James Smith - The Flock

In less time than he would have thought, he had pulled off the interstate, on to the big boulevard that paralleled it, and was in the parking lot of the Penta. It was a very nice hotel. Four stars, and very plush. He had stayed there with Mary once, doing the tourist stuff when they weren't having sex, which was only about half the time. She had almost been the one for him. Maybe Kate would be the real thing. He thought of the rest of his life with a woman half a foot taller than he was. Well, they'd turn a lot of heads.

But not as many heads as yours and Mary's dark-skinned children would, eh, you jerk? Ron shook the subversive thought from his mind and tried to pretend it had never been there.

The evening was dark, no moon, but you'd never have known it. Orlando was, as usual, lit up like the all night party it was. There were people everywhere, going to restaurants, to clubs, to parks, to money traps, to everything one could imagine. He doubted any of them were headed home.

Soon, he was in the lobby of the hotel. If the facade was false marble, and not the real thing, then it was an excellent imitation. The place was all pink and white; carpet and what appeared to be polished stone. Very nice. Again, if you liked that kind of thing. Ron was one of those people who did like it, from time to time. He'd never be able to take a steady diet of it, though. It was good for a laugh, now and again.

He got in a short line at the front desk, waiting his turn. Finally, a lean, dark-headed and cleanly pressed young man indicated with a friendly wave that he could step forward.

"May I help you?" the young man asked.

"Yes," Ron said. "I'm meeting someone here. Someone who's supposed to have checked in today. Could you ring his room for me? I don't know the room number."

"Certainly," the man said, picking up a receiver, his manicured fingers poised above a bright yellow keyboard. "What is the guest's name?"

"Dodd. Tim Dodd."

The young man's fingers played quickly and expertly over the keyboard, flitting with practiced speed. There was a short pause. Then, "I'm sorry. We don't have anyone by that name registered. Not even a Dodd," he added.

"Huh," Ron grunted. "Hmm. How about his company? Maybe he's registered under the company name. He works for the National Inquirer."

The young man's eyebrows perked up at that. "That's interesting," he said, his fingers already jotting away. And then, "No. Nothing registered to them, either. I'm sorry, but your friend doesn't seem to have checked in yet."

"Were you guys full today? He was going to come in early this afternoon. Maybe you had no vacancies."

"No, sir. We've had vacancies all week. This isn't our peak season, you know." The young man was still smiling, but Ron could tell he wanted to be done with this so that he could deal with paying customers.

"Okay, then. Maybe he just hasn't had time to check in. I'll have a drink at the bar and then come back and see if he comes in."

"You do that," he said, already motioning for the next person in line to come forward.

Ron faded away, and found himself on a stool in one of the Penta's less expensive bars. The place had four clubs and three restaurants, all part of a mini-mall attached to the hotel. So, for an hour Ron nursed a couple of beers from chilly to warm as he slowly sipped them, waiting for Dodd.

At last, he went back to the front desk and once more asked the nice young man the same questions. And once more he received a negative reply.

Damn and hell. He could have spent the evening with Kate. He was really looking forward to getting to know her. To kissing her, in fact. He really wanted to kiss her. "Screw you, Dodd," he muttered.

And within another hour he was back at home, ready to crash. He was asleep about as soon as his head hit the pillow. He'd even forgotten about the disk, and it sat in the pocket of the shirt, which lay in a heap of sea green cotton fabric on the floor. He dreamed. In his dream, instead of Kate, there was Dodd, muttering to him. "I've got something to tell you," the scabby-faced dream image was saying.

That was when the phone awakened him.

Fumbling out of bed, he looked at the red light digits on his clock. "Seven ay emm," he groaned. "This is my day off. Who the hell is calling me on my day off? This better be good."

"Hello," he could not hide the drowsiness in his voice.

"Ron."

"Kate?" He was perking up already.

"Yeah. Listen. You were supposed to meet Tim Dodd, right?"

"Right."

"Well, he's dead."

"What? What?"

"Some Osceola County Mounty stopped a car late last night. Pulled them over for something. Speeding, I think. Something wonky was going on with the license of the guy driving the car, and he tried to make a break for it. Wrong cop. Big chase. He ended up pushing the guy off the road. Somewhere off of twenty-seven, I think. Into a drainage ditch full of water and lily pads. Don't ask me how, but the driver got away. Something about a third car and another suspect. But when they pulled the car out of the ditch and looked in the trunk…"

"Dodd?"

"Dodd." Silence. "He'd been shot. Once. In the head."

"Jesus."

"I think you might want to talk to the cops," Kate said.

"Grief." He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, stared at nothing. "Thanks for calling, Kate. But…I'd better go. You're right. I'd better call the cops."

And now. Now, he thought seriously about the small disk that Dodd had given him. He gazed down at the heap of cotton fabric that was the shirt, and was almost afraid to reach down and retrieve it.

But, finally, he did.

Kate Kwitney was sitting in Vance Holcomb's huge office. The doors were closed tight, the big windows were shuttered, and she knew without having to be told that he'd activated and rechecked all of his safeguards against electronic surveillance. The room was cool, silent, relatively comfortable, and disturbingly silent. She waited for Holcomb to speak.

"What do you make of this?" he asked.

"I couldn't really say," she told him. "I only know what I've told you so far. Who do you think killed him?"

"I could conjecture, but I'd only be guessing."

"The studio. It was the studio, wasn't it?" She shrugged. "I can't think that they would be so upset over his little articles, which his editors were probably about to stop running, anyway. I really don't think anyone would kill him over that."

Holcomb snorted. "Do you have any idea how much money is involved in Salutations USA? Do you?" There was a razor-like anger in his voice.

"No, sir. A lot, I know."

"We're talking profits in the billions of dollars. Long term, in the many billions of dollars. These are just the profits, Kate. Not gross."

"I understand," she said.

"No. I don't think that you do understand." He moved from his post behind his desk. "Listen. I grew up with these people. My father was one of them. He earned hundreds of millions of dollars doing whatever it took to earn it." Vance looked over at Kate, his face all but in shadow. "Do you hear me? Whatever it took.

"These kinds of men put no value on a human life. A man like Dodd is a minor detail. An extra decimal point misplaced on a page, and to be done away with. Erased. Whited out.

"Do you understand?" He pointed at her.

"Yes. I understand. But what kind of danger would he have posed?"

"I think he saw something," Holcomb said.

"What do you think he saw?"

"I think he's seen what we've seen."

"How? I don't believe it. There's just no way. No way, at all."

Holcomb turned his back on her. "What about the dogs missing from Salutations? I think there's something to that. I think what your Mr. Riggs told you confirms it." He sighed. "Damn. I wish we'd been able to have a look at that dog's foot."