Max Collins - Scratch Fever

She nodded.

When she was pulling into the stall in front of their room, Nolan said, “Now let’s check Infante’s room again.”

“Why?”

“Don’t want to leave a mess.”

They got out of the car. Nolan went down and unlocked Infante’s room. She followed him haltingly inside. There was a reddish-brown spot about the size of a saucer, but not as perfectly round, on the floor by the bed.

“Get a towel,” Nolan said, “and get it wet and soapy.”

“You want me to clean that up?”

He just looked at her.

She frowned. “Woman’s work is never done,” she said, and went into the bathroom.

Nolan looked under the bed. The twin to the 9 mm was there. He reached under and got it.

By this time, the girl was on her hands and knees scrubbing. She stopped for a moment, looked at the reddish-stained towel in her hands, and said, “I think I’m going to be sick.”

“That’s good enough,” Nolan said, nodding toward the spot on the floor. “You don’t want to rub it bald.”

“I’ll get another towel with just water and kind of rinse the area.”

“Good idea.”

Nolan went to the dresser and found a notepad and pen. He wrote the following on the top sheet: “Got hungry and bored. Going to Burlington for some food and a movie. Be back in a few hours.” He didn’t sign it, but left it out on top of the dresser. The girl looked at it.

“You think that’ll hold ’em off for a while?” she asked.

“It might.”

He went to the phone. He dialed the desk.

“I’m in room thirteen,” he said. “I’m just getting to bed now, and I don’t want to be disturbed. So don’t bother sending a maid around at all today. I’ll be sleeping.”

“Sure,” a disinterested female voice on the other end said.

“You write this down or something. I don’t want to be disturbed, got it?”

“I got it,” the voice, now irritated, said.

“There’ll be a tip in it for you.”

“Oh! Well, sure. I’m writing it down now.”

“And hold my calls. I’ll pick up any messages at the desk later. Just say I’m not in.”

“Glad to. My name’s Frances, by the way.”

“Fine, Frances.”

“So you’ll know who to tip.”

“I’ll remember, Frances.”

He hung up.

“Is that going to work?” the girl asked.

“It might. Take another towel and wipe off anything we touched. I never knew anybody who actually got nailed by fingerprints, except on TV. But I don’t want to be the first.”

He gathered Infante’s clothes and the damp towels used by the girl to clean the blood up, and on the way back to their motel room, dumped it all in a trash barrel, shoving it under some other garbage.

“The sun’s up,” she pointed out.

“So it is,” he said. “Let’s get some sleep.”

It was late morning when he woke and found her sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Are you okay?” he asked her.

“I don’t know. I don’t feel so good.”

“How so?”

“My stomach hurts. I feel kind of weak.”

“You’re hungry.”

She made a face. “Please. I dreamed I cleaned up blood with a mop and bucket all night.”

“All morning. How long since you’ve eaten?”

“I don’t know. I had lunch yesterday. I never eat a meal before a performance, so...”

“So you haven’t eaten for a long time. You’re hungry. Here.” He dug in his pocket for some money and gave her two twenties.

“What’s this for?”

“I want you to drive over to Burlington and find a MacDonald’s or something. Someplace where you can get a breakfast to go. Eat yours there, if you like, but bring me something.”

“How can you eat at a time like this?”

“The same way I can sleep, or screw.”

She gave him a long, sarcastic smile, then said, “Forty bucks for breakfast is gonna buy you a truckload of Egg McMuffins, you know.”

“I also want you to stop at one of those big discount stores and pick me up a shirt. Something similar to this, but without the blood and powder burns.”

“Anything else?”

“Some clothesline.”

“Clothesline?”

“Just enough to tie somebody up with.”

She grinned. “Got ya.”

“And get some toiletries. Toothbrushes, toothpaste, a shaver, shaving cream. Like that.”

“Okay.”

“Go.”

She went — slowly, glancing back at him, afraid to go out on her own, he guessed. But she went.

He lay back on the bed and slept till she got back.

When she did, they both ate breakfast; she had waited to eat hers with him. It was MacDonald’s, some pancakes, sausage, eggs. Cardboard food, but since neither of them had eaten for many hours, they wolfed it down.

Nolan took a shower, used the toothpaste. Shaved.

The shirt’s a little big,” he said, getting into it, “but it’ll do.”

“I got extra-large,” she said.

“I take a large.”

“Are you complaining?”

“No. I’m grateful.”

“Well. You better be.”

“Where’s my change?”

She shook her head, and got the change out of her jeans, then handed it to him.

“It’s almost two,” she said. “Shouldn’t we be checking on our friend Darlene?”

“Take a shower first.”

“Don’t be shy, Nolan. If I stink, say so.”

“You’ll feel better. Clean up, and we’ll go.”

When they did, they found the cowboy was still there; the red hot-rod pickup hadn’t moved an inch.

“Shit,” Nolan said, slamming the heel of his hand into the steering wheel.

“What now?”

“This is getting messy. I don’t want to involve anybody else. I want the girl by herself.”

“They’re probably still asleep. It was after four in the morning when they got here, and they probably didn’t get to sleep till five or six.”

Nolan nodded. “Good point. We better just wait.”

There were a few people out walking around on what was turning into a dreary, overcast Sunday afternoon. Some kids playing, none of them wearing warm enough clothing, considering the chilly weather — looking a bit ragged, in fact. A woman in a parka walking a shaggy mutt. An occasional blue-collar hippie on a motorcycle. Just enough action to make it awkward to park somewhere nearby and watch and wait.

“Back to the motel,” he said.

“Jesus, I’ll go stir crazy.”

“It’s okay. We can keep an eye out the window and see if Julie or somebody shows up knocking at Infante’s door. That’d get us to Jon, too, you know.”

She sighed. “I’m getting worried.”

“Don’t be. Wherever Jon’s being held, it’s likely we’ll want to wait till after dark to get him anyway.”

“After dark? Jesus!”

“It’s dark by late afternoon this time of year. Don’t worry. If he’s dead, he’s...”

“Dead. Yeah, I know. You’re real comforting, Nolan.”

Nolan watched a football game on TV, with the sound down; the girl sat by the window near the door, peeking through the partly drawn curtains, watching for anyone who might pull into the motel lot. It was a quiet afternoon. The only action was a few people checking out late: a couple in their twenties, dressed in an expensively casual way, walking arm in arm toward a Corvette, in an easy, worn-out fashion that bespoke a fun-filled night before; some college kids — guys — heavily hung-over, shambling out to a station wagon like the survivors of a train wreck. Otherwise nothing — no Julie. Nothing.

At five they went back to Darlene’s. It was misting out; it was dark already. The red pickup was gone; but her rusting green Maverick was there. And so, presumably, was Darlene.

As soon as they got out of the car, they could hear it: a loud buzzing sound coming from within the trailer. Nolan and the girl exchanged glances, the girl shrugging, indicating that she had no idea what the sound was, either.