“You can’t have the hotel for a month,” Adainette said, what had passed as a smile slipping from her lips. “This is a trucker’s stopover. Not for the trade.”
I figured this excuse meant she didn’t want anyone hanging around long enough to arouse any suspicion about her group of outlaws.
“We shall see about that, my good woman. The chief company negotiator will be here soon. Within a day or two at the most. I should expect, if the countryside is suitable, he’ll make sure you receive adequate recompense.” What fun to make that speech, full of hidden meanings and throw in a “good woman” besides. I had a hunch this would be the only fun I’d be having in the near future. “If the hotel fills up, people may have to camp in the courtyard,” I added.
My tone indicated they needn’t expect me to be one of the campers, and carrying through on this theme, I pointed my nose in the air. “My room, if you please. I find I am weary from my journey.”
A quick glance at Petra’s choked-up expression indicated I might be laying things on a little thick, so I said no more as I followed Adainette’s swaying backside from the lobby and down a short corridor.
I counted doors and watched for escape routes until we reached my room. I don’t know how, but Petra had cooked the register to put me on the outskirts of the family wing. Right next to her, prisoner though she was. But five would get you ten, Adainette was here, too. Probably all the outlaws had rooms off this corridor. Right into the rattlesnake den, girl, I warned myself.
More worrisome was that, although I was inside the hotel with my slightly far-fetched bona fides established, I still didn’t really see we were much farther along. A little, but not a lot. Now what? I wondered. Who would be making the next move?
CHAPTER 17
Using the same technology now as the hotel had when new, Adainette inserted a programmed key-card into the lock, and as soon as we heard the click, barged into the room in front of me. As she opened the door, she spoke. “Brighter.” Lights came up, glowing with subtle ambiance.
The room was nice in the way of better hotel rooms. A thick carpet, rather worn. One queen-sized bed. A credenza thingy with a kneehole desk built on at the end, and a straight chair at the desk. Real wood wainscoting paneled the lower part of this wall. Letterhead stationery printed with the hotel logo, matching envelopes, and a pen and pencil set were in an upright holder made of wicker. The yellowed condition of the paper told me this was a decorative device and not meant for use.
Night stands, one on each side of the bed, and a small round table with a couple of upholstered chairs completed the furnishings. No telephone, no television; items that must be as obsolete as harpsichords and telegraphs. What did I care? I didn’t have anyone to call anyway. Thick pillows made plump mounds beneath the often-washed green print comforter. The bedcover was the only note of color in the white- painted room. On the wall opposite the entrance were two doors; one, I assumed led to a bathroom, the other to a closet. Over all, was an impression of clean, clean, clean—but ordinary. It was hard to believe I’d been moved into the next century
I cast a disparaging glance around. “This will do, I suppose,” I said, as if I were used to better. My lip curled, inserting a note of doubt into the comment.
Adainette’s lip was as adept at curling as my own. “You won’t find better, Ms. You won’t find any other.”
“So I’ve been informed.” I walked around, dropping my bags carelessly on the floor alongside the bed. The inference they contained nothing more important than a few clothes and a cheap camera couldn’t have been more obvious. “I have to say, the accommodations here could be a problem. The room isn’t very big.”
“What about camping in the courtyard?” She eyed me scornfully with a trace of belligerence. “A minute ago you said that was an option.”
I watched her reflection in the mirror over the credenza. “Heavens! You didn’t think I meant the crew, did you? Or the actors? Or me?” The laugh I managed was barely more than a suggestion. “Oh, how funny. You did, didn’t you?”
For a woman with pretensions to beauty, she had yet to learn that expression is one of the main criterions. And when the judges mention beauty, they don’t mean the snarling mask of a wolf.
She pulled her richly colored hair forward across her jaw. “If not your people, then who?” There was definite challenge in the question.
“Why, I believe the function of a hotel is to accommodate guests. Am I correct? Yes?” I paused. “You tell me who will sleep in the yard.”
“Don’t count on it. Perhaps your digital crew had best find another location.”
Ouch. Enough of this. Baiting her might be a dangerous game, yet I couldn’t resist tossing out one more dig. One of my brows arched in conspicuous doubt.
“Are you the proprietor of this establishment?” My question stopped her in mid-turn as she started to go away.
She stiffened. “Yes.”
“Ah.” I pretended to consult an inner voice. “In that case, your name would be Petra Dill. Am I correct?”
She hesitated, then snapped. “No. The other woman, the one you saw at the desk is Ms. Dill.”
I let my eyes, at least as dark and fathomless as her own, hold her gaze for several long ticks. Slowly, I said, “Really? How very peculiar.” My dismissal of her was, I’m sure, suitably regal sounding. “Thank you. I believe I have all I need. If I should require anything else, I’ll ask at the desk.”
“You do that.” Her hand curled into a fist and slammed down on the door lever. The door popped open and she left.
When she had gone, I collapsed onto the bed, feeling pea-green sick and my hands shaking with an uncontrollable palsy. Air, pent to bursting, gusted out of my lungs.
Had I established connections, both for myself and for Petra, that would help keep us alive awhile longer? Adainette must think twice about killing an important person, one whose death would instigate an investigation. Or so I assumed. And yet, especially for Petra and Teagun, no other end than death seemed likely.
Lying on the Crossroad Hotel’s comfortable bed, hand over my eyes to keep out the light, I willed myself to relax, if only briefly. Take time enough to regroup and get my nerve back, if I ever did. Frankly, I’d as soon contend with a whole nest of the rattlesnakes curled in the rocks outside than look into Adainette Plover’s flat, black eyes.
I didn’t usually pay a lot of attention to people’s eyes—except for Caleb’s. His were grass green, deep and honest. The outlaw woman’s were of a different kind. All of the outlaw’s expressions had an odd, dull look as if they’d died once and been resurrected. I shuddered, shaking off this unsettled musing. Sitting up, I said, “Brighter.”
The lights notched up a cycle. And again, and yet again as I repeated the command, until I virtually needed my Revos to protect my eyes from the glare. Picking up my purse and the bag Teagun had given me, I went into the bathroom, uttering one last, “Brighter,” before shutting myself inside.
Showers worked a little differently here, cycling on and off and giving me barely enough time to soap and rinse before the water went off for good. It still felt wonderful. I’d been sweating buckets, what with the heat, the miles of hiking, and the cold clamminess of fear.
The Dills owed me, if nothing more, to be clean when their enemies ended my life. I brushed and fluffed my wildly curling hair, made up my face with great care, and donned another of Petra’s costumes. Over a jumpsuit as red as the devil’s underwear, and a whole lot tighter fitting, I put on a black-beaded bolero and fastened a sheer, flowing skirt around my hips. As long as I took short steps and took care not to walk through the slit in the skirt, the Guardian would still be handy, yet out of sight in the ankle holster.
I reloaded the LS with ammo from the bag, then crammed it back into my purse. It fit alongside the fully loaded Glock I’d fixed for Teagun in what now seemed another age.
Number eight was an outside room and as such, had a window, although all I could see outside was
a black blur. Morning, when the hotel would fill up with travelers, was still a few hours away. The one-way glass in the window reflected harsh overhead light back into the room, dazzling in its brightness.
If I found the light painful to my eyes, how much worse the glare must be on a person not used to it. Folks in the Great Empty lived their lives at night. This would be blinding to them
Which was, of course, the idea.
Crossing quickly and silently to the desk, I pulled out the chair, knelt, and touched the third knothole from the top on the wooden backboard. My fingertips tapped a measured cadence, like a drum roll.
Though I’d been warned to expect this result, when the whole desk tilted and moved, I was taken by surprise. Behind the heavy door, a commodious safe held, among other things, a sawed off 12-gauge Winchester Defender with a pistol grip, and a 9mm Beretta with empty chambers.
These were Petra Dill’s hideout guns. Her defense of last resort, only she hadn’t been able to utilize them. When Adainette and her gang took over the hotel, they slapped her in cuffs and took control of the surveillance system so fast there was nothing Petra could do to stop them. Since the first day, the only place she was allowed by herself was her bedroom, and even there, she feared eyes could be watching her every move. This custom-built safe may have opened into both rooms, but it hadn’t, so far as I could see, done her much good.
Teagun had told me its secret as we made our way to Maganda’s hovercraft. “The alarm system is set up to work in the dark. Light confuses it, burns the optics. The more light, the less efficient the system becomes.”
We didn’t know if anyone monitored the rooms constantly, intermittently, or if they monitored them at all. In the end, it didn’t matter. We couldn’t let ourselves be taken by surprise.
I must say, I had a little trouble believing in nothing more than an excess of light to bamboozle a sophisticated alarm system. I kept expecting one of the outlaws to burst in, laser gun and oscillator knife in hand, ready to dice and slice and burn me into little pieces. It would be Duncan who came, I felt sure. Duncan who held a grudge would enjoy watching my blood spill because I’d brought Adainette’s harsh, humiliating words down on his head. Of course, he might have to fight Adainette for the honor of letting my blood. I’d made an enemy of her, as well.
A regular little Miss Congeniality, that’s me.
The cruel overhead light revealed a tremor in my hands; my overheated imagination heard footsteps pounding in the corridor outside my door. A fallacy. No one came.
I changed my mind again. This must be the best plan. According to Teagun, what happened to the surveillance system was that the bright light washed out all the contrast on the display pixels. Whoever monitored the system would see nothing but vague shadows on their screen. They might catch a glimpse me crouched here beside the desk, but they wouldn’t see what I was doing. I could tell them I dropped an earring, anything, and they’d never know the difference. Or so I prayed.
Why was it always me whose life got put on the line?
While all this jittered in my head, my hands had a will of their own. I racked the old shells out of the Defender and replaced them with new. The scattergun went back in the safe, along with the rest of the box of 12-gauge buckshot.
The Beretta’s clip was empty, one of the reasons Teagun had stocked up on 9mm ammunition the morning he came to my shop. The recollection had me griping the box of ammo in tight hands, desperately seeking a hint of power, searching for a pathway back home that might have been embedded within their history. No such luck, of course. What else had I expected? Anyway, I couldn’t leave now. I had to see this through.
Sighing, I filled the clip, and also a spare, and added all of these to the already heavy load in my purse. The good leather of the shoulder strap had begun to stretch, hanging a full inch below my hip. The added weight caused me to lean to my right.
I closed the safe door and stood up, my hands raised as though to fiddle with my ear in case a little blip showed on the alarm monitor. I moved to the middle of the room, and squeezed my eyes tightly closed.
“Dim.” The light beyond my eyelids lessened infinitesimally. “Dim. Dim.” I stepped the brightness down, until all I saw through my closed eyes was red dark. Good enough. I gave myself a couple of minutes and, with worry curdling in my insides like a quart of soured milk, I opened the door and left the room.
KIRSTEN WAS STANDING behind the desk, taking a turn at keeping an eye on Petra Dill. That’s when the eye in question wasn’t wandering to Diego or one of the transport drivers who had come in to buy water or snacks for the road.
Diego was supposed to be on guard at the entry doors. His actions implied that propping the door open was the most pressing of his duties, or possibly rolling the gold toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other. I felt sure both these poses were deceptive. His hand never strayed far from the black Gore-Tex holster and the butt of the weapon inside it. A laser, I knew, recognizing the tubular shape. And, horror upon horror, he also had one of the garrote light whips curled up and latched to his belt, along with a knife and some sticks.
Through the open doors beyond him, I saw one of the newest additions to the gang strolling through the parking lot. Another was stationed at the hotel stairs. This left, by my reckoning, only Adainette and her favorite henchman, Duncan—unless I should call him a whipping boy—unaccounted for.
Don’t stand here like a scared chicken, I urged myself. Up and at ‘em.
I couldn’t help but be aware I drew every eye as I minced—so different from my normal freewheeling stride—through the lobby. This attention may have been due to the dramatic outfit I had on, although I was confident that I, or at least my exotic person—read mutant— contributed most of the draw. To my dismay, Diego started edging toward me, a move that caused me to think twice about this attraction.
With both Kirsten and Petra judging my appearance, I straightened my shoulders and tightened my stomach muscles. Posture, girl, I reminded myself. Don’t forget you be stylin’.
The younger woman frowned with profound displeasure, first at Diego, then more fiercely at me. I went weak with relief when a hover car load of tourists asking questions about the Great Empty drew him back and kept him occupied in delivering a practiced spiel. Their intervention couldn’t have been better timed.
The corner of Petra Dill’s mouth quirked in amusement as I approached the desk. “That’s a nice outfit you have on.”
“Thank you. I’ve never worn it before and I’m not sure about the fit.”
Teagun had inherited his dimple from her. “Looks fine to me. The color suits you.”
I shrugged, feeling a little doubtful, and returned her smile. Though our words said no such thing, information had passed between us that implied: Number 1, I was out of my depth and uncertain of how to proceed, and, 2, Petra had faith in my ability. I was going to trust she was the one in the right.
Being more than a little curious about Teagun’s mother—a legend in the Great Empty, according to Maganda—I examined her about as thoroughly she was examining me, though we each tried to hide it from the other.
Petra had the same Latino accent as everyone else I’d met here. Hers, I found, was a speck less pronounced than most. The structure of her sentences sounded more familiar to me. Maganda and Adainette tied for possession of the strongest accent I’d heard.
I’d already seen that a majority of the younger people’s hair, especially the men’s, was almost as light as Teagun’s. Like his, Petra’s pale blond locks looked natural. She was only slightly taller than me, a circumstance I appreciated. I’d have lost all my sense of style in folding the jumpsuit pant legs up.
Teagun had said he was twenty-four years old which meant Petra could add at least another twenty years to that. She looked great. And not just for her age—for any age.
“Satisfied?” she asked, smiling slightly when I’d been staring at her a little too long. I’d have liked to know her perceptions
of me—or maybe not.
“Satisfied about what?” Kirsten broke in, suspicious and a bit piqued at being ignored. She hadn’t much claim to beauty. Sensuality, to be sure. Something like an animal in heat.
Petra glanced coolly at her. “I asked if the room is to her satisfaction.”
“Well, why ask that?” Kirsten giggled. “It’s not like she has any choice.”
Petra’s and my own stare finally silenced her mirth. Her lips set in petulance, she went back to watching Diego pick his teeth.
“I do have a complaint,” I said, winking surreptitiously at Petra. I had no need to speak loudly, being quite sure that Kirsten was listening. I just made sure to inject a note of anger into my voice. “The towels. See here?” I dug an artfully folded towel from the top of my bag, presenting it to her for inspection. “I brought this one to show you. The towel is dirty. It’s stained. I want a clean one, if you please.”
“Oh.” A smile stretched Petra’s mouth. She backed away and beckoned the other woman forward. Her manacle clanged on the desk. “I’m sure Kirsten will be glad to help you with your problem.”
All my forward impulse shivered to a stop. “What?” My mouth fell open. I couldn’t believe she’d said that, didn’t understand what it meant.
“Extra towels fall under Kirsten’s jurisdiction,” Petra said, but now I saw a twinkle. Both women bent to look at the large brown stain on the towel. It did look repulsive, as well it should, due to the four different colors of eye shadow I’d wasted several minutes rubbing into the terrycloth pile.
Kirsten flicked the towel with a fingernail filed to a lethal-looking point, probably disappointed because the smudge wasn’t a bloodstain. “So what? You already had a bath. What chu need with more towels? I tell you, Ms., nobody is going to bring nothing unless you pay more.” Losing interest, she wrinkled her nose and edged away from us—far away.
Petra’s dimple flicked in and out. She had known what she was about, all right, in her attempt to draw Kirsten into the discussion. And with Kirsten thinking she put one over on both Petra and me, we were left alone to get on with our own plans.
Crossroad (The Gunsmith Book 3) Page 20