Matt Hilton - Dead_s men dust

Finally, he stepped back, gave a slight wave.

"Well, I'd best get going," he said. "I've taken up too much of your time as it is."

"Honestly, sir, it was no problem."

"See you," he said. "And once again, I'm sorry if I embarrassed you."

"Yeah, see you," the woman replied. She lifted her hand in re?ex. Caught it in midwave. Then laughed and continued the gesture.

Cain gave her his most self-effacing grin. His wink was full of promise.

He walked back through the lobby. In the old Hollywood musicals, Gene Kelly or Fred Astaire would have made the walk a grand swagger, hands in pockets, whistling merrily before swooping around to catch her looking. Cain wasn't so?amboyant; at the exit he merely twisted at the shoulder. It was enough to con?rm that, yes, she was still watching him. There was more than a little interest in her gaze. He waved again and she waved back, her face breaking into a wide smile. In true Astaire form he made a show of opening the door and pushing outside.

But as he walked away, his smile turned to a frown, then a scowl. Achieving his objective of?ushing out the thief was one thing, but there was no way he could act on it now. The receptionist was a bit dim, but she still had enough of her wits about her to remember the man who had lured the client outside before he was brutally butchered.

Self-recrimination wasn't something he often indulged in, but even he could see that he'd made a mistake. I shouldn't have?irted with her, he thought. I should've simply gone in, given her the story, then got the hell back out again. By?irting with the bitch, I've forced her to take a good look at my face. Stupid, Cain, stupid. If I take the thief now, she could give a good description of me to the police. And that just will not do.

He'd put his identity at risk for the sake of a minute or two of banter with a pretty girl. Not good when you are the United States' current most proli?c and undetected serial murderer.

Making matters worse, it wasn't even as if he needed to lure the thief outside. While the receptionist had checked the ledger, Cain had watched her?ngers pointing out the room number of the owner of the SUV. Why bother ambushing him in the exposed parking lot when he could go on up, knock on his door, and call him by name?

Time for plan B.

Cain spun around, but all trace of Astaire was gone from his light tread. Once more, he headed directly for the entrance door. Quick inhalation for effect, then he bustled into the hotel with feigned urgency. The woman was midway between closing the ledger and reaching for a telephone. Thankfully, she never reached the receiver. Her startled expression was a mixture of delight and regret as Cain jogged to the counter and slapped down the palms of his hands.

"Hi," he said. "It's just me again."

The woman still wore the startled look. She visibly fought to regain her composure, achieving the?xed stare and open mouth of an in?atable sex toy. Not that Cain had any experience of those kinds of things.

"You haven't called the SUV owner yet, have you?" Cain asked in breathless fashion. As the woman shook her head, he went on, "Seems I might have been a little premature coming in about the lights. While I was inside, the owner must've come back out and turned them off."

"They're off now?" the woman echoed.

"Yeah, I guess there must be another exit. I didn't see anyone leave while I was in here."

"There are a number of exits. I suppose he could've used one of them." The ledger was still beside her, and she?ipped it open with professional dexterity. She nodded con?rmation. "Yeah, he's got a room at the back, so he could've used the rear stairwell. I guess from his room he could see his car and noticed that his lights were still on."

"That's probably it," Cain agreed.

"Okay," the woman said. Her face had regained its natural elasticity and a smile was beginning to bloom.

"Okay," Cain replied, giving her his version of a sheepish smile. "I feel a complete idiot now."

The woman crinkled her nose at him. "What for?"

"I must look like the dead battery vigilante or something." Cain laughed. "I just thought I'd come back in and let you know everything's?ne now. Save you the trouble of phoning."

"It's not a problem," she said. "Yeah, but the owner would've been wondering what the heck was going on."

"I'm sure he wouldn't have minded," she said. "In fact, I dare say he'd have told me he'd already been out and turned them off. That would've been that, I guess."

"Yeah, I suppose so."

"Anyway, thanks again for going to so much trouble."

"No problem. Just doing my bit."

"Dead battery vigilante." The woman smiled at him, crooking a?nger in his direction. "Sounds like a superhero." "You got it," Cain said. A?ippant gesture of his head and hands?sted on his hips made him more Boy Wonder than Man of Steel. They both laughed as he walked away the second time. Before he reached the door, she called to him.

"Are you sticking around town for a while?"

Cain looked back at her, feigning disappointment. "No. Just passing through, I'm afraid. On my way to the East Coast. Have to be in Mississippi early next week for a sales convention."

Now it was the woman's turn to look dejected. "That's a shame."

"It is," Cain agreed. "But hey, who knows what's around the corner? I might be back this way in a month or so." She gave him a lopsided smile. "Well, if you're passing and you notice any lights on, give me a call, will you?"

Cain lifted his?ngers as if they were a gun and feigned shooting her. "You got it, lady. If your battery is running down you can count on me."

Quickly he left the lobby to the sound of laughter. "Dimwit could do with a couple of thousand volts up her ass," he assured himself. Directly across the entry drive ran a walkway that led into the parking lot. From there he followed the side of the building, past bougainvillea shrubs arranged to add a little privacy to the rooms on the ground?oor. At the rear of the hotel the grounds were laid out like an exclusive garden, verdant with golf-course-perfect lawns and bursting with color in the proliferation of?owering plants. The grounds contained a private swimming pool.

There were a couple of female guests sitting out in bathing suits, drinking from glasses smeared with lipstick. Cain sneaked a peek at them. Ordinarily he might have lingered and enjoyed the show. Sadly, neither of them was pretty enough to hold his interest. He paid them no attention, searching instead for the stairway the receptionist had mentioned. He saw it within seconds, a tiled staircase leading up to balconies on the two higher?oors. Chancing a stiff neck, he craned upward, seeking door numbers. Then, happy with what he saw, he rapidly moved away, skirting the building and returning to the parking lot.

Time for plan C.

He took the scaling knife from his jacket pocket as he approached the SUV. Kneeling down by the rear tire, he thrust the blade into the rubber seal next to the wheel hub. Pulling the knife out again, he noted that the narrow slash was barely detectable, but the almost inaudible hiss of escaping air was encouraging.

"That'll hold you for a while," he whispered. A flat tire would royally piss off someone who couldn't even be bothered to rub a little dust on the license plate.

He dropped the knife back in his pocket and straightened out his clothes as he returned to his own vehicle. The vintage VW Beetle had gone the way of the dinosaurs. Not that he required the intervention of a planet-destroying meteor; he'd merely dumped it in a dry canal bed, then set it ablaze. It was quick work to replace it with an undistinguished light blue Oldsmobile.

On the rear bumper was a sticker some might think pathetic: i brake for wildlife. Though he tempted discovery by leaving such a distinct identi?er on the car, he'd allowed it to stay in place. For one, it added to the disguise he'd adopted of a meek-mannered salesperson, plus it was a statement that actually resonated with him. Though he had no qualms whatsoever about butchering those of his own species, he had no desire to harm any other living creature. Faced with running down a rabbit or swerving into a line of children on a Sunday school outing, there would be only one choice in his mind. Sunday school would be missing a number of snot-nosed brats next week.