CHAPTER 29

“HOW’S OUR TIME?” Phin asked.

I checked my watch. The pigstick was set to go off at 5:33 a.m. It was 5:24.

“Not good. How close are we?”

“I’m not sure. A few miles.”

My eyes locked on the speedometer. We were already doing sixty mph in a thirty mph zone, and I stopped counting all the red lights we’d blown through.

“Go faster.”

Phin nodded. The veins on the backs of his hands bulged out from holding the wheel so hard, and I noticed my legs were braced and my fingers had death grips on the armrests. As if that would help if we crashed.

The cell phone rang, and I pried off a hand long enough to answer it. Another picture of Lance, apparently asleep. The burns on his chest had scabbed over, becoming almost black. A message accompanied the photo.

“Got another text. Stairway to heaven.” I wrinkled my nose. “What does that mean?”

“That Lance is about to die.”

The truck crept closer to seventy, which seemed a lot faster on the narrow street we were on. Each pothole we hit felt like a thunderclap.

“No…I mean-yes-that’s part of it. But I think it’s a clue. She’s telling us something about his location.”

“What does Led Zeppelin have to do with rho and zeta?”

I chewed the inside of my cheek. An earlier call to the Old Stone Inn hadn’t given us much to work with. The front desk had confirmed the motel was full, all twenty-six rooms occupied. This was one of those single-floor, park next to your room motels. I asked about a woman with scars checking in, or anything out of the ordinary, but English wasn’t the clerk’s first language, or at least he pretended it wasn’t, and I couldn’t get anything out of him.

I had also dialed 911, explaining the situation and telling them a kidnapping and murder of one of their own was being committed there. I was sure they’d send a car, but had no idea of their response time or their procedure. Even if they got there before us, it’s unlikely they’d get any more help from the clerk than I did. And no cop I ever met would kick in twenty-six doors without a warrant. Exigent circumstances and probable cause were weighty terms, but not as weighty as lawsuit and disciplinary action.

“What were the band members’ names?” I asked Phin.

He took a corner so fast the tires cried out. “Robert Plant…John Paul Jones…Jimmy Page…”

“Which one died?”

“The drummer. John Bonham. Died in his sleep. Choked on vomit.”

My heart rate jumped up even higher. “Did he die in a motel room?”

“Page’s house. Drank too much.”

Phin tapped the brakes and just missed clipping a Volvo, who laid on the horn to show his disapproval. I tried to swallow, but had no spit left.

“How about something in the lyrics?” I forced myself to focus, not the easiest thing to do when I predicted a car accident in the immediate future. “Any mention of rooms or motels?”

“It’s about a woman who thinks she can get what ever she wants.”

Phin swerved and climbed the curb, causing my body to rise up against the seat belt. I readied myself for the passenger-side air bag, but it didn’t deploy.

“We’re on the sidewalk.” I tried to sound calm, but my voice came out squeaky.

“Motel,” Phin said, eyes glancing right. I followed his gaze, saw the large Old Stone Inn sign a block ahead. A light illuminated its $49.95 a Night rates, but the i in Night was missing.

We came upon the parking lot fast-too fast-and Phin hit the brakes and still slammed into the rear of a parked SUV. Still no airbag. I wondered if the truck even had them.

I checked my watch. Five thirty.

The motel was laid out in an L shape, ground-level rooms stretching off in two perpendicular directions. Thirteen on each arm. With three minutes left, not enough time to check them all.

Phin and I ran for the lobby, at the center of the L. There was a Milwaukee police cruiser parked in front, and through the window I saw two uniforms talking to the desk clerk, who was shrugging and shaking his head.

“Four!” Phin yelled at me.

I looked at him, wondering if he had a golf club.

“‘Stairway to Heaven’ is on the album Led Zeppelin IV!”

Was it that easy? Was Lance in room four? I didn’t question it, I acted, yanking the gun out of my bouncing purse, running down the arm past rooms ten…nine…eight…seven…

Phin outpaced me, getting there first, slamming his shoulder into the door. It popped inward, Phin stumbling into the room, me coming in right after him, dropping to a knee, gun out, eyes and ears open.

The room was bright, every light on, someone in bed.

Lance.

He was naked, eyes wide, terrified. He screamed at me through his duct tape gag.

The pigstick was set up on the nightstand next to him, the shotgun shell held in place by a metal arm. I followed the wire to a timing device, realized I had no expertise at all to disarm it, and chose instead to simply point the contraption away from Lance.

Two seconds after I grabbed it, the charge went off.

The explosion was deafening, and the shock-coupled with the powerful vibration of the shot-made me drop the pigstick. I cast fearful eyes at the bed, expecting to see blood and guts and carnage.

The mattress had an ugly, ragged hole in it. Lance did not.

Phin said something that sounded like “Jesus,” but my ears were ringing, so I couldn’t be sure. I spun around, gun sweeping the room, then did a quick search, tugging open the closet and bathroom doors. No Alex.

“Please…”

Phin had removed the duct tape from Lance’s mouth, and stared down at him, frowning. I glanced between Lance’s legs and had to look away.

“Freeze! Police! Drop your weapons!”

The two Milwaukee cops were at the door, their guns drawn, their faces bright with urgency. I moved slow, deliberate, not wanting to spook them.

“We’re putting down our guns,” I said. “I’m the cop who called earlier. Lieutenant Jack Daniels, Chicago PD. My ID is in my purse. This man on the bed is David Strang. One of yours.”

I crouched, setting my gun on the floor, putting my hands up. Phin did the same. The cops moved in, putting Phin against the wall, frisking him, taking his gun. As I watched, I noticed something taped to the motel wall. A cell phone.

Alex was watching.

“This man needs an ambulance,” I said.

Neither cop said anything, but the taller one took his handcuffs out of his case.

“There’s no need to restrain him. He’s with me.”

“There’s a federal warrant out for his arrest,” the tall one said. “There’s one on you as well, Miss Daniels.”

A sound from Phin, either a soft snort or a loud sigh. “We just saved your man’s life.”

“I’m sure you’ll get all of this straightened out. Orders are orders. You understand.”

Phin tried to spin around, got a rabbit punch in the kidney by the shorter one. He dropped to his knees. So did I, picking up my Beretta. Just as Shorty pulled back for a second punch I fired into the ceiling.

“Hit him again,” I said through my teeth. “See what I do to you.”

Shorty opened up his fist and backed away from Phin.

“Guns. Drop them.”

The cops looked at each other, then complied.

“Now get on the goddamn radio and call a goddamn ambulance for your man.”

The taller one used his lapel mike. Phin stuck their guns in his waistband, retrieved his own, and jammed it into the neck of the cop who socked him.

I almost warned Phin not to do anything stupid, then remembered that I trusted him.

“I got a question,” Phin said. “Is it just you, or do all short guys hit like sissies?”

Shorty didn’t answer, which was probably wise.

I kept them covered and made my way to the cell phone, feeling for it on the wall and tugging it off. Held it to my ear.

“Alex?”

No answer. I powered it off and stuck it in my purse, then motioned for Phin to come over to the door.

“Your guns will be in one of the Dumpsters outside,” I told the cops, “which is more professional courtesy than you’ve shown me.”

“You sure you want to do this, lady?” Shorty said.

I frowned. Then in one fluid motion I tugged their guns out of Phin’s belt, stuck my fingers in the trigger guards, and whipped them around butt-first while smoothly pressing both ejector buttons. The full clips sailed out the bottom ports and bounced off each cop’s chest as they flinched.

“It’s not miss, and it’s not lady,” I said. “It’s Lieutenant.”

“She outranks you guys because you suck,” Phin offered.

I really couldn’t blame them too much for trying to arrest us-the order probably came from the top-but I did pass up two relatively clean Dumpsters before finding one stinky enough to ditch their pieces, buried under a pile of rotten food.

Then I crashed. Big-time. The adrenaline that had been keeping me going had vacated the premises, leaving me an empty shell. Sleep had always been a problem for me, but I probably could have gotten forty winks right there, curled up on the garbage pile.

Phin didn’t look much better. Long damn night.

“You okay?” I asked when we got back to the Bronco.

He nodded, but I noticed he was favoring his left arm.

“Elbow?”

“Yeah. One of them twisted it. I’ll be okay.”

Phin tried to start the truck using his left hand. I should have offered to drive, but I was lapsing into zombie mode and didn’t trust myself. My phone rang. Mine, not the one Alex gave me.

“Hiya, sis.” Long yawn from Harry, who must have been really concerned about us. “You save the day?”

“Lance lived. The police tried to arrest us. We disarmed them. Now Phin can’t turn the ignition.”

“Good, that’s good.” I don’t think he heard a word I said. “I’m in Deer Park. I’m going to catch some Zs, then look for the last cell phone in the daisy chain. I’ve got a tracking device that pinpoints RF frequencies. But even better, these cells are Bluetooth enabled, and Alex never disabled it. I’ve got a computer program that can scan for Bluetooth devices. When it finds one, I can have it download SIM card info. So I don’t even have to find the physical phone. I just have to get close enough to it.”

Turnabout was fair play, because I didn’t pro cess a single thing Harry said either. I yawned, then reached over and helped Phin start the truck. His hand covered mine, held it. He continued to hold it as we pulled out of the parking lot. I was too tired to protest, and his grip was warm on my cold fingers. Warm, and strangely comfortable.

“Jackie? You still there?”

“I’ll call you later, Harry. We’re going to crash someplace too. Find a motel on the edge of town.”

“One bed or two? Not that it’s my business.”

“You’re right. It’s not your business.”

“I agree. So one bed or two?”

“Good night, Harry.”

I hung up, cutting off his reply.

We drove for twenty minutes, silent, exhausted, and I felt every second of every minute of every hour I’d been awake-over thirty hours total. Phin found a chain hotel, dropped me off to check in while he parked the Bronco someplace inconspicuous. When he pulled away, my hand felt empty.

The employee at the front desk looked pert and freshly scrubbed, greeting me with a smile so wide it bared gums.

“Good morning.” Her voice was full of annoying morning cheer.

“Two rooms,” I muttered.

“Sorry.” Smile. “We’re all booked up.” She leaned closer, conspiratorially. “Wisconsin Mom of the Year Awards.” Smile. “It’s our best turnout yet.”

I yawned again, so big it hurt my jaw. “That’s fine. We’ll sleep in your lobby, on the sofa. My friend likes sleeping naked. I talk in my sleep, and since I work for a phone sex hotline I tend to use the word cock a lot. If you hear me yelling about how much I love big cock, or how I love to watch you play with your big cock, just give me a nudge.”

Her smile drooped below the gum line.

“Let me double-check and see if there were any recent cancellations.”

She stuck her nose into her computer, tapped a few keys. I dug around in my purse for my wad of Latham’s cash.

“A single is recently available. King-sized bed.” Smile. “Will that be okay?”

“That will be fine,” I slurred, my eyes shutting briefly.

“Our rate is one hundred and thirty dollars a night.”

“Cash okay?”

“Cash is fine, but I need a credit card for incidentals.”

I always wondered why they called room ser vice and pay-per-view porno incidentals. Weren’t those the main reasons people stayed in hotels?

“Wallet was stolen,” I told her. “No credit cards.”

“That’s terrible.”

Perhaps, but she kept smiling.

“Cash deposit okay?”

She nodded; money, receipts, and key cards changed hands, and Phin came in. We managed to find our room, the key worked on the third try, and I stumbled to the bed and kicked off my shoes. Phin stood and stared.

“I can call down to the lobby, have them bring in a cot for me.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I said, yawning. “Just try to control yourself.”

He smiled, sheepish.

“What if I try really hard and fail?”

“I’ll be sleeping. Try not to wake me up.”

I tugged off my sweatpants, too tired to feel awkward or embarrassed. Then I noticed I was still wearing those lacy red pan ties, and I felt both awkward and embarrassed and not nearly as tired anymore. In fact, I was all of a sudden pretty awake.

Phin watched me, waiting to see what I did next. I looked down at my sweatshirt. Take it off, or keep it on? I had a sports bra on under it. Not sexy at all, flattening my boobs. But why should I care how I looked? We were just going to sleep. And seeing me in my underwear was the same thing as seeing me in a swimsuit.

Of course, it took me three hours to put on a swimsuit.

The hell with it. We were adults. I was tired and wanted to be comfortable.

The sweatshirt came off.

I met Phin’s eyes and didn’t feel comfortable at all. I felt awkward and vulnerable and ner vous and also a little excited, like a teenager right before her first time. Phin’s eyes had that purple hue again, and his expression was intense.

I levered myself between the sheets.

Go to sleep, I told myself.

But instead of closing my eyes, I watched Phin take his shirt off. His body was different than Latham’s. Latham’s body was decent. Lithe, strong, distinguished. But comfortable and familiar. Sort of like a Lincoln Town Car.

Phin had a Ferarri. Fast and sharp and sculpted. And dangerous.

Quit it. You just buried Latham. He hasn’t even been dead for three weeks.

When Phin began taking off his sweatpants I used all of my self-control to kill the bedside lamp so I couldn’t see anything else.

The bed bounced lightly when he climbed in, and then he turned off his light and we were both lying there in the dark and I was getting warm. Really warm.

Hot, actually.

If he tries something, I’ll roll with it, I decided.

I closed my eyes, waiting for him to touch me. Wanting him to touch me. I knew it was wrong, for a hundred different reasons. But I wanted sex. I wanted to feel something other than pain. With all the death and horror of the past weeks, I needed something life-affirming.

I no longer had love. Love died with my fianc'e.

But I didn’t expect love from Phin.

However, an orgasm or two would be a good temporary placeholder.

The bed springs creaked, and I sensed him shifting. Moving closer to me.

Maybe my breath quickened a little bit. Maybe I shifted a little bit toward him as well.

I waited. Pictured his hands on my body. My breasts. Between my thighs. I remembered his kiss, how good it was, and imagined how his mouth would feel on other parts of me.

But nothing happened. He didn’t make a move.

I’d been rebuffing him all night, and he hadn’t been put off. Now, when I finally want him to try something, he decides to listen to me?

Didn’t guys understand women at all?

I sighed, loudly, hoping he’d take the hint.

Nothing.

I sighed again, this time putting a bit of slut into the tone. More of a moan than a sigh.

Nada. Zip. Zilch.

I realized I couldn’t back down at this point. I was turned on. All I had to do was reach for him, and I would make sure he was turned on as well.

My hand crept under the covers, toward Phin. I aimed low, for a part I was sure would get his attention. The king-sized bed seemed huge, the distance between us enormous, and I really did feel like a virginal school-girl, so much so that I almost giggled, and giggling is not something I’m known for.

And then I heard it. A sound. A horrible, libido-killing sound.

Phin was snoring.

My hand stopped, flattening out like someone had stomped on it. I shrunk back, turned and faced the other way, the luxurious heat of arousal transforming into the sting of rejection. Giggly and turned on to red-faced humiliation in less than three seconds. It had to be some kind of record.

I closed my eyes and swore that if he ever tried to touch me again I’d break off his fingers. Then I tried to sleep.

Exhausted as I was, sleep didn’t come.