by Matt Hilton
"It's not a problem, sir. In fact, it's good of you to take the time
to come in and tell me. Thousands of people wouldn't have even bothered."
"That's true," Cain said in agreement. But then again, he always did suspect that he was unique. "Isn't it sad, though, that people have got to a point where they'll just walk on by without offering a hand?"
"It is." The woman nodded. "Not many people I meet are as nice as you."
Ooh, the nice word. Cain thought she was nice, too. Unfortunately, he had wholly different reasons for his opinion. His estimation was based purely upon the judgment of the ossuary-building artist within him. Clark Kent's X-ray vision was no less penetrating than his scrutiny. She had a pleasing bone structure behind the rosy cheeks. A little plump, perhaps, so that he couldn't easily define the fine skeletal lines he adored. He glanced from her face to her hands. They were slim and long fingered, the nails polished to a sheen. Now there were treasures he would cherish. Slowly he traced each digit in turn with his eyes.
She was aware of this examination. She stirred, ever so slightly uncomfortable under his gaze. Cain acted startled, offering her an abashed grin.
"Sorry. You caught me staring," he said. "It's just that . . . well, uh, you have such beautiful hands."
"My hands?" The woman didn't know how to answer, but she was flattered. Unconsciously she gripped the sheaf of papers tightly in one hand while she held out the other and studied it. Cain leaned toward her.
"I hope you don't think I'm giving you some sort of cheesy comeon," he said. "I'm simply speaking the truth. Your hands are lovely."
"Thanks," she said. "That's really sweet of you to say so."
The catch in her throat gave her an appealing huskiness. She coughed. Eyes darting toward the office as though checking for a disapproving supervisor. The unashamed impression she was portraying was frowned upon by the hotel management, either that or she genu inely was as naive as she appeared. She discretely slipped her hands below the counter. Her rosy cheeks had become twin candy apples.
"Sorry if I'm embarrassing you," Cain said. "I don't mean to."
"No, it's okay. I'm not embarrassed." Despite her words, her cheeks were growing even redder. She dropped her chin toward her chest, swayed in indecision, then laughed.
Cain laughed with her.
"Look," he said. "I have embarrassed you. I'm sorry. Please accept my apologies."
He put out a hand and the woman reached for it reflexively.
They shook hands.
"Apology accepted," said the woman, still laughing.
Cain was slow to release her hand. He allowed his fingers to trail along her palm, prolonging the sensation for as long as possible. One of his human frailties was a total lack of empathy, but what he lacked in compassion he more than made up for in sensory ability. He did not have the capacity to love a woman, but he did love to touch a woman.
He would lodge the sensation in some far recess of his mind, a memory to summon for later. If he couldn't have her hands, he could have the sensory recall of their touch whenever he desired. And that thought was enough to sustain him for now. The primary need on his agenda was his reckoning with the thief. Afterward, if everything went well—as it most definitely would—he could come back at his leisure and take her hands as genuine trophies.
Finally, he stepped back, gave a slight wave.
"Well, I'd best get going," he said. "I've taken up too much of your time as it is."
"Honestly, sir, it was no problem."
"See you," he said. "And once again, I'm sorry if I embarrassed you."
"Yeah, see you," the woman replied. She lifted her hand in reflex. Caught it in midwave. Then laughed and continued the gesture.
Cain gave her his most self-effacing grin. His wink was full of promise.
He walked back through the lobby. In the old Hollywood musicals, Gene Kelly or Fred Astaire would have made the walk a grand swagger, hands in pockets, whistling merrily before swooping around to catch her looking. Cain wasn't so flamboyant; at the exit he merely twisted at the shoulder. It was enough to confirm that, yes, she was still watching him. There was more than a little interest in her gaze. He waved again and she waved back, her face breaking into a wide smile. In true Astaire form he made a show of opening the door and pushing outside.
But as he walked away, his smile turned to a frown, then a scowl. Achieving his objective of flushing out the thief was one thing, but there was no way he could act on it now. The receptionist was a bit dim, but she still had enough of her wits about her to remember the man who had lured the client outside before he was brutally butchered.
Self-recrimination wasn't something he often indulged in, but even he could see that he'd made a mistake. I shouldn't have flirted with her, he thought. I should've simply gone in, given her the story, then got the hell back out again. By flirting with the bitch, I've forced her to take a good look at my face. Stupid, Cain, stupid. If I take the thief now, she could give a good description of me to the police. And that just will not do.
He'd put his identity at risk for the sake of a minute or two of banter with a pretty girl. Not good when you are the United States' current most prolific and undetected serial murderer.
Making matters worse, it wasn't even as if he needed to lure the thief outside. While the receptionist had checked the ledger, Cain had watched her fingers pointing out the room number of the owner of the SUV. Why bother ambushing him in the exposed parking lot when he could go on up, knock on his door, and call him by name?
Time for plan B.
Cain spun around, but all trace of Astaire was gone from his light
tread. Once more, he headed directly for the entrance door. Quick inhalation for effect, then he bustled into the hotel with feigned urgency. The woman was midway between closing the ledger and reaching for a telephone. Thankfully, she never reached the receiver. Her startled expression was a mixture of delight and regret as Cain jogged to the counter and slapped down the palms of his hands.
"Hi," he said. "It's just me again."
The woman still wore the startled look. She visibly fought to regain her composure, achieving the fixed stare and open mouth of an inflatable sex toy. Not that Cain had any experience of those kinds of things.
"You haven't called the SUV owner yet, have you?" Cain asked in breathless fashion. As the woman shook her head, he went on, "Seems I might have been a little premature coming in about the lights. While I was inside, the owner must've come back out and turned them off."
"They're off now?" the woman echoed.
"Yeah, I guess there must be another exit. I didn't see anyone leave while I was in here."
"There are a number of exits. I suppose he could've used one of them." The ledger was still beside her, and she flipped it open with professional dexterity. She nodded confirmation. "Yeah, he's got a room at the back, so he could've used the rear stairwell. I guess from his room he could see his car and noticed that his lights were still on."
"That's probably it," Cain agreed.
"Okay," the woman said. Her face had regained its natural elasticity and a smile was beginning to bloom.
"Okay," Cain replied, giving her his version of a sheepish smile. "I feel a complete idiot now."
The woman crinkled her nose at him. "What for?"
"I must look like the dead battery vigilante or something." Cain laughed. "I just thought I'd come back in and let you know everything's fine now. Save you the trouble of phoning."
"It's not a problem," she said.
"Yeah, but the owner would've been wondering what the heck was going on."
"I'm sure he wouldn't have minded," she said. "In fact, I dare say he'd have told me he'd already been out and turned them off. That would've been that, I guess."
"Yeah, I suppose so."
"Anyway, thanks again for going to so much trouble."
"No problem. Just doing my bit."
"Dead battery vigilante." The woman smiled at him
, crooking a finger in his direction. "Sounds like a superhero."
"You got it," Cain said. A flippant gesture of his head and hands fisted on his hips made him more Boy Wonder than Man of Steel.
They both laughed as he walked away the second time. Before he reached the door, she called to him.
"Are you sticking around town for a while?"
Cain looked back at her, feigning disappointment. "No. Just passing through, I'm afraid. On my way to the East Coast. Have to be in Mississippi early next week for a sales convention."
Now it was the woman's turn to look dejected. "That's a shame."
"It is," Cain agreed. "But hey, who knows what's around the corner? I might be back this way in a month or so."
She gave him a lopsided smile.
"Well, if you're passing and you notice any lights on, give me a call, will you?"
Cain lifted his fingers as if they were a gun and feigned shooting her. "You got it, lady. If your battery is running down you can count on me."
Quickly he left the lobby to the sound of laughter.
"Dimwit could do with a couple of thousand volts up her ass," he assured himself.
Directly across the entry drive ran a walkway that led into the
parking lot. From there he followed the side of the building, past bougainvillea shrubs arranged to add a little privacy to the rooms on the ground floor. At the rear of the hotel the grounds were laid out like an exclusive garden, verdant with golf-course-perfect lawns and bursting with color in the proliferation of flowering plants. The grounds contained a private swimming pool.
There were a couple of female guests sitting out in bathing suits, drinking from glasses smeared with lipstick. Cain sneaked a peek at them. Ordinarily he might have lingered and enjoyed the show. Sadly, neither of them was pretty enough to hold his interest. He paid them no attention, searching instead for the stairway the receptionist had mentioned. He saw it within seconds, a tiled staircase leading up to balconies on the two higher floors. Chancing a stiff neck, he craned upward, seeking door numbers. Then, happy with what he saw, he rapidly moved away, skirting the building and returning to the parking lot.
Time for plan C.
He took the scaling knife from his jacket pocket as he approached the SUV. Kneeling down by the rear tire, he thrust the blade into the rubber seal next to the wheel hub. Pulling the knife out again, he noted that the narrow slash was barely detectable, but the almost inaudible hiss of escaping air was encouraging.
"That'll hold you for a while," he whispered. A flat tire would royally piss off someone who couldn't even be bothered to rub a little dust on the license plate.
He dropped the knife back in his pocket and straightened out his clothes as he returned to his own vehicle. The vintage VW Beetle had gone the way of the dinosaurs. Not that he required the intervention of a planet-destroying meteor; he'd merely dumped it in a dry canal bed, then set it ablaze. It was quick work to replace it with an undistinguished light blue Oldsmobile.
On the rear bumper was a sticker some might think pathetic: i brake for wildlife. Though he tempted discovery by leaving such a distinct identifier on the car, he'd allowed it to stay in place. For one, it added to the disguise he'd adopted of a meek-mannered salesperson, plus it was a statement that actually resonated with him. Though he had no qualms whatsoever about butchering those of his own species, he had no desire to harm any other living creature. Faced with running down a rabbit or swerving into a line of children on a Sunday school outing, there would be only one choice in his mind. Sunday school would be missing a number of snot-nosed brats next week.
The temperature inside the Oldsmobile was a lot cooler than anticipated. When he'd driven the car here, the sun had made the heat inside almost intolerable. That's the drawback when appropriating an older-model car: no climate control. Plus the driver's window had a fault and he'd been unable to open it with the rotating arm. Oh how he suffered for his art!
When he'd driven into the parking lot, he'd left the car beneath a stand of palm dates to conceal it from the view of traffic on the interstate. His fortuitous choice had also brought him some welcome shade.
Settling in the driver's seat, he prepared for a long wait. To pass the time, he took one of the film-wrapped packages from his pocket and teased the contents within. Kind of gnarly now, but they'd polish up nice. He imagined that the fingers were those of the rosy-cheeked receptionist. Yes, he could be in for a long wait, but he was happy to do so with his mind thus engaged.
15
harvey had done a decent job of monitoring the movements of Sigmund Petoskey. True to Harvey's word, as soon as the third-generation immigrant finished his daytime business, he headed out to the derelict building Rink had shown me earlier. He left in an entourage of three vehicles that snaked their way from the opulent business center to the run-down building, driving in a fashion that said he wasn't concerned about police patrols pulling him over. In our rental car, Rink and I followed at a discrete distance.
When Petoskey ignored a red light, we pulled up; it wasn't necessary to keep a close tail when we knew where he was headed.
The lights were reflected in Rink's gaze.
"You up for this, Rink?" I asked.
He sniffed. "Ready."
"Things could get messy," I said. "But I can't think of a better way to shake Petoskey than raiding him in the place where he feels safest."
"You take guns into a man's house, things always get messy." He gave me a melancholy shake of his head.
"Been a while since you done any wet work?" I asked.
"Been a while, yeah. But it never leaves you, Hunter." Rink looked across at me, and for a moment didn't have to say more. Only those who have taken another man's life would know what we were imagining. He was right. It doesn't matter how hard you try to bury the memories, they never leave you.
The green light saved us further agony.
When we arrived at the old redbrick building, Petoskey's entourage had lined up in the lot to its right. As well as the original three, they'd been joined by a further two cars and a van.
A couple of bored guards stood to one side, nonchalant as they sucked at cigarettes. They weren't expecting trouble. They were there for appearance's sake.
These guards were of no immediate concern. We'd be going in via a different route and would not be seen by them. I was more apprehensive about the number of street people who wandered around the area. We were strangers, and they'd be suspicious of us. None of us knew— Harvey included—if the bums were belligerent to Petoskey or not. It'd ruin our chances of bearding King Siggy in his castle if any of them went running to him. I doubted anyone would do that out of loyalty, but the promise of a reward would be too much of a temptation for some.
Discretion is the better part of valor, and don't let anyone tell you otherwise. Rather than chance early discovery, we parked our vehicle the best part of half a mile from the building, donned shabby clothes we'd purchased from a thrift store, and then wandered in on foot. My SIG Sauer was tucked in the waistband of my trousers, my KA-BAR down my boot. Rink, however, had a shotgun to conceal. Without the luxury of a violin case, he carried his over-under 12-gauge in a large carry-on bag. To further disguise the gun, he raided a nearby Dumpster and pushed in a few old tin cans and a bundle of newspapers and magazines. On cursory inspection, his carry-on would pass for the sum of a bum's possessions.
The walk in took about ten minutes, but it was just what we needed to shake off the cobwebs of inactivity. Feeling keyed up, we took a position opposite Petoskey's building. Behind a chain-link fence was another small building. It had also suffered over the years. The roof was gone, no windows remained, and the interior was the domain of rats. Even the graffiti were faded. No discerning street person would take up residence there.
We entered through a hole in the fence, negotiated a weed-choked courtyard, and entered the building through a doorless void. We had to then push our way through heaped rubbish to one of the aband
oned offices from which we could watch and wait. The sunset was a raw wound on the horizon.
Without spoiling the decor, Rink emptied the junk from his bag. He checked the shotgun and seemed satisfied. He fed shells into it while peering out the window. Following his gaze, I saw that lights had come on behind the plastic sheeting on the upper floor. Though muted, shadows wove sinuous patterns on the sheeting as people moved through the rooms.
"I'd like to know what the hell's going on up there," I said.
"Don't hear nothing," Rink replied. "My guess is he's got a cook shop going."
It was a likelihood that Petoskey had some kind of lab going up there, producing crack cocaine or methamphetamine. On two counts, we were going to have to take care going in. If indeed it was a crack lab, inside there could be innocents who had been forced into this unwholesome line of work. Plus, the scum guarding the production line would be packing weapons. Scum with weapons plus innocent bystanders were never good mathematics.