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Tires squealed as the Gulfstream jet slapped wet tarmac and skipped down the runway at Springfield-Branson. It was a dull day in Missouri. A sky as leaden as a pan full of buckshot, already darkening in the east. Thirty-six hours of shelling sleet had reduced the landscape into a muddy battlefield.
I checked my watch: almost two in the afternoon. I moved the hands on by two hours, to make up for the time zone difference. Sundown in forty-five minutes.
Stone had phoned ahead and an agent from the Kansas City Division had been sent to meet and greet.
I still wasn’t happy being here. No choice.
I waited impatiently on the damp concourse, resisting the urge to shiver as a black Buick Enclave came to a stop and a young blonde woman stepped out. She was slim, gray-suited, and looked no older than twenty-one.
“Special Agent Kelli Woods,” she announced, offering her hand. Her grip was firm but fair.
“You guys get younger all the time. Makes me feel prehistoric.”
My comment triggered a smile. It was pleasant enough and full to bursting with brilliant white teeth. “I’ll take that as a compliment – I think. If you must know, I turned thirty this year.”
“You did? Oh my. What’s your secret?”
“Plenty of bottled water and sunblock, even in winter.” She continued to smile brightly as we climbed into the SUV. “Gum?” she asked as I buckled up.
I took a stick, conscious of my plane breath. “Thanks.”
“Pleasure.”
Woods drove us out of the airport, eastbound on West Division Street. Steered us down the road with confidence, seventies soft rock whispering from the stereo. Something about a new kid in town. There was a pair of designer sunglasses in the center console, right behind a bottled water with one of those pull tops that anyone with carpel tunnel have no chance of opening. A yellow post-it on the dash saying
Pick up Tucker – Don’t Forget!!!
“Smells like Christmas in here.”
Woods motioned to a Little Tree air freshener hanging from the interior mirror. “Cinnamon apple; my absolute favorite. Hope you aren’t allergic. It helps mask the smell of dog.”
I glanced around the interior. “They let you pick up your dog in a motor pool van?”
“Not officially. Stop looking; he isn’t here! When it looks like I’ll be working longer than expected, I pick him up and leave him with my sister. I’m really sorry about the hairs; I Scotch-taped as many as I could. He’s one boisterous Border Collie.”
“Don’t tell me – you need all the exercise he can get.”
“Exactly!” She tittered. “You’re smart; I like that.”
“It’s a wonder the dinosaurs went extinct.”
The Enclave rumbled across the overpass spanning I-44. Below us, double lanes of semi-trailer trucks crossed the State. Sagging power lines holding up the overcast.
“How was your flight?” Woods asked conversationally.
“Bumpy.”
I’d spent most of it chewing my cheek and worrying about Rae. Feeding nerves through a shredder. I’d called Stone a dozen times, for updates, and each time he’d assured me he’d call me the second the manhunt caught a break. We were a further five hours into the search for Snakeskin and so far we were still treading water. Nothing on the traffic surveillance footage, and no word on the streets. It was as if he’d slithered under a rock and taken Rae with him.
Oddly enough, I’d drifted in and out of a fervent sleep during the flight. Middle of the day sleep – the kind that leaves you with a hangover without the happy memories. There had been a time when I’d gotten by on power-napping and caffeine alone. Not any longer. Internment had reset my body clock. The sleep had been fitful and filled with nightmarish images of Rae standing on the beach at Akhiok, against a thermonuclear sunset, her fiery red hair aloft and her freckled skin aflame.
“Please don’t take this the wrong way,” Woods said softly, “but you look like you could do with a freshen up. There’s wipes in the glove compartment.”
I reached in and retrieved a pack of make-up cleansers. “It’s been a long couple of days. Must have flown over of eight-thousand miles between here, Alaska and California.”
“Helping out Santa.”
“If only.” I pulled down the visor. A set of keys landed in my lap.
“Spares,” Woods said. “Heads up: I’m ditzy, okay? I’d forget my own head if it wasn’t screwed on.”
I blinked at my puffy eyes in the mirror. I looked like something out of a Roald Dahl tale. Halfheartedly, I rubbed a wipe in a circle over my gray-grizzled chin and forehead. Then replaced the keys behind the visor. “Nothing a strong coffee can’t fix.”
“Let’s do something about that. I’ll stop at the next gas station. Or there’s a waffle house on the way, if you can handle the cholesterol.”
“Clogged arteries might be the only way to keep me warm right now. Either sounds great.” My belly had been rumbling for hours. I realized with a start that I hadn’t eaten anything substantial since I’d breakfasted with Rae in Alaska, yesterday.
Woods cranked up the heater. “Better?”
“Yes, thanks. Thin Californian clothes. So, Special Agent Woods, what do we know about the Imperial Motor Lodge?”
“The illustrious Imperial. One time, it used to be the main place to stay in these parts. Congressmen have boarded there. Now it’s a nondescript motel with a low-key aspect, known for the occasional prostitution arrest. It’s also a hangout for biker gangs when they’re passing through town. Nothing extraordinary for this neck of the woods, not these days. I spoke with the manager by phone. He says the room in question was rented out the day before Christmas Eve.”
“Do we know by whom?”
“He says it was a black guy. He paid cash for the week. That’s all he remembers.”
We crossed a busy intersection. Woods pulled into a red-liveried Kum&Go gas station on the corner and tucked the Enclave in front of the convenience store.
“Back in a jiffy,” she said and left me with Boston’s
More Than A Feeling
.
I watched the comings and goings. People going about their business. Refueling their vehicles after the mad pre-Christmas rush. No one knowing or even caring that I was sitting here, with the pressing weight of the world on my shoulders.
All I could think about was Rae.
She was alive!
My cell rang.
“What does a guy need to do to get a little attention?” came Tim’s voice on the other end of the connection. “I’m still waiting for your return call.”
“Extenuating circumstances,” I apologized.
“I’m used to it. Listen, I’m thinking about cooking Chinese tonight. Peking duck and egg fried rice. My way of making up for imposing on your hospitality. Give me a rough idea when I can expect you home.”
“Tim, honestly, you don’t need to include me in your plans. Besides, I’m in Missouri. We got a break in the case and I’m chasing it down. No clue when I’ll be back.”
“Great. Then I guess I’ll have to take a look at those tapes by myself.” He sounded genuinely disappointed.
“Tim, I’m sorry. If you find anything, send me photos.”
I hung up as Special Agent Kelli Woods came out of the store, carrying a coffee and a paper bag. I leaned over the driver’s seat and opened the door.
“Double-shot and donuts,” she said as she handed over her purchases. “Otherwise known as the coronary diet.”
“I won’t tell if you don’t.” I opened the bag and instantly got a buzz from the sticky sweetness. “You abstaining?”
“After yesterday’s binge, you bet.”
We double-backed through the intersection and headed south. Twilight rushing in from the east. Specks of icy rain on the windshield ahead of it. Headlights coming on as the murk descended. Like most highways, US Route 160 was nothing special to look at. Cloned fast-food outlets and auto-repair shops. I made light conversation around mouthfuls of donut: partly to learn how and why Kelli Woods had decided to join the Bureau, but mostly to keep my dogged thoughts from worrying about Rae.
Woods was happy to talk and easy to talk to. She seemed a good, hard-working kid with the right kind of attitude. Focused more on doing her job to the best of her abilities rather than which options offered the easiest route to promotion. These days, it came as a breath of fresh air. She was single (not by choice; she simply hadn’t met Mr. Right yet), lived in a quiet neighborhood near Swope Park (where she jogged with her dog every morning before breakfast), and came from a long line of lawyers (stretching right back to the early days of the Pendergast era). Otherwise, she seemed grounded.
“’Course, my dad wanted me to follow in his footsteps, but I wanted to get my hands dirty.” She laughed breezily. “And so here I am.”
I saw the intersection with Sunshine Street approaching, clogged with late afternoon traffic. It was strange to be back here again in such a short space of time. The Fed Med was a mile or so east of here. Hard not to think about Trenton Fillmore and his hot blood dripping through my fingers.
I drained half the coffee and put the cup in a holder. Brushed donut crumbs out of my wiry Van Dyke.
Before the signals, Woods turned the Enclave into an offshoot leading into an area of small businesses huddled around the crossroads. I saw a dilapidated neon sign for the Imperial Motor Lodge, lit against the darkening sky.
Vacancies
glowing pink. The motel was hidden behind a gas station, and was a single-floored building with grayed net curtains at the windows and one or two suspicious-looking vehicles parked outside. One of those rundown roadside motels you see on the outskirts of every town, and continue to drive by.
We pulled into a parking bay next to a white police patrol car with Springfield Missouri PD decals. Woods reached over to the backseat and handed me a bulletproof vest with big FBI letters on it.
“You never know,” she said. “Better safe than sorry.”
We climbed out. It was cold. Specks of icy rain falling from a sky blackened with the stuff. Woods flashed her badge to the patrol officer seated in his vehicle.
He dropped the driver’s window and handed her a keycard. “Room eleven, straight ahead. No one’s been in or out or near while I’ve been here.”
Not surprising, I thought, there being a squad car parked up out front with its lights on.
We donned our vests, then made our way to the specified door. Looked just like all the others in the row: in desperate need of paint. I glanced at the window: heavy drapes drawn behind a dusty net curtain.
By the book, we got out our handguns.