“Must have had some bad moo goo gai pan last night. I’m fine,” I said.
He directed me toward a large swinging door to my left that I assumed would lead into the kitchen.
“Stop. I go first.”
Harland passed to one side and, facing me, backed into the door. Sure enough, it swung open into a kitchen area that I could barely make out behind him. “Follow me in; stay close, Rob.”
Seeing Harland standing with his back to the opened door, half in and half out of the kitchen, I thought this would be my best, and perhaps only opportunity to make a move. Harland knew this as well.
“Don’t even think about it,” he said.
I stepped in closer, while he moved back, until the swinging door was held open with the toe of his shoe. Harland, like myself, was a trained operative. So it was a surprise to me when he decided to go through the doorway first. This put him in a precarious position. A mistake. When I heard the sound of my pager go off again, I knew my luck had changed for the better. It was only a fraction of a second that Harland’s attention was diverted. Eyes again went to my pants pocket. And in that instant I kicked out. Catching him in the wrist, the Glock flew sideways, somewhere into the kitchen—which, at this point, was still mostly obscured from my view. Harland dove to his left as I rolled forward through the doorway. There was a loud clattering of metal hitting metal—a tower of rusted catering pans fell and became a jumbled mess on the floor. Harland thrashed about, frantically looking for his gun. I dove again, this time directly toward Harland. He lashed out, and the edge of a serving pan connected hard against my chin. My momentum carried me into him and together we rolled further into the kitchen. He’d lost the pan and was repeatedly punching me in the face. I found his left arm, felt the wrappings of his bandage. I slid my hand up his wrist until I found his hand and gripped harder. Harland screamed. I used all my strength until I heard one, if not more, of his already swollen hands’ carpal bones crack.
Harland shrieked. His face, inches from my own, had turned red and tears flowed freely from his tightly squeezed eyes. I maintained the pressure on his hand as I moved onto my knees.
“Get up,” I said.
The clanging continued as Harland tried to get his balance. Keeping him in close, I pulled him up until we were both standing. It was only then that I felt the muzzle of the gun pressed tightly against my left temple. Apparently he had found the Glock.
“Turn around. Very slowly.”
I turned around. I felt something hit the back of my head and everything went black.
* * *
When I came to, I was lying on a concrete floor, cold and gritty against my cheek. I watched as a cockroach tentatively approached me from several feet away. The pain at the back of my head came alive and throbbed. The slightest movement, even breathing, shot hot spikes through my head and into my eyes. I continued to watch the cockroach. It stopped and seemed to be investigating a small pool of liquid: my drool. How long had I been out? I tried to move my arms. They weren’t bound—neither were my legs. I saw a light, a single low-wattage bulb in my peripheral vision. I turned my head and saw that a light bulb hung by a wire from a high ceiling rafter. Hot bile burned at the back of my throat. Slowly, I turned over onto my back. I was in the basement. Pipes of all sizes crisscrossed on the ceiling above and down the walls. Like ancient sentries, two black hot water boilers towered over me, as if keeping guard over this hellish, underground domain. I turned my head and saw that there was some kind of electrical generator. Rust beneath peeling green paint and a fountain of frayed copper wires were obvious signs that it was inoperable.
A creaking sound from above brought my still somewhat blurry vision over to a wooden platform against the slump stone wall on my left. No less than twelve feet off the ground there, next to a long, retractable extension ladder, sat Harland.
“Welcome back to the land of the living, Rob.”
“Where am I?”
“Still at Kingman’s beautiful Beale Hotel. We’re in the basement, if you hadn’t guessed that already.”
I tried to sit up, and failed.
“You may want to take it slow, my friend. That’s quite a conk you’ve got at the back of your head.”
I managed another attempt and this time was able to stay up in a seated position. Harland was watching me, his legs swinging back and forth, hanging down from his high perch above.
“Make yourself comfortable. You’re not going anywhere for a while. The only way into this cellar is through that opening above me. You see, I’ve removed the stairway. No small feat with only one working hand,” he said, holding up his yellowy-green bandaged hand. “Understand, without this ladder, there’s absolutely no way out for you.”
“So why don’t you just shoot me?”
“Come on. What fun would that be? No. I have other plans for you two.”
“Two?”
“You and Pippa.”
“What are you talking about? Pippa has nothing to do with this.”
“Oh, but you’re wrong about that. But all that will become more evident in time. Perhaps you two can figure it out together,” Harland said. Watching, and seeing my confusion, he added, “You didn’t know, did you?”
I stared back at him.
“She’s here. I mean right here in Kingman.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
Harland stood, leaned down and came up with a thin square box. He threw it down onto the concrete floor in front of me. The box lid flew open revealing its pizza contents. He then tossed down a six-pack of plastic water bottles.
“I’d love to stay and chat, catch up and all that, but I’ve got a few errands to run. Enjoy the pizza.”
Chapter 19
Pippa listened to the ringtone emanating from the speakerphone and then the follow up series of beeps. For three hours she’d been there, in the same claustrophobic conference room, along with Whittier, Barns and Giles. Each time they expected Chandler to respond to his pager beep and call back. Each time he hadn’t.
“Look, it’s late,” Whittier finally said. “What do you say we give this a rest for the evening—try again first thing in the morning? You two must be tired and want to freshen up at your hotel.”
Pippa ran her fingers through her hair and let out a long breath. She hadn’t planned on staying overnight. Yes, she’d packed an overnight bag, but that had only been for the remote off- chance she’d need to stay here, which now, evidently, she would. She nodded and pulled her chair away from the table.
Whittier said, “I’ve put out an APB on Chandler. Kingman isn’t that big of a town. I’ve put two additional teams on overtime so we’re actively out there looking for him.”
Pippa nodded. “Thank you, Detective Whittier; we appreciate that.”
“No problem. Why don’t you call me Bruce?”
“Okay, Bruce. So where’s a good place to crash tonight that will fit within the government’s per diem?”
“There’s the Ramblin’ Rose Motel a few miles up the road. Kinda nice, especially if you’re into the whole Route 66 nostalgia thing. Next door to that you’ll find a Quality Inn.”
“Yeah, I think Quality Inn will be fine. Thanks,” she said.
Giles shook both Whittier’s and Barns’ hands. “Let’s talk food. I bet you have outrageous Mexican here, am I right?” Excited, he rubbed both palms together in anticipation of their response.
Barns and Whittier looked at each other, then Barns pointed a finger at Giles. “I bet you’d like El Charro.”
Giles repeated the name slowly, then again with more of an ethnic flavor to “El Chaaaa-rrr-ooo. Yes, I think I need some of that.”
“Good. It’s right across from the Quality Inn. Can’t miss it; right next to the Kingman Club, with the two neon martini glasses sign,” Barns said.
Giles slightly turned his head and gave Barns a sly look. “Martini Club. What a combination. Have ourselves a little Mexican feast and stroll on over to the Martini Club for a nightcap.”
“All right, that’s enough, Giles,” Pippa said, feeling her patience stretched to the breaking point.
* * *
In the police station’s rear parking lot, Pippa resumed her position behind the wheel of their rental car. Once Giles had strapped himself in, she pulled the car around the building and eased onto North Main Street.
They drove in silence for several minutes before Giles turned in his seat. “Say half-hour to clean up, wash the day off ourselves, and then hit the town?”
Pippa gave Giles a weary smile and shook her head. “You know, I think I’m just going to hang out in my room tonight. You go. Enjoy yourself.”
Giles nodded and let the car become quiet as they drove down Main Street. “I know this is tough on you, Pippa. It was no secret that you and Chandler had a thing. I can see you’re hurting, and I’m sorry.”
Pippa was startled by Giles’ unexpected words of compassion. Although annoyed her personal life was once again brought up for discussion, when she looked over at him she saw he was sincere—meant what he’d said.
“Thank you, Giles. I appreciate that. I’ll be fine.”
“Good. Half-hour; be ready to go … we’re going to El Chaaaa-rrr-ooo!”
They pulled into the Quality Inn’s parking lot. Pippa was smiling. “Why not? El Chaaaa-rrr-ooo, it is.”
* * *
Giles knocked on Pippa’s door twenty minutes later. She’d barely had a chance to shower and brush her teeth when she heard him knocking. “Hold on,” she yelled. “You’re ten minutes early, for God’s sake.”
She finished getting dressed. Jeans, T-shirt, and sneakers were all she had packed—it would have to be good enough. She opened the door several inches and walked back toward the bathroom, toweling her hair dry.
Giles let himself in and plunked himself down on her bed. Pippa applied a fresh coat of lipstick and pinched her cheeks, hoping she could put a little color back into her pale Scandinavian complexion. She looked around the corner at Giles. Although wearing the same dress slacks he’d worn earlier, he was now wearing a soft pastel pink shirt. She could smell his sickening cologne.
“You! In here—now,” she said sternly, pointing at Giles.
He looked up surprised and pointed his own finger back at himself. “Me?”
Giles got off the bed and nervously joined Pippa in front of the bathroom mirror.
“You want to have dinner with me?”
He nodded.
“Maybe get a quick drink at the Kingman Club afterword?”
He nodded again.
“Okay, then. You need to get that cologne off your body. Every bit of it. Stay in here until it’s gone and never ever wear that shit around me again. Got it?”
Giles nodded. Looking somewhat hurt, but not putting up any resistance, he started to remove his shirt.
“Better yet, go back to your own room. I’ll come by and get you in ten minutes.”
Ten minutes later, Pippa was at Giles’ door. At a quarter past seven, it was still relatively light outside. Before she could knock, the door opened and Giles came out, wearing a new light green shirt and smelling much better. He passed her by and headed for the stairs. She followed after him, hurrying down the stairs, and together they crossed over Main Street toward the row of 1950s-era shops and restaurants.
What looked like a sleepy little hole-in-the-wall joint from the outside was anything but sleepy on the inside, they discovered. Mariachi music filled the space. At the far side of the restaurant, on a small stage, there was a five-man band playing: two trumpets, two guitars—one was ginormous—and a violin. Giles was feeling it—moving his feet in what, Pippa guessed, was some kind of Salsa step. The truth was, he was pretty good. Pippa couldn’t help herself from laughing out loud. When he grabbed her hand and spun her around, she tried to push him away. He’d have none of that and soon she was doing her best to keep up. She knew how to salsa … and cha-cha and mamba. Others were getting to their feet and soon most everyone was dancing.
By the time they sat down for dinner they were both spent.
“You’ve got some moves there, Giles,” Pippa said, grabbing for a menu. She had found her appetite. Giles flagged down a waitress and ordered two margaritas—yes, of course, with salt.
Pippa had decided early in the evening to let the situation with Chandler wait until morning. Although Giles was a buffoon, he was a well-intentioned one. When their meals arrived they both ate with gusto. Two more drinks arrived and, with a bit more coaxing from Giles, more dancing ensued as well. Yes, she thought to herself, tomorrow it’s back to business.
Chapter 20
Harland indeed had errands to run. Step one was to obtain a boatload of both Co-trimoxazole antibiotics and Demerol
—
his painkillers of choice. Not as difficult to find as one might think. Harland was well aware that virtually every city had an underground means to obtain pharmaceuticals. Pricy, but what else could one do with an infected hand from multiple snakebites? Add to that the recent fractures to his thumb
…
He needed the meds at any price.
Harland sat in his car, having just finished cleaning his infected hand. The black market pharmaceutical punk had thrown in a bottle of Isopropyl rubbing alcohol and several rolls of hospital-grade gauze and medical tape. He
’
d already downed the antibiotics and enough Demerol to keep a horse off its feet for a week. Three more wraps of the gauze around his wrist and he was done. He placed two strips of tape around the gauze to secure it in place. He turned his hand over several times to inspect his work.
Not too bad
.
Harland
’
s second errand was to locate Pippa Rosette. With little effort he had earlier found where she and her fellow agent, someone named Giles, were staying the night. Two hours on the phone talking to a myriad of hotel reception-desk bimbos had paid off. It
’
s amazing what a little friendly chatter can produce. And when they discover he
’
s a high-ranking government official with the FBI or CIA or DHS
…
whatever, they bend over backward to help. Pippa
—
Quality Inn, single occupancy, second floor, room number 256; she
’
d requested a queen-sized bed
…