THREE DAYS to DIE (8 page)

      The old man was visibly grateful for the company, speaking in an aristocratic, yet lively manner that belied his years.

      "Greetings, friends," he said nobly, his s's making short whistling sounds as they passed through the gap where his front teeth used to be. "To what do I owe the honor of your visit?"

      "Greetings to you, sir," Needles replied, then asked him if he'd mind answering some questions. The old man nodded and invited them inside.

---

      The business office was little more than a shack; however, a couple of years back, in a sad effort that consumed the bulk of the old man's life savings, he had converted it into a miniature convenience store complete with wall-length cooler, credit-card reader, and surveillance camera.

      The card reader actually functioned, but the camera was a cardboard fake, and most of the food in the cooler was stocked there when the unit was originally installed. Beeks grabbed a pre-packaged ham 'n cheddar sandwich from the cooler, but he changed his mind about eating it when he noticed some extra protein running around under the cellophane and a sell-by date from the Great Depression.

      An open bottle of premium whiskey stood on the counter by the register near a baby-moon hubcap full of cigarette butts – one of which was still smoldering. The old man picked up the bottle and turned to his guests.

      "Would you boys care to join me?" he asked.

      "Sure, old man," Needles said. "We'll drink with you." His answer surprised Beeks, since they were "on duty," but he wasn't about to argue.

      The old man poured, and the three men clinked glasses before downing the shots. Beeks smacked his sizable lips and burped, then shoved his glass forward for seconds.

      Needles took out Ashley's photo and showed it to the old man. He studied it at arm's length for a while, and judging by his reaction, his eyesight and hormones were still functioning reasonably well.

       "She was here, all right," he said at last. "I remember, 'cause I used to have a '65 just like hers – 'cept mine had a stick instead'a the Powerglide. I topped her off, and she bought grape juice, crackers, and a pint of gin."

      Beeks doubted the wisdom of the non-alcoholic portion of that purchase.

      The old man continued. "I figured she was some sort of outa-town movie star or somethin' – bein' so uncommonly pretty and drivin' around town in her negligee and all. But she was acting strange – kinda nervous I guess you'd say. And she had this look in her eye – like someone barely clinging to sanity."

      Needles thought about that for a moment, then laid a $50 bill on the counter.

      The old man's silver-thatched eyebrows twitched at the sight of it – it had been a long time since he'd seen anything larger than a $5. He pulled a wadded, white-lace-bordered handkerchief out of his pocket, put it to his lips, and coughed something disgusting into it. The thugs tried not to imagine what it was, but they couldn't help themselves.

      "Which way did she go?" Needles asked, swallowing involuntarily.

      "I'd say west," the old man replied confidently. He pointed in that direction like a roasted chicken stretching its wing. "I could hardly believe her little Chevy was still a runnin', with its front-end smashed in so. But it weren't leakin' and one of her headlights was lit ... so I let her be." He coughed more of the mystery substance into his handkerchief. "One damn-crazy customer – that's what she was."

      "Thanks, old man," Needles said, shoving the $50 forward. He shook the man's hand, taking care not to crack it.
Like squeezing a sun-dried squid
, he thought.

      The old man nodded and tipped his hat. Then Needles and Beeks headed back outside and continued down the highway.

Chapter 20

The Call

      Ashley watched as raindrops began to hit random targets on her windshield. They developed into a downpour and her wipers were of little effect as she strained to see the road through the chaotic blackness. She was headed west out the old highway with no idea where she was going. All she could think to do was to run, so running she was.

      She had the heater in the old Chevy cranked on high, but still she shivered, unable to shake the horrible feeling that she had abandoned her only son to a pack of hungry wolves. But what could she have done? Call out from the top of the fire ladder?
I'm here! Come get me, I'm here!
She was free to help Aaron, now, and that was a good thing – at least that's what she kept telling herself.

      But she had no clue where to begin. Tom's murder was nothing more than a burglary that had gone horribly wrong. She had no idea that the gunman had intended to kill Aaron.

      She glanced at the cell phone lying on the seat next to her and recalled that special moment when Aaron had given it to her. How strong and courageous he had been. How grown up. She questioned her decision to follow his orders not to call the police, and wondered if she would ever see him again.

      Suddenly an idea occurred to her that might have seemed obvious under normal circumstances. She picked up the phone, took a deep breath, and called her son.

---

      Souther was alone in his office when Aaron's cell phone rang. He saw the word MOM displayed on the screen.

      "Hello, Ashley," he said, in a cruelly relaxed voice. "My name is Johnny Souther. I have your son."

      "
Oh my God ..."
she thought, a sharp pang of horror sweeping through her. She swerved hard left to avoid sliding off the dark highway.

      "Listen carefully," Souther said.

      "Where's Aaron? I want to see my son."

      "Aaron is unharmed."

      Ashley closed her eyes and thanked God for small miracles.

      "I want you to listen for a moment," Souther said. "Can you do that?"

      Ashley gripped the steering wheel tightly and tried to collect herself. This man had just gunned down her husband in cold blood and he was no doubt planning a similar fate for her and her son.

      "Your son's in a safe place," Souther said, "and he'll remain safe as long as you do exactly as I say. Do you understand?""

      Ashley began to weep. "Yes," she said.

      "Did you call the police?"

       No."

      "Good," Souther said. "Let's keep it that way. If you call the cops, your son's dead."

      Ashley took in a quick breath. That was the first time she'd heard those dreaded words spoken out loud.

      "Do you have money for a motel?" Souther said.

      Ashley paused, then replied, "Yes."

      "Okay. I want you to get a room and stay there. Do you understand?"

      She wanted to ask,
Why the room? Why not take me now?
but didn't. "I understand," she said.

      "I have some business to attend to," Souther said. "Your son will be safe until I return – unless, of course, someone does something stupid while I'm gone. I'll contact you with further instructions."

      "What do you
want
from us?" Ashley cried. But the call was dead.

---

      Needles's phone rang, and he picked up.

      "I just got a call from Ashley Quinn," Souther said.

      "Oh, really ..." Needles said, surprised, but interested.

      "Any leads?"

      "Someone saw her out on the old highway," Needles said. "We'll have her soon enough."

      "Good," Souther said, "but swing by my office first. I want to have a little fun with her."

      Needles hung up and set his phone aside. He wasn't sure what Souther meant by that (and it was a long drive back to the cannery), but having fun with a beautiful woman always sounded good to him – and orders were orders.

      "Hold on, Beeks," he said. Then he reached for the hand brake and to the big man's dismay, pulled a violent E-brake U-turn in the middle of the highway and headed the van back toward the city, leaving a curling wake of white smoke trailing behind them.

Chapter 21

Sands Motel

      Emerging from the gloom, beyond the reach of her headlights, Ashley could see a large, brightly lit sign in the shape of a palm tree. As she drew nearer she was able to make out the words SANDS MOTEL, and soon the word VACANCY floated into view. She eased off the gas, crossed over the centerline, and pulled into the narrow driveway – gripping the steering wheel tightly as her Chevy rocked and splashed through pothole craters blown out of the asphalt by the parade of eighteen-wheelers from the motel's glory days.

      She had hoped for something a little nicer than a moribund hovel, but this was the first sign of life since the old man's gas station several miles back, and being unfamiliar with the area, she wasn't certain there
were
any other motels – or that she could afford a better one if she found one. Besides, the lights were on and she was too exhausted to drive.

      The motel was a squat, flat-roofed, lagoon-green and tangerine affair with little palm trees cut out of fake window shutters. Ashley guessed that the owners were going for the Florida Keys look, but had failed miserably.

       The office sat to the right of a lattice-covered breezeway furnished with a half-dozen plastic lounge chairs and a ping-pong table that sagged pathetically under its own waterlogged weight. Jutting off to the left, a wing of seven small guest rooms, each with its false-louver door flaking a different color of paint from a pastel palette. Ashley parked the car, shut off the engine, and stepped out into the weather.

      The rain-charged wind cut through her paper-thin robe and nightgown as though she were naked. She clutched her robe to her throat and hopped quickly toward the glowing OFFICE sign, pausing briefly under the covered porch to look back across the parking lot and down the old highway beyond. Then she opened the door and stepped inside.

      The office interior looked like a nineteenth-century séance parlor, and along with the tasseled draperies and woven rugs, Ashley half expected to see a crystal ball, or a flying trumpet, or maybe a rattling tambourine circling the naked light bulb jutting from the dark wooden ceiling. She wrinkled her nose at the strong odor of wet dog and presumed that the source of the smell was curled up behind the tattered royal-blue-velvet curtain hanging behind the counter.

      It was quiet in the parlor. Ashley's head throbbed as if someone had grabbed her heart and shoved it up behind her eyes. She banged the push bell and thought she'd been caught in a cathedral belfry at noon bells.

      She waited, but no one came. So she pressed her fingers against her temples and called out. "Hello? Is anyone there?"

      Nothing.

      She braced herself and tried the push bell again.

      More pain, but still no response.

      A clock on the mantelpiece read 11:45 p.m. Ashley sighed, and then cold, wet, exhausted (and now annoyed), she turned to leave.

      Suddenly, from behind her, a voice croaked, "May I help you?"

      Ashley whirled around with a hand over her heart. An odd little man appeared from behind the blue curtain looking like he'd been awakened from a five-year coma. His print pajamas and tousled comb-over fit the decor, as if he had used them for design ideas when he decorated the place a couple of centuries earlier.

      Ashley paused to recover her breath. "You scared me," she said.

       A light cloud of dust from the curtain followed the man as he stepped up to the counter, and Ashley noticed that his chin barely cleared the Formica top. He squinted in the light and picked small clumps of sleep from the corners of his puffy eyes.

      "May I help you?" he repeated, then yawned deeply and rubbed his stubby nose with his thumb.

      "Uh, yes – hello," Ashley said, with nervous formality. "I-I'd like a room please. Do you have a vacancy?" She could only see the man's head, now, but she could smell the rest of him.
That was no dog behind the curtain
, she thought, stepping back slightly.

      Out of habit the little man checked the board. Each brass cup-hook held its key. He coughed once to clear his throat.

      "I've got an available single," he said, then looked back at her. "If that'll do, that is ..."

      "It will do," Ashley replied, feeling a pinch of relief. She pictured a clean room and fresh sheets and started to relax. "I don't know how long I'll be –"

      "It don't matter," the man said, interrupting her as he pushed the registration book forward. "It's pay as you leave." He pointed to a line on the page. "Sign here."

      Ashley picked up the pen then hesitated. She signed the name
Arlene Finney
then laid the pen on the book and pushed it back.

      The little man read her entry. "Arleeene ..." he said, stretching out the second syllable for no apparent reason before putting out his hand. "My name's Mars – Douglas Mars. Friends call me Doolin."

     
What friends?
Ashley wondered, finding it hard to imagine him having any. She reluctantly shook Doolin's pudgy hand then wiped hers on her robe while trying not to make a face.
Like gripping a warm toad
, she thought, disgusted.

      "You from around here ... Arlene?" Doolin asked, pronouncing her pseudonym correctly, now – if not a bit suspiciously.

      Ashley felt a growing unease. "Actually, I'm from – out of town." She had started to say,
I'm from
another planet
, for that's certainly how she felt.

      "We don't get many visitors these days," Doolin said. "Not since the freeway bypass, anyways."

      Ashley hadn't heard that old cliché in years and never outside of a movie theater. But thinking about it made her head hurt and she grew impatient. "Could I just have my key, please?"

      Doolin held up his hands in self-defense. "Just tryin' to be neighborly," he said. He turned and unhooked a key from the board, then tossed it on the counter. "Room 107. It's on the end past the ice machine. Nice and private."