Jonathan Kellerman - The Conspiracy Club

Jeremy noticed that he didn’t sign in. A regular? Dirgrove got his key, made his way to a room on the east side of the motor court.

Natty in a black coat and gray slacks. Whistling.

Room 16.

Jeremy returned to his car and continued to watch The Hideaway from across the street. He’d dropped from sight just in time. Five minutes later, Gwynn Hauser’s Lexus swung into a space three over from the Buick.

She got out, didn’t bother to look around, walked jauntily toward the motor court, swinging her purse.

She’d capped her blond bob with a long black wig, wore that full, white fur coat Jeremy had seen during her last tryst with Dirgrove. The motel entrance was better lit than the industrial stretch, and, even at this distance, Jeremy could see that the coat was a cheap fake, spiky as magnetized iron filings.

Cheap wig, too, not even close to human hair.

Slumming.

He waited until she’d been gone for ten minutes, made his way over to the office, and purchased a room at the half-day rate of forty-four dollars. The clerk was a reserved young man with oily black hair who barely looked up as he took Jeremy’s cash. Nor did he react when Jeremy stated his room preference.

Number 15. Directly across from 16.

He made his way there, sticking close to the building and staying out of the light that washed across the court. Closing the door, he breathed in old sweat and shampoo and raspberry-scented disinfectant. He kept the lights off in the room but switched them on in the pathetic little bathroom- just a fiberglass prefab, really, with a toilet screwed shakily into the floor and a molded shower barely large enough for a child.

The indirect illumination amplified his surroundings: double bed with a mushy mattress and two pillows, a coin-fed vibrator gizmo on the nightstand, a twelve-inch TV bolted to the wall and topped by a Pay-Per-View box. The room’s single window was covered by an oilcloth shade. By rolling it up an inch and pulling a chair to the front, Jeremy had a fine view of Number 16.

Lights on, there. For two full hours. Then, off they went.

No one exited the room. Time passed. Nine-thirty, ten, eleven. At midnight Jeremy was nearly out of his mind with boredom and wondering if Dirgrove and Hauser were in for the long haul.

He had his TV switched on. Most of the channels were fuzzy, and he had no desire to call the front office and order a dirty movie. Settling for a televangelist broadcasting from a massive blond cathedral in Nebraska, he sat listening to tales of sin and redemption and knew he was wasting his time. Dirgrove would do no mischief tonight; his girlfriend was keeping him busy.

Unless their relationship had changed and… no, no way, too careless. Not with Gwynn’s car and his parked right out on the boulevard.

Ted was a man of varied tastes.

They’d fallen asleep, he was sure of it. It was 3:15 A.M. and Jeremy’d had his fill of faith healing and exhortations to qualify as Lambs of God by sending in cookie-jar stashes, spare change, social security checks, whatever led one to a state of grace.

“You will know,” promised the graveyard-shift preacher, a skinny, handsome type who looked like a frat boy. “You will feel it.”

At 3:37, Gwynn Hauser, still bewigged and looking shaky, left the room, drawing her fake fur around her.

Five minutes later, Dirgrove exited, stared at the moon, yawned, trudged slowly to his car.

Jeremy followed him. Back home to Patty and the brood.

What would he tell her? An emergency? Saving lives? Or had he gotten past the point where he had to tell her anything?

Would she hear him, smell him as he got between the sheets- would the scent of another woman waft her way in the temperature-controlled atmosphere of their sure-to-be-stylish master suite?

Poor woman.

Jeremy made it to his own house just before four. His block was dead and when he entered his empty bedroom, it felt like the cell of a stranger.

Doug’s spleen was out, he looked as if he’d been hit by a train, a catheter drained his urine, his voice was thick, slurred, halting.

He said, “The funny thing is, Doc, I actually feel… better. Without that… fucking… spleen in me.”

He had little to say after that. Jeremy had slept three hours and wasn’t feeling creative. He sat with the young man for a while, offered smiles, encouraging looks, a couple of uncontroversial jokes.

Doug said, “Gotta get… out of… here in… time for ice fishing.”

“You do that a lot?”

“Every year. With… my dad.”

Mrs. Vilardi came into the room and said, “Oh, my baby!”

“… fine, Mom.”

“Yes, yes, I know you are.” Suppressing tears, she smiled at Jeremy. She had on a shapeless brown coat over a polyester sweater and heavy-duty sweatpants. On her feet were shiny brown leather-look boots. The sweater was green and red; reindeer pranced along her ample bustline. Her hair was short, permed, mouse brown with gray peeking through. Her eyes sagged.

Just another middle-aged woman, worn down by the years. When she was young she’d taken a lover and his seed had sprouted Doug. Jeremy had never really looked at her before.

He said, “I’ll leave you guys, now.”

“Bye, Doc.”

“Have a nice day, Dr. Carrier.”

Detective Bob Doresh stepped out of nowhere and waylaid him as he headed for the stairwell.

“No elevator for you, Doc?”

“Keeping fit.”

“Busy last night, Doc?”

“What do you mean?”

Doresh’s heavy face was grim. His jaw muscles swelled. “We need to talk, Doc. At my place.”

“I’ve got patients.”

“They can wait.”

“No, they can’t,” said Jeremy. “If you want to talk, we’ll do it at my place.”

Doresh moved closer. Jeremy’s back was to the wall, and for a moment he thought the detective would pin him. The cleft in Doresh’s meaty chin quivered. Lord, you could hide something in there.

“This is a big deal to you, Doc? Where we talk?”

“It’s not a pissing contest, Detective. I’m totally willing to cooperate with you- though I can’t imagine what the big issue is. Let’s just do it here, so I don’t lose time.”

“The big issue,” said Doresh. He inched even closer. Jeremy smelled his breakfast bacon. “I’ve got a real big issue.” He placed a hand on his hip.

The blood left Jeremy’s face in a rush. “Another one? That’s impossible.”

“Impossible, Doc?” Doresh’s eyes were on high-beam, now.

Impossible, because the monster played with his girlfriend all night.

How could I be so wrong ?

“What I meant to say- my first thought was, not again, so soon. So much death. It’s impossible to comprehend.”

“Ah.” Doresh’s smile was sickening. “And you don’t like that.”

“Of course not.”

“Of course not.”

“What the hell are you getting at, Detective?”

Movement up the hall caught Jeremy’s eyes. Mrs. Vilardi left Doug’s room, looked around, spotted Jeremy, and waved. She pantomimed drinking. Letting Jeremy know she was getting herself coffee. As if she needed his permission.

Jeremy waved back.

Doresh said, “A fan of yours?”

“What do you want with me? Let’s get it over with.”

“Fine,” said Doresh. “How about we compromise- not your place or my place- God’s place.”

The hospital chapel- the Meditation Room - was situated off the main lobby, just beyond the development office. Officially nondenominational, not much more than an afterthought, the room was three rows of blond ash pews over thin red carpeting, plastic windows designed to look like stained glass, a low, sloping sparkle-plaster ceiling. The pews faced an aluminum crucifix bolted to the wall. A Bible sat on a lectern at the back, next to a rack full of inspirational pamphlets donated by evangelical societies.