The south exit opened up to the far back edge of the complex, which is where they’d found Pete Naginis’ body floating face-down in the runoff. I walked to the edge of the embankment, and peered down the culvert into the rippling black water cutting through ice crusts.
The violence of Pete’s death finally hit me. Until then, his murder had been a minor plot detail in someone else’s story. Standing there, so close to where they’d found him, I could only imagine what those final moments must’ve been like for him, having someone beat you so savagely that you can’t defend yourself, the helplessness, the hopelessness of knowing that no one’s coming to save you. What it must truly feel like to be alone.
I lit a cigarette, thinking of the ghosts I was running from, and made for the long row of tractor-trailers along the retaining wall. Truckers passed by, ball caps pulled low, shielding their eyes, rubbing the five-day scruff, scrubbing away life on the road. Didn’t even peek my way.
It would help if I knew what I was trying to find. Through the mounting snow, I didn’t see any junkies or truckers exchanging money for drugs, or blowing one another in the shadows. I found no one sneaking into the backs of rigs, and I guessed, when I really thought about it, I hadn’t much expected to. Prostitutes aren’t trolling parking lots in the middle of a goddamn Nor’easter.
I walked the entire length of those slumbering semis, which easily ran the length of a couple football fields, pushing so far south that by the time I’d reached the end, most of the blazing light behind me had faded from view, the complex all but a soft, haloed ring, a distant moon. I was just turning around to go meet Charlie, hoping maybe he’d had better luck, when he called on my cell.
“What’s up?” I asked. “I’m headed back to the Peachtree to meet you.”
“Don’t,” he said. “Come to the Maple Motor Inn next door. Room 14. Hurry.”
“Why? What’d you find?”
“Hurry,” he said, dropping his voice to a whisper. “You’ve got to see this.”
“Well, give me a minute. I’m way at the other end, past the trucks.” I began hoofing it, winds assaulting, making it difficult to move or breathe. My eyes teared up, nearly stopping me in my tracks. “I’m glad you found something, because… Charlie?”
I checked my cell. The call had dropped.
I did my best to cover ground. Getting back to the main building took forever. I retraced my footsteps through the store and lobby, emerging in front of the Peachtree. The restaurant jutted out, concealing the motor lodge, which was still a short trek up the hill and access road.
I’d just started across the parking lot when a pair of huge snow plows arrived, dropping their straight-blade loaders to the pavement and scraping the tarmac, cutting me off, blasting my eardrums, and blocking my view as they circled around me a few times.
What had Charlie found? I stumbled across the courtyard, clomping snowy boots, past the darkened check-in office and the first thirteen rooms, all the way to number 14, which curled around the corner into the woods, where a railroad tie fence was missing half its ties.
I knocked. No one answered. I knocked harder. Nothing.
The curtains were open. I cupped my hands and peered through the glass, squinting into darkness.
There was no one there.
CHAPTER TWELVE
It hadn’t taken me more than seven, ten minutes to get to the Maple Motor Inn. Maybe twelve, tops. Certainly not long enough that Charlie would’ve grown tired of waiting and up and split. But he wasn’t there. I called his name, knocked louder, which was pointless since I could see inside. Entire room was the size of my kitchen. There’d be nowhere to hide except under the bed. Maybe I’d misheard him or gotten the room number wrong. I scanned the courtyard and the rest of the units, all dark, and then out into the snow, the wild blustery gale yielding little. No lights on in the yard, no lights on in any rooms. He’d definitely said “Room 14.” Where the hell could he be? I pulled my cell and tried him again. Straight to voice mail.
The Maple Motor Inn was its own separate business and technically not part of the TC, even though traffic clearly spilled over from one to the other. Because of the snow and its location, the motor lodge, which was arranged in the classic U-shaped, auto-court style from the 1950s, hadn’t provided the best view as I walked up, and I’d been unable to see the far side of the building where the soda and ice machines and actual rooms were. But Charlie couldn’t have waltzed past me, which meant he’d have to have left via car, and not from the main lot, either. The entire way back, I’d seen just one set of headlights pulling in for gas.
There was another, smaller parking area obscured by the lodge that was specifically for the Maple, up an embankment and big enough only for a few cars.
I trekked up the little hill. There were several footprints, shapeless from slippage on the incline, and therefore impossible to deduce how recent. The parking spots were all empty anyway. One set of tracks looked fresher than the others, but how fresh, exactly, I couldn’t tell. Besides, who would take off into this squall unless they had to?
Back at the room, I planted my ass on the doorstep, staring into a curtain of white. I extracted my new Marlboros, packing them against my wrist, a strictly amateur move. Didn’t do a damn thing. Force of habit. I peeled the cellophane wrapper, struck a match. What a night.
“Got an extra one of those?”
She was young, early twenties, maybe. But haggard as hell. Skin puckered and parched as a Dust Bowl mother. She might’ve been pretty at one time, but it was obvious that time was long gone. And it was just as clear where she’d lost it.
The girl leaned inside the frame next door, hooded sweatshirt pulled over a tattered, twisted skirt, sedated eyelids and noodle legs fighting to stay up. I thought she might pass out just from standing there.
I hoisted myself and offered her the flipped-open pack. She reached out apprehensively, carefully considering her options, as though some future happiness hinged on making the correct choice.
I cupped a match and lit it for her.
She struck a seductive pose. Or, rather, she approximated what she thought one looked like from watching movies and TV, arching her back, arm crooked and draped above her head, knee up, sultry pout. The more I studied her, the younger I thought she might’ve been.
“Are you looking for something?” she asked, voice dropping to a throaty purr. Between her pale, skinny legs and dead, droopy eyes, there was nothing sexy going on.
“Actually, yes. I am. My friend.”
“Oh,” she said, and, realizing there was no chance for a sale, planted both bare feet on the cold concrete.
“Did you see anyone leave this room?” I asked.
She shrugged, then slinked back inside, leaving the door open, which I took as an invitation.
The girl plopped on the bed, Indian style, and grabbed the remote, flicking on the bulky set with the disinterest of a precocious seven-year-old child already bored by Saturday morning cartoons. A gray glow cast over her pallid features. I stood in the entranceway, unsure if I should fully commit, or just ask what I needed to know from where I stood. I didn’t think I wanted to step into this girl’s world.
“My friend called me from the room next door,” I said. “About ten minutes ago. But he’s not there now.”
She glanced in my general direction. “Maybe he left,” she said with a shrug. “You can come in. But close the door. It’s cold.”
Didn’t have any other leads. I stepped inside and softly shut the door.
Poor television reception flickered like a strobe. If how Pete Naginis died had startled me, then how this girl lived was outright revolting. The room stank like foul, old sponge, and despite my work boots and two pairs of socks, the carpet squinched between my toes with a moist fungus. She made no effort to conceal her addiction. A pair of charred spoons and BIC lighters, cigarette filter, teeth-torn and balled for cotton, rested atop an end table a few feet away.