by Jason Rose
I look up and make eye contact with Patrick and Duddy. “Gentlemen, give me the room please.” Without waiting for a response, I stand up, turn my back on the Lacrosse duo, and answer my phone. “What is it?” I answer, knowing Wilson wouldn’t be calling unless he found something interesting or was ready for a ride home. I can hear the rustling behind me as Patrick and Duddy exit the room. They aren’t shy about letting their displeasure at being ordered out of their own conference room show.
“I’m headed to the hotel now; the cops have been helpful. Sargent Graham, the first cop on the scene, let me buy him lunch at the local pub. The chowder is to die for. Talk about going to flavor town. The French bread, eh, not so much. I’ll take San Francisco sourdough all day long.”
“Great. I got Guy Fieri on the phone. As much as I like those television shows where the hosts travel to little dive restaurants in out-of-the-way places and describe the amazing food, I don’t want to hear it from you. I once watched you eat an entire can of sardines that had been in my pantry for like five years just because it was within your reach radius and you were too lazy to get up and make a meal. So forgive me if I don’t put a lot of stock in your food analysis.”
“Hey, hey, slow your roll. No need to get mean. And sardines are delicious.”
“Sure they are. What did you learn from the cops?”
“The Sarge told me Eirik was comatose when they arrived on the scene. Eirik was just sitting there holding the little girl and rocking back and forth. He never spoke the entire time he was in the custody of the Pittsfield Police Department. The whole thing really freaked the cops out. Boston got involved immediately and the whole thing jumped counties. Sarge thought it was odd, but he was happy to see the case go. There was no jurisdictional fighting, not even from the public defender’s office. The police didn’t even follow up on other leads. As far his superiors were concerned, it was open and shut, no need to investigate further. Sarge said he’d never seen a case move so quickly and so haphazardly. It’s as if no one was worried about getting actual evidence to support the conviction because it was already a done deal. I couldn’t get a copy of the whole police file, but the Sarge let me look at the digital file which he opened on his cell phone. I took some screenshots and texted them to myself. At first glance, there’s nothing really mind-bending in the file: victim info, including names, numbers, nearest living relatives; officer statements; pictures of the scene; coroner reports — just a typical police file. I’ll have to spend some time with it before I can give you any more insight. By the way, it’s okay . . . you can say it.”
“. . . Say what?” I answer, knowing I will probably regret taking the bait.
“I’m the shit. Best investigator ever.”
“Yeah, I’m not going to say that, and I already got a full copy of the police report. Guess that makes me the shit. Good try, though.” At least I think I have a full copy. I glance over at the memory stick on the table. The district attorney should have turned over a complete file to the public defender’s office and it should be one of the two memory sticks I picked up today—if not both. One problem with the modern practice of law is the amount of paper, both digital and actual paper involved. You’re constantly sorting through duplicates of everything, and you can’t just assume they’re duplicates, you must double-check to make sure nothing about them is different. Life must have been much simpler back before computers and before every single transaction and conversation in your life was recorded and transcribed somewhere. “I’ll meet you at the hotel. I’m done here, anyway.” I hang up before Wilson can make another snide comment.
I grab the memory stick from the table, slip it into my pocket next to the one Sean Evans gave me, and take one last view out of the floor-to-ceiling window that overlooks Boston’s high-rent rooftops. Absolutely stunning. It’s a travesty this view is wasted on a bunch of douchebag attorneys. With my gate-pen I draw a door onto the glass, pull it open towards me, visualize the picture of the Pittsfield hotel I Googled earlier, take a deep breath—during which I contemplate saying goodbye to the Lacrosse dicks, maybe confronting them about Rodrigo Ruiz. Nah, fuck them, they’ll just lie anyway—and I step out into the abyss.
Chapter Thirteen
Immediately upon exiting the gate, I hear sporadic gunfire coming from inside the boarded-up Pittsfield boutique hotel. Despite the gunfire and instead of running for cover, I stand stiffly and stare at the hotel in stunned silence. I knew it wasn’t operational; Adrian said his family purchased it after the murders to preserve the scene, but I didn’t expect it to look like this. The windows are boarded up, the hedges are overgrown, and the place has fallen into a complete state of disrepair. Adrian mentioned that he intends to remodel and rename it after his daughter—a tribute, a sweet sentimental thought, but right now, this place looks like somewhere not even Norman Bates would live. Even though the sun is high in the sky, the hotel is flat-out creeping me out. It is amazing how fast an unattended to property can turn to shit. I wonder how fast the earth would reclaim civilization if all the people and monsters just vanished? Would it take a century? A decade? A single year? Ever since I killed Pavo, I’ve been having these morbid thoughts about the end of the world. Sometimes, all I can think about is death. All I dream about is death. I have this persistent irrational fear that something is coming. Something the world isn’t ready for. Something dark. Something evil. Something I’m not ready for. Something I can’t stop. I’m starting to think I paid a much higher price than I’ve yet realized that day in Billy Bob’s bar. Pavo told me he was giving me a gift a way to make a difference, so far all I’ve experienced is a window to death. Some gift.
I gather my wits and run toward the gunfire. As I sprint towards an active shooter, it occurs to me I’m unarmed and therefore must be out of my freaking mind. Two months ago, I would have hunkered down somewhere and called the police. Might even have posted something clever on my Instagram feed to try and gain some sympathy from people I used to know, most of whom I probably won’t ever see again, at least not in my non-digital life. Social media is a place where we try and hold onto memories and stay in touch with ghosts from our past by punishing them with photo barrages of food, gym, and vacation pics. The old me would have tried to leverage this harrowing experience into an anti-gun message. The number of likes I got would been my validation for the day. Let’s be honest, other than food, politics, spying on your ex, and posting pictures that make you look skinnier than you actually are, is social media good for anything? The new insane me is running towards danger like I’m a fucking Avenger. What I wouldn’t give for a flying metal suit or a magic hammer. What a difference a couple of full moons make. If I survive this, I may have to get bulletproof linings sewn into all of my suits. I wonder how much that costs? Is that even a real thing? Do you have to pay in gold coins? Where would you even go for something like that? Amazon? Men's Warehouse? Some high-end membership-only hotel? I bet Wilson knows a guy. He always knows a guy.
The hotel’s front doors are chained and padlocked. I gotta find a different way in. As I circle the building looking for an entrance, I spy a side door that’s slightly ajar. Someone’s wedged a tennis ball-sized red volcanic rock borrowed from the hotel planters into the door jam. More gunfire erupts from inside. Some of the shots have a different sound to them, and there is a pattern to the shooting. Fire, fire, pause, fire. A gunfight? I call Wilson’s cell, hoping he answers. Praying he’s not inside. I hate the idea of my friends being in danger. I know they’re adults and make their own decisions, but I can’t help feeling like they wouldn’t put themselves in situations where monsters were trying to kill them if it wasn’t for me and the decisions I make. The call goes straight to voice mail. #FML. Maybe he isn’t here yet. Wilson was unarmed; the fact that someone’s returning fire could mean he’s not involved. Maybe he’s just in a spotty reception area, going through a tunnel or maybe he stopped by a bar for a refreshment. Right—and I’m the King of America. My gut tells me Wilson’s in
side and could use some help.
As quietly as I can, I slide open the tinted glass side door, while keeping myself out of the doorway, and peek around the corner so as not to make myself a big, fat, sunlit target. Fortunately, the hallway is empty. This part of the building is full of offices. I can see an open door at the other end leading to the service side of the front desk. I can just make out the service monitors with the screen saver on. The hotel's name is bouncing back and forth across the screens, like an old-school version of pong. I creep through the offices until I’m almost to the front desk doorway and then freeze as I’m momentarily distracted by a familiar voluminous, slightly bent over, rear end as it backs into the open doorway. My eyes trace the curves of the jean-covered, big bottom up to the small of the uncovered lower back, past the purple butterfly tattoo all the way up to the bottle bleached blond hair. Twice in one day, I must be cursed.
The witch is slightly bent over to use the tall front desk as cover. She talking to someone to her left. “Keep shooting.” More gunfire, this time from right next to her. There’s no return fire this time.
A man’s voice whispers to the white trash witch, “I think they’re out.”
“Then fucking go kill them!” she screams, clearly frustrated.
“On it,” the voice whispers back.
“Worthless fucking dog,” she mutters to herself.
I look around for something I can use as a weapon, something sharp, something metal, something you wouldn’t want a toddler to play with, pretty much anything other than my soft supple hands. Don’t judge, I use a lot of moisturizer. #AlwayMoisturize. Unfortunately, the only thing that catches my eye is a black handheld stapler. Not exactly the deadliest weapon in the world, although I’ll admit it, I’ve “accidentally” stuck myself with a staple a few times, and each time, it hurt like a mutha-fatha. Not seeing any other options, I shrug—the stapler will have to do. I can’t be too choosy. If blondie’s target is really out of bullets, he or she or it or they, it is a complicated world we live in, doesn’t have long to live.
I quietly step through the doorway into the lobby and shove the stapler into the small of blondie’s tattooed lower back. “They will let just about anyone into this hotel, won’t they? I’m going to have to talk to management. I’m definitely only giving this place two stars. Frankly, the guests are a bit trashy for my taste. With you here, this place is projecting a real north Florida trailer park vibe.”
The witch sucks in a deep breath, clearly startled, and starts to turn.
“—Don’t do it,” I say, while shoving the stapler harder into her kidney. “I like butterflies and I’d rather not paint the front desk with purple monarch guts.”
She stops turning.
“What’s your friend's name?”
“Whiley,” she answers through clenched teeth. I can see Whiley advancing towards a makeshift barrier of chairs and turned over tables in the far corner of the room.
“Is there anyone else with you?”
“N—,” she starts to answer.
I interrupt “Before you answer, please understand. I will know if you’re lying and if you lie, I will clip one of these pretty ink butterfly wings.” I smile at my own pun. Technically I’m not lying—‘clip’ could mean shoot, it could also mean staple. You have to amuse yourself during times like this to help keep the fear down. Wilson always says, “You got to stay frosty, but don’t freeze.” I think it’s a phrase he picked up in the military. It’s catchy . . . cheesy, but catchy. I would not ever say it out loud. It’d be a serious demerit against my street cred.
“Nobody else,” she answers.
“See? that wasn’t so hard. Whiley!” I yell, “put it down!”
Whiley stops advancing and looks back at me. If he’s surprised to see me, he ain’t showing it. His eyes are completely unreadable. He pauses for a second as if evaluating the situation, and then without a word, he turns and starts running towards a large glass window. As he gets closer, he fires at it and then, to my shock and amazement, jumps through the shattering glass to the outside like he’s fucking Jason Stratham in any one of a dozen action movies—and he keeps running until he’s gone from my line of sight.
I can’t help it, the phrase “fuck me” slips out of my mouth.
The witch cackles.
“That amuses you, huh?”
“Utterly,” she responds.
“I guess I can understand that; this must happen to you a lot?”
“What?” she asks, while slightly turning her head toward up and to the left. Which, as I learned in a weekend FBI profiler class I took as a San Francisco Public Defender, means she’s confused.
“Men running out on you. Do they always jump through plate glass windows? Or is this the first time?”
“Fuck you,” she says through her still clenched teeth. I didn’t need to take a class to know she doesn’t like me. I dig the stapler in a little deeper, causing her to gasp.
“Alright, whoever is hiding back there, you can come out. It’s relatively safe,” I shout. At least I hope it is. I’ve met my danger quota for the day. Witches, Weres, I feel like I’m trapped on the CW network.
From behind the makeshift furniture barrier, I hear Wilson yell, “Colt, is that you?”
“The one and only,” I answer. Relief surges through me. Thank god, he sounds all right. “You okay?”
Wilson and a very shaky cop appear from behind the barrier. “It's about time you got here.” Wilson unabashedly appraises Cinnamon with eyes, “This . . . fine woman, and her boyfriend—”
“Not my boyfriend. Yuck,” she clarifies.
“Hush.” I dig the stapler in further. “Don’ talk until I tell you to talk.”
I can hear her teeth grinding, but she obeys the command.
Wilson smiles at Cinnamon with all of his teeth. It’s the same look he gives middle-aged waitresses he’s trying to score with. “This beautiful creature and her sidekick got the drop on us. We would have taken them, but I knew you’d be here soon, and I didn’t want to steal your thunder as the hero and all, everybody has a role to play, so, we did the hard work and distracted them.” Gross, Wilson’s unabashed flirting makes my stomach turn.
The cop’s frown confirms my suspicion that Wilson’s version of events has as much truth to it as a presidential campaign rally. I make eye contact with the cop. “What’s your name?”
“She shot a laser at us. It came out of her hand.” The cop is clearly having difficulty processing the situation.
“His name is Jack Graham,” answers Wilson. “He’s a sergeant with the police department here. He’s the guy I was having lunch with. He was nice enough to offer me a ride. It’s hard to get an Uber in this town.”
“A laser?” I nudge the witch, indicating she should respond to my question.
“Lightning bolt, from my ring” corrects Cinnamon. I nod as if Witches shooting lightning bolts is a normal thing. Just another Tuesday morning.
“Sergeant, are you really out of ammo?”
Graham looks at me, making eye contact for the first time. “Uh, no, was saving a few shots.”
“Good, please aim your weapon at Cinnamon.” The cop pauses for a moment and then does as I asked. “If she moves, shoot her.” Sergeant Graham frowns, but keeps his gun trained on her.
“Your name is Cinnamon?” asks Wilson.
She smiles back at Wilson and says in a sickly-sweet way, “Like the toast crunch.”
“I think I’ve died and gone to breakfast heaven,” retorts Wilson.
I again shake my head in disgust. “Wilson, stop drooling. She was just trying to kill you.”
“Yeah, for some reason that’s a turn on.” Wilson grins from ear to ear.
“You need professional help.”
Wilson just keeps on grinning, “You’re right. The kind that dances and works on poles.”
“I do my best work with a broom between my legs.” Cinnamon’s lips curl up at the edges. I think she’s trying to be se
xy.
“Did you see any room keys behind the desk Colt?” Asks Wilson.
“No.” I exhale deeply, praying the disgust I’m feeling evacuates my body along with the exhaled air; it doesn’t. “Why are you here?” I finally ask, as I set the stapler down on the counter directly in front of Cinnamon, interrupting their flirtation.
“I heard they had a nice spa.”
“Don’t make me angry,” I threaten.
Cinnamon laughs. “You’re not going to do anything. There’s a cop right there and without that sword, I’m not afraid of you. If you were going to kill me, you would have done it this morning. Face it, you’re a pussy. Not a real man.”
Wilson’s brow wrinkles in confusion, “Wait, is this that witch?”
I shrug in response to Cinnamon’s comment, all the while ignoring Wilson’s question. “I was in a good mood this morning, not so much anymore. And the sword’s in the car.” I lie. “I could go and get it if you’d like; but if you make me go and get—.” For a moment, her eyes flash fear, and then the moment passes.
“Bullshit. Fuck you. You wouldn’t leave that thing unguarded in the car. If you had it, you wouldn’t be threatening me with a stapler.”
“She’s got you there, boss. She’s smart and bootyful," volunteers Wilson.
“Shut up. You’re not being helpful.”
Wilson shrugs with both palms to the sky and gives me one of his I know I’m being a jackass but I can’t help myself grins. Not exactly an apology, still, it’s the most I should hope for from him.
“Why are you so damn afraid of that sword?”
“I don’t know,” she answers. “I just know there are worse things than death and I have a feeling being cut by that sword is one of them.”
At least she’s scared of something. Although I have to admit, this whole recurring situation is making me a little bit uncomfortable. I don’t like threatening women and I’ve never been great at intimidating them. Threatening someone weaker than me has never really been my thing. Don’t get me wrong, I like to talk shit, but to individuals I think are my equals or betters. That’s not a sexist thought; there are plenty of women I respect and who I think are my equals or betters, just not this twit. I know Cinnamon is a witch and she shoots freaking lasers out of her hands, which is pretty fucking cool when you think about it, but all I see when I look at her is a sad, thic, trailer-trash-Barbie. Hardly an equal adversary. Not someone I feel good threatening. On a side note, I must find somebody that can actually tell me something useful about that sword. It scares witches, cuts werewolves in half, and burns vampires, curse or no curse, it can’t be all bad.