist. She looked up into Lance's eyes. They were distraught, desperate, melancholy.
Her hoarse voice said, "You don't have to do this, Gwendolyn. What happened in the car was adrenaline. It was the heat of the moment."
Gwen held the gaze as she slipped her hand out of Lance's grasp and pulled the boxers the rest of the way down. Lance leaned back on her elbows and closed her eyes, her heart pounding, her body practically vibrating as Gwen's cool hands eased her thighs apart again.