Kathy Reichs - Bones Are Forever

“God knows I ain’t no saint. But I’ve been around a long time. Seen it again and again.” Phoenix wagged her head slowly. “I’ve had a belly full of little girls should be worrying about algebra and zits; instead, they’re off the bus and straight into the life.”

I knew exactly what she meant. Every day teens from Spartanburg, St-Jovite, or Sacramento head to Charlotte, Montreal, or L.A. to be models or rock stars or to escape abuse or boredom or poverty back home. Every day pimps cruise the bus and train stations, watching for backpacks and hopeful faces. Like the predators they are, these animals swoop in, offering a photo shoot, a party, a meal at Taco Bell.

Most of these kids end up junkies and whores, their Hollywood dreams becoming hellish realities of dealers and daily fixes and paddy wagons and pimps. The unluckiest arrive toes-up at the morgue.

Every time I see one of these children, I go numb with anger. But I have come to understand. Though I despise the human destruction, the carnage, I am powerless to stop it. Nevertheless, I care. I feel grief and always will.

I refocused on Phoenix.

“—three years go by. I figure Annaliese either got herself killed by one of these women-hating sickos, or else she got out.” Phoenix picked tobacco from her tongue and flicked it. “Two days ago she shows up looking like a train wreck, asking for a place to crash. Leaving her on the street was like throwing raw meat to wolves. If taking her in’s a crime, arrest me.”

“Is she still at the Paradise Resort?”

Phoenix shrugged.

“Annaliese needs more help than you can provide.” Ryan brought sincere to a whole new level.

“My shift don’t end until two. I gotta have those tips.”

Ryan looked at Ollie, who dipped his chin.

“We only need permission to enter your room,” Ryan said.

“You won’t take nothing?”

“Of course not.”

“Mr. Kalasnik don’t like no kind of fuss.”

“He’ll never know we were there.”

A car horn sounded. Another honked back. Down the alley, the plastic bag broke free and spiraled upward with a soft snap.

Phoenix made her decision. Unhooking a chain from her belt loop, she detached one key and held it out to Ryan.

“Number fourteen. All the way down on the end. Leave it in the room. I got another.”

“Thank you.” Ryan’s smile was damn near priestly.

“Don’t hurt her.”

The Marlboro hit the wet pavement in a shower of sparks. Phoenix crushed it with the heel of one boot.

* * *

For several years Edmonton enjoyed the dubious distinction of having the highest homicide rate of any major Canadian city. In 2010 she slid to number three. Winding through the dim post-midnight streets, I wondered if E-town’s ratings slump had caused her citizenry to question the burg’s official nickname: City of Champions.

En route to the Paradise Resort, we discussed Susan Forex. Or tried to. Mostly the men sniped at each other.

“She’s holding back,” Ryan said.

“Gee. Why would that be?”

“Probably writing her memoirs. Thinks a spoiler might lower the value of the property.”

“She’s covering her ass,” Ollie said.

“But is it that simple?” I asked.

“What do you mean?”

Unsure, I thought for a moment. Didn’t help. “Susan Forex and Phoenix Miller both tried to protect Annaliese Ruben,” I said.

“Must admire her mothering skills.” Ryan’s tone was acid.

“Even hookers hate baby killers.” Ollie’s way of agreeing.

“So why help her?” I asked.

No one had an answer to that.

“Can you really get a search warrant for Forex’s house?” I asked Ollie.

He shook his head. “Slim chance. I’d have to convince a judge that I think Ruben is there, that she’s the subject of a felony investigation in Quebec, that she’s on the run, and that we don’t have time to get an arrest warrant from Quebec.”

Phoenix Miller’s home sweet home was a two-story L-shaped affair with outdoor walkways accessing maybe thirty rooms. An enormous sign proclaimed Paradise Resort Motel in mile-high letters. A flashing arrow pointed would-be guests to a covered portico. Below it, the office door was flanked by planters luxuriant with dead vegetation.

Clearly, the place offered neither of the delights promised by its name. Total Dump would have been a more appropriate moniker. Perhaps Last Resort .

A few cars and pickups occupied a swath of concrete fronting the building. Off to the left, beyond them, were several campers and an eighteen-wheeler.

Most motels, you’d hesitate before staging a stealth strike at one in the morning. The Paradise Resort was not one of them. Office dark. No security. Not a soul in sight.

We fell silent as Ollie cruised the L. Room fourteen was at the end of the arm tangential to 111th, its entrance obscured by an iron and concrete staircase shooting to the upper level. No vehicle waited out front or at the adjacent unit.

Ollie cut the headlights, pulled into the slot facing room thirteen, and killed the engine. We got out and quietly closed our doors.

Music floated from a Mexican restaurant across a small service road fifty yards beyond the motel. Traffic whooshed in a steady stream over on Highway 16.

We approached Phoenix Miller’s room in single file. Ollie positioned himself to one side of the door. Ryan took the other, gesturing me behind him with one hand.

I noted no yellow glow beneath the door or rimming the drapes, no flickering blue radiance from a TV.

Ollie knuckle-rapped to announce our presence.

No answer.

He knocked again.

Not a sound.

He pounded with the heel of one hand.

Nothing but mariachis and the whoosh of cars and trucks.

Ryan stepped forward and inserted the key.

THE ROOM WAS DARK AND STILL.

We all paused, listening for sounds of a human presence. My nose took in disinfectant and the Meadows & Rain Febreze I use at home.

Beside me, I felt Ryan palm the wall. A switch clicked, then sallow yellow light flowed from an overhead globe double-tasking as a crypt for dead insects.

Unit fourteen was approximately the size of my bathtub. The walls were peach, the thin brown carpet stained and cigarette-burned.

My eyes circled clockwise. To our left, a battered bureau held a clunker TV with a foil-wrapped antenna. Beyond the bureau, a metal rack housed a paltry collection of garments, some on hangers, some stacked in piles on shelving below.

The bed sat opposite the door, neatly made with a red-and-white floral spread that looked like a dorm-room special from Target. A square red throw was carefully positioned on each pillow.

Beside the bed, in the room’s far left corner, a red plastic lamp occupied a white plastic nightstand. Above the bed’s wall-bolted headboard hung a cheaply framed print of a bowl of red tulips.

Ahead and to the right was a closed door I assumed led to a bath. Beside the door, in the room’s far right corner, a built-in cabinet held a microwave oven, a hot plate, and a mini-fridge.

A white plastic kitchenette set occupied the space below the room’s only window, to the right of the entrance. Miniature cacti filled a small ceramic pot at the table’s center. A red cushion covered the seat of each chair.

I felt hollow inside. Though the furnishings were cheap and shabby, it was clear that a caring hand had tried its best. The bedspread and matching pillows. The lamp. The plastic furniture. The plants. The cushions. Though barely making enough to survive, Phoenix Miller had worked to brighten the depressing little space.