“I know, I know. But what about the girl?”
“The girl?”
“Yeah, her daughter. She booked in with her two nights ago. A little one, no more than three or four, I’d say.”
The police officer looked at the motel manager and then at the door. “You got a key?”
“Spare keys to all the rooms.” Fintall searched in his pocket and removed a solitary key, which he handed to Reynolds.
Officer Reynolds’ puffy fingers grabbed the key and placed it in the lock. “You better be right, Mr. Fintall.” He banged loudly on the door and waited a full minute. Jonah Fintall was still looking through the window. Room 11 remained silent.
“Any movement?” Reynolds asked. Hoping for some activity inside the motel room.
Jonah shook his head. “I don’t like the look of this. Had a suicide here three, maybe four years ago. Had to throw away a whole bunch of bedding. Blood just wouldn’t shift, no matter how much you scrubbed.”
Reynolds turned the key in the lock and slowly turned the door handle. The door sprang free. The smell of dry air and death poured through the opening. Reynolds stepped back and placed his back against the door frame, his head tilted upward trying to find a clean cool stream of air. “Mrs. Dark … Mrs. Dark, are you okay in there?”
No answer. Just the constant buzzing of blowflies.
Reynolds steadied himself and wrapped his chubby fingers around the grip of his regular issue pistol, flicking the holding strap off his holster and withdrawing the weapon in one easy movement. Jonah Fintall moved away from the policeman but remained peering through the window. Reynolds turned and weapon drawn entered the motel room.
“Mrs. Dark … Mrs. Dark?” Sweat finally breached his eyebrows and ran into his eyes. Officer Mike Reynolds blinked. The salt concentrate in his sweat stung. His hand trembled slightly but Reynolds breathed deeply a couple of times to regain his composure. “Mrs. Dark?”
No reply. The buzzing of the flies grew more intense.
The officer drew closer to the bed. The outline of a woman’s body was clear through the linen sheet. The odor of decay in the hot room was evident. Reynolds leaned forward and tapped the woman’s foot with the muzzle of his gun. There was no response. He turned and looked at Jonah Fintall who was now standing in the open doorway, watching the proceedings. Reynolds could not hide the desperate look of fear etched on his face. He walked around the side of the bed until he could see a mop of tousled blonde hair protruding from beneath the sheet. By the side of the bed on the cabinet was an empty medicine bottle with a few white pills scattered, some of which were on the floor. Reynolds trod on something, which cracked under the weight of his heavy boot. He looked down to find some more tablets. “Mrs. Dark?”
The door to the bathroom was closed. Reynolds moved closer to the body in the bed. He reached forward, fingers outstretched, until they grasped the bed sheet. Reynolds pulled the sheet down. Amy Dark did not react; she did not move or give any signs of life. Her eyes were closed as though asleep, her features soft, showing no troubles or angst in her sleep.
“Mrs. Dark?” Reynolds voice was soft as though he didn’t want to disturb her; maybe it was the fear of waking the dead. His hand moved forward closer to her shoulder. “Mrs. Dark, it’s Officer Mike Reynolds from the Talinha County Police.”
He made contact with her body, first his fingers, then his hand as he gently rocked her body. Her body moved as one as though she were a mannequin. The cold, unforgiving feel of her body registered in Reynolds’ brain. Amy Dark was in the throes of rigor mortis.
Reynolds turned his head to face Jonah Fintall. “She’s dead.”
Fintall’s face briefly lit up. “This place will be a shrine,” he whispered.
Reynolds pulled the sheet back exposing the body of Amy Dark. She was wearing a nightgown. “This don’t make sense, who dresses for bed and then commits suicide.”
“I could open it up as a bona fide tourist attraction.”
Reynolds looked at the motel manager with disbelief.
There was a muted sob from behind Officer Reynolds. At first, he thought it had come from the body. He had heard of such things, gasses escaping corpses in low groans or moans. But this was a definite cry. The cry of a young child.
“The girl,” Fintall said, as he entered the room. The smell of corruption slowed his pace. As he passed by the body of Amy Dark, Jonah Fintall glanced briefly at her. There was nothing dignified about her death, it was obvious her bowels and bladder had passed excrement and urine on her death as the body’s muscles relaxed. It was not how he would have liked to remember the Queen of Country and Western music.
The cry came again.
Reynolds turned to the bathroom door. “I’m coming, honey. Just hold on.”
Officer Reynolds placed his gun back in the holster and secured the safety strap. He edged toward the door with more confidence than when he entered the motel room and walked straight into the bathroom.
“Poor little m …”
The sound of the gun firing was like an explosion in the room. Fortunately, Reynolds knew little of it before his spinal cord was severed by the bullet snuffing his life like a candle. Reynolds fell to the ground, never to get up, just the brief realization of a hot stinging sensation. Fintall had no desire or curiosity to hang around; on hearing the shot he turned and ran for all his life was worth. His whole body felt saturated with sweat and much to his shame, urine. Fear had relinquished his body’s automatic hold over his bladder and for the first time since he was a boy, Jonah Fintall had wet himself. As he ran, he felt spurts of hot piss drenching his legs and trousers, his bowels threatened betrayal but nothing was going to stop him from running. Nothing, except the second shot which he heard in its entirety. The blast knocked him sideways, punching the wind from his stomach. Fintall’s legs wobbled unsteadily but he kept on running. He could see his small office and living quarters only yards away. Soon he would be safe. He had a gun in the office. Soon he would have the gun in his hand and be on equal terms with his assailant. He never heard the third shot as his head split like a ripe banana filled with minced meat. Jonah Fintall managed to run three more steps before his legs finally stopped receiving signals from his brain, the brain that was now lying in segments in the dust forced through the large exit wound in his forehead.
Fortune’s End Trailer Park, Wink Winkler, Texas
Wednesday July 26, 1978
“Ssh now, baby, hush.”
Caroline Dark walked back and forth across the mobile home. She had seven steps each way before being confronted by a wall or a room divider. The baby continued to cry. The wail from its tiny lungs filled the confines of the small trailer.
“Come on Susan, give your momma, some peace. Hush now.”
Caroline was drained and close to breaking point. Six weeks on the road, living out of a coach, instead of a string of low rent motels and hotels had taken a toll on Caroline Dark’s health. She wished now that she had never listened to her boyfriend, Bobby Oates. The very idea of touring with a young baby in tow was little short of mad. And where was Bobby now? Caroline sighed … she wished she knew. It had been two weeks since he had last been in touch. Two painfully long weeks of endless shows and upping sticks and moving on to the next state or town. “The surest fastest way to make bucks.” She wished she had never listened to him. If it were not for the support of her band and the two roadies, then the tour would have finished when Bobby left. Caroline sat down on the quilted seating at the end of the trailer and looked out of the window. At least she was home now for a night or two. Home, such as it was, was a cheap trailer sited in the cheapest trailer park in Texas. This was her night off, her one free night before another string of shows taking her through Texas to Louisiana. Caroline’s reflection stared back, so haggard and unfamiliar was her face, that for a moment, she thought someone was outside staring in at her. Her eyes were heavy and ringed with dark circles, blackened by interrupted nights of lost sleep as Susan sta
rted to cut her first tooth. Caroline’s skin was dry, flaking in places, dehydrated by the harsh sun and wind that had been battering Texas for the past few days. Her hair was in equally poor condition and thankfully hidden under a Stetson when she performed.
Susan continued to cry.
“For Christ’s sake, shut up,” Caroline whispered, exhausted by her life.
The baby was not planned, nothing much was planned in Caroline’s life. Nothing much, except this two-bit tour that was supposed to bring her enough money to take a year or two out and do nothing except raise little Susan and maybe write a song or two for a new album when she was ready to come back. Bobby had the money and Bobby was gone, whether he would have it when he returned was a moot question and one Caroline was keen to ask. On the small table in front of Caroline was a bottle of beer, the lid was off, and a glass sat with the sticky residue of a drink at the bottom.
There was a knock at the door.
Susan continued to cry.
“Come in, it’s open.” Caroline raised her voice so it could be heard above the baby.
The door swung inwards and for a moment the visitor was obscured. He walked into view silhouetted under the light above his head.
“Detective Gary Morris, ma’am. Lawton PD Comanche County.” A man, aged no more than twenty-five, held up a leather wallet with a shiny badge and an ID card. Caroline was too far away to see the photo. She was more concerned with hiding the plastic bag of marijuana on the table. She scooped it off and placed it under her legs, hidden by the table. Susan continued to cry, but her sobs were quieter now. Her little body shook every now and then.
“Don’t get up, ma’am. I … I …” Morris looked around the confines of the small trailer. “You are, erm, Caroline Dark?”
Caroline laughed. “Well, at least I know you’re not a fan. What is it, detective, has my baby been keeping the neighbors awake?”
“No ma’am, nothing like that.” Morris looked distinctly uncomfortable.
Caroline sensed that he had no desire to be in the same room as her. “Comanche County, where the heck is that? Never heard of no Comanche County before.”
“No ma’am, it’s not in Texas.”
Neither was Morris’s accent. “I am sorry to have to ask you, but did you know a Mr. Robert Oates, ma’am?”
And now he was talking using past tense. Caroline had seen enough movies to realize that when police talked in past tense it was usually with good reason. She could feel a burning in the pit of her stomach, which was threatening to rise. Caroline nodded affirmation. As she held the baby close to her chest, she could feel the tiny heart of her child beating through the thin fabric of her blouse, the pattern synchronizing with her own until there was just one heart beating.
“I am afraid to tell you, ma’am, that we have a body at the morgue that we believe to be that of Bobby Oates. We found your address in his pocket but need a formal identification.”
Caroline did not hear much beyond the word ‘body’. She could see his lips moving but the detective’s words began to sound muffled as though someone had placed their hands over her ears and was pressing down tightly. Her heart now beat out of rhythm with Susan’s. A sudden rush of acid began to rise from her stomach. She held Susan tighter and just as suddenly there was the feeling of cold air as perspiration drenched her body. The fan swirling hot air above her head quickly cooled off the water breaking through her skin.
“We really do need you to come up to Lawton to give a positive ID.” Morris’s words broke through to Caroline’s ears. The blockage of sound clearing as quickly as it came and with it the sense that she was going to faint passed.
Caroline nodded.
“I have a car waiting.” The detective gestured outside.
Morris’s car was air-conditioned, though it didn’t quite hide the heavy metallic musk that seemed to hang in the air. Caroline noticed the police radio tucked under the parcel shelf. Every now and then there was a garbled message that crackled through the speaker. Susan was lying in her travel cot, now wide-awake and absorbed by the novelty of the journey.
“How far did you say it was, detective, only I have a concert tomorrow evening in Lubbock. The Cactus Theater, you know it?”
“Like I said, I ain’t from around these parts. Anyways, you’ll be back in time.” Morris looked in the rear view at his passenger.
His eyes looked black in the dark confines of the vehicle, making the whites stand out even more, giving them an intensity that was piercing. Caroline could not hold his gaze, not even in the mirror. She looked away. Morris engaged drive and pulled away, kicking up dust in the tire tracks.
“Maybe I should have told some of the band members, in case…”
“Like I said, we won’t be long, and I’ll return you back home, no worries, ma’am.”
The car headed northeast into the blackness of the coming night. Caroline watched silently as the miles went by. She read the road signs but didn’t once see a sign for Lawton. It wasn’t in Texas, was all she knew. That indicated at least a five-hour drive and even then, she was fairly familiar with the surrounding towns. The car was now firmly in the Dust Bowl countryside with nothing much for company except a few rocks. Morris was quiet, apart from once offering Caroline a cigarette. Her mind was firmly rooted on Bobby Oates.
“How did he die?”
“That’s what the autopsy will find.”
“You must have some idea though.”
The car began to slow down, and Morris turned left off the asphalt onto a dirt-track road. Caroline bounced heavily on the back seat of the car.
“I’d put the belt on, ma’am. These roads can get a little scary.” The amber tip of Morris’s cigarette bounced with equal enthusiasm between his lips. For the first time during the ride now, Caroline started to feel uneasy about the journey and the policeman driving her.
She asked again. “How did Bobby die?”
The car headlights exposed a collection of wooden buildings that looked abandoned and Gary Morris killed the lights. Now he drove in darkness.
“Oh, it was quite painless … mostly.”
Caroline’s right hand moved to the door handle, while her left hand slowly gripped Susan’s cot. She pulled back on the handle and the door popped open.
“You thinking of going somewhere?” Morris asked coolly. His foot hit the gas pedal and the car accelerated.
“Who are you?”
“I am a friend of your mother’s.”
Caroline’s heart quickened. “I have no mother.”
“I know.”
Caroline was paralyzed on the seat. Fear gripped her limbs like a vice, rooting her to the spot. “Who are you?”
Morris slammed his foot down hard on the brakes. Underneath the car came the sound of hard mud and stones pinging up under the chassis. The car shuddered and slid, sending waves of dirt into the dark air. Caroline struggled with the door. She was half falling out; her tenure only held by a strong grip on the seat belt that she should have been wearing. The car eventually halted, throwing Caroline forward. Her head glanced off the seat in front and she bounced back into her seat. Susan remained safe in her cot. Caroline sat dazed, unable to comprehend what was happening. She heard a door open and the sound of footsteps. The next thing she knew she was being pulled from the back of the car and dragged along the ground.
From somewhere deep within, her voice screamed out across the open prairie.
“Scream all you want, honey, but nobody will hear you.” Morris dropped her to the ground. “Now, you stay here while I get things nice ’n’ cozy.”
Caroline heard the jingle of keys and a door opening and then a stream of light bathed the wooden decking she was lying on. As she turned to get her bearing Morris’s hands roughly grabbed her hair pulling her into the wooden building.
“Now, don’t you worry about little Susan. She’ll be alright, we won’t be long.” Morris powerfully dragged Caroline, almost lifting her from the floor by her hair. He th
rew her forcibly away from where he was standing. Caroline’s head banged off something hard and unforgiving. She passed out.
When she woke, Caroline was lying on a bed. The room was like any motel room but strangely familiar. There was the sound of Susan crying from a room behind a door opposite. Caroline’s eyes darted around the room trying to make sense of what was happening, of what had happened. There was a smell of decay in the air. Stale, trapped air. Gary Morris was sitting in a chair in the corner of the room.
“You are with us now.” He smiled. It wasn’t the mad smile of the clearly insane but the smile of someone who looked genuinely concerned, and that worried Caroline even more.
Caroline tried to sit up in the bed but found it impossible. Her head throbbed with the pain. With a great effort she put her hand to the back of her head and felt a huge bump but to her relief no sign of broken skin or blood. “My head.”
“Don’t worry, that’s just the drugs.”
Caroline noticed the bitter taste in her mouth. A mixture of copper and salt.
“It won’t last long. By the end you’ll even begin to enjoy the sensation.” Morris leaned forward into the dim light of the table lamp set on the nightstand. His raw white face was exposed making his eyes appear darker. He had the essence of a predator and was relishing the situation. “You look so much like your mother, especially now.”
And the reason the room seemed so familiar to Caroline was suddenly confirmed to her. This was the room Caroline’s mother, Amy Dark, was murdered in. This was the same bed that she was lying in when she died and though she did not know it they were the same sheets, a sick memento purchased from a memorabilia auction house. Everything was perfectly reproduced. Caroline’s arm dropped limply by her side.
“Won’t be long now. Let’s just get you into the right position.” Morris stood and walked over to the bedside and joined Caroline. He lifted her arm. Caroline could not stop him. She no longer had control over her limbs. Gary Morris pulled the sheet back to reveal the damp stain spreading through the bedding. “Good, it’s almost time.”
Turtle Island: 20th Anniversary Edition (Georgina O'Neil Book 1) Page 33