Max Collins - Quarry's list

“You only have one friend in this hotel, Carrie, and I’m it. That you can depend on, anyway… anybody else here, who you consider a friend, is a friend through your late husband, am I right? And his friends, well, they may not be.”

She considered that for a while, then finally said, “I’ll go with you to your room. We can talk there. You had me there alone before, and didn’t do anything to me I didn’t want done, so… that much I’m willing to do. Then we’ll see where we go from there…”

I didn’t like it, really, but on the other hand I needed to clear my things out of the room, anyway; I didn’t want to be hanging around this hotel anymore, and while nothing I’d brought with me ought to be too terribly incriminating, you never can tell. So I said okay, and we got on an elevator and had it to ourselves, thankfully. I looked at her, and she seemed shaken, but certainly not unhinged. I wished I was just taking her up there to climb in the sack with her again; she really looked fine, in her clinging sweater and slacks outfit, the same light blue as her eyes. I put that out of my mind, and asked her if there was any place I could hide her out for a few days.

“Like what sort of place?” she said.

“Do you have some girl friend who’s out of town, and has a temporarily vacant apartment? Something like that?”

“Well. I think I have something better, if you’re really serious about this.”

“I’m nothing if not serious, Carrie.”

“It’s a cottage. On the Mississippi.”

“Secluded?”

“Very much so. There’s a bridge out on the only road that leads to the place. We can get there by another road, but’ll have to walk the last half-mile or so.”

“That sounds all right. That sounds pretty good.”

“The bridge’s only been out a few weeks, and the cottage hasn’t even been shut down for the winter yet. There’s still lights, and water. No heat, though. The place isn’t heated, except for an old wood-burning stove.”

The elevator doors slid open and we were on my floor. We didn’t speak as we walked toward the room, and as I was digging in my jacket pocket for the key, I heard some noises corning from behind the door.

I raised a finger to my lips, and took her by the arm and led her back to the waiting area by the elevators.

“Somebody’s in there,” she whispered.

“That’s right,” I said.

“What are you going to do?”

“Go in and see who it is.”

“Is that… wise?”

“Wise? I don’t suppose so.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Get back on the elevator, go down one floor, and wait. I’ll join you as soon as I can.”

“What if you don’t?”

“What if I don’t what?”

“Join me. What if you never show up.”

I punched the down button.

“Then you’re on your own,” I said.

I put her on the elevator, and she gave me a look like a person descending into purgatory, as the doors eased shut.

I went back to the room, and could still hear rustling around in there. No particular effort was being made to be quiet, which was good: it meant that if this was an ambush of some kind, it was in the early stages; whoever it was was presently ransacking the room, and hadn’t got around yet to lying in wait.

I went over the layout of the room in my mind. Directly beyond the door was a brief hall or entryway, and beyond that was the bed, jutting out from the left wall, a nightstand on either side, a cushioned wooden chair in the left corner. The right corner was taken up by the windows, with no furniture to block the Concort’s guaranteed river view; and across from the foot of the bed was a portable color TV on a stand, and next to that a dresser with a mirror. That dresser would not be immediately in sight as I came in, because the bathroom would be to my right and the closet to my left, putting me in a short, cramped hallway that obscured my vision of anything to the right of the TV. Judging from the sounds coming from behind that door, my intruder was presently going through the dresser. But there could be more than one person in there, too, and of course somebody could be in the bathroom or going through the closet, or any number of combinations of possibilities, so I could end up with quite a surprise party on my hands, going in there.

The only marginally sane way to play it was to turn the surprise party around on my guests; in other words, go in fast and let everybody get a look at my gun before they did anything rash.

I was so fast I surprised myself. I turned the key in the lock, shoved open the door, and dove through the entryway, onto the bed, rolled off on the floor, and banged against the wall and wooden chair, but didn’t lose control.

But the guy going through the dresser did.

He was medium-size. He looked like a college kid, but he wasn’t the backup man, and he wasn’t a college kid, either. Like me, like the backup man, like everybody else wandering around town pretending to be young, he wasn’t. He was wearing a University of Iowa sweatshirt and brown jeans and used hairspray to keep his longish hair in place, and he just generally had the look of an insurance man playing dress-up. Or, rather dress-down. He was lean, but it wasn’t the leanness of, say, a junkie; it was the leanness of somebody in shape. And while he had very few lines in his face, it wasn’t from lack of age; it was from lack of emotion. He had those same cold Vietnam eyes as the backup man, and looking at him, I said to myself, This fucker’s a pro, and to this day I don’t know why he went for it.

Maybe he didn’t think I’d shoot Maybe he didn’t know who I was exactly, or had been told I’d probably kill him if I got him in a situation like this, so was grasping for a straw. Whatever the case, he grabbed for the gun tucked in his waistband, a big goddamn thing, a. 45 with a silencer half the size of the gun itself, and he almost had it out when my nine-millimeter quietly lifted the top of his head off and splashed the stuff inside all over the dresser mirror behind him.

He slid down the front of the dresser, his back closing drawers he’d opened. Most of what had been in his head was sliding down the mirror, which wasn’t broken, the slug having been deflected off into the ceiling. His mouth was open and his eyes were rolled up, as if he’d tried, in his last fraction of a moment, to see what was happening up there, to watch his skull fragment and see the blossom of red and the color of his brains.

I got up, crawled across the bed, and shut the door before anybody came by sightseeing. There had been little noise. My nine-millimeter had made its near-silent thudding sound, and the guy had bumped up against the dresser, dying, but other than that, nothing. He hadn’t had time to cry out. And somehow I didn’t think he would have even if he’d had the time.

I gave him a quick frisk. He had a billfold, with maybe ninety dollars in it, a driver’s license issued to James Hoffman, phony probably. Pockets empty, except for some sugarless gum.

So I packed my things. It was a little messy, moving him to one side to empty the dresser, but that was no big problem. I took his. 45 with me, but it was too bulky to stick in my waistband, not with the nine-millimeter already stuck down there, warm against my flesh from recent use. I wrapped the. 45 in a towel and stuffed it under my arm. I only had one bag and a shaving kit to tote, so the towel-wrapped. 45 was no extra burden, really, and I was beginning to think having an extra gun could come in handy, now that the shooting was starting.

I hung the “Do Not Disturb” sign on the door, and went after Carrie.

I found her one floor below, waiting. Like she was supposed to be. That was encouraging. It had, after all, been her suggestion that we go to the room. I found it not entirely impossible that she might have been setting me up, but the look of relief on her face at seeing me made me tend to feel otherwise. Despite the elements of coincidence in my meeting her, and her turning out to be the target of Ash’s afflictions, she seemed to be for real.