Because Dylan would know where to find me.
You see, we had it all worked out. Granted, we’d worked it out not so much in anticipation of my escaping lawful custody, but rather as a hedge against the possibility of my having to go into deep cover some time.
If I’d moved the dead aloe vera plant from the window and tipped it over on the floor to the left of said window, he’d have met me at the airport with some cash. If I’d left the plant upside down directly in front of the window, we would meet at the university library (third floor, stack twelve in the BFs). But I’d set it to the right of the window, and he’d know what that meant.
Of course, he also had to know that the cops would be tailing him to see if he would lead him to me. But I had faith in Dylan Foreman. He’d be patient. He’d be smart.
And he’d be there tonight.
I’d slowed to a brisk walk now, partly because I’d developed a stitch in my side (despite my gymnastics in clearing that fence back there, I am no athlete), and partly because I knew I’d attract less attention. But even with an ache in my side, even with the black cloud of a waiting jail cell hanging over me, I couldn’t suppress a small smile. The Flashing Fashion Queen thought she was pretty smart. But I was willing to bet she wasn’t counting on me running. She’d wanted my ass sitting helplessly in lockup while she dug a deeper hole for me by the minute. Well, bite me, baby! I wasn’t going to be her victim. I wasn’t going to be anyone’s victim. And as far as the Flashing Fashion Queen was concerned, I was about to become her worst fucking nightmare.
Did I finally have one up on her? I couldn’t help but grin as I wondered how that would make her feel when she realized I was still at liberty. The control was slipping out of her hands. She’d fucked up this once, and I had to believe that would rattle her.
+++
“Geez, Dix, what’s wrong? You look all shook up.” Mrs. Presley winked and elbowed me hard. “Get it … ‘all shook up’?”
“Yeah, I get it Mrs. P.”
For a woman who day in and day out worked below a sign that emphatically told the world she was not related to Elvis, Mrs. Presley had no qualms about stealing a line to get a good laugh. Even if it was her own good laugh.
God, I liked this woman.
We were sitting side by side on the lone bed in Room 111 of the Underhill Motel. This was her ‘special’ room, reserved for ‘special guests’. For the drop of a few quarters, the bed would start vibrating. The lampshades were red and when the lights were on, cast a red haze around the room. There were mirrors on every wall and built into the headboard of the bed. And I’d bet anything that the light fixture hanging from the ceiling would support the swinging weight of at least one nimble person. Hell, the toilet seats were even padded! (God, I hated the deflating sounds those things made when you sat on them, but far be it from me to complain.)
But that’s not what made Room 111 special. What made it special was its location, far away from the street at the other end of the motel, with a view that was unobstructed by trees or other structures. A person could keep a pretty good watch on traffic in and out of the motel — be that traffic irate husbands/boyfriends, johns, or in my case, the cops.
But even better, Room 111 had a secret back door. Not one with a doorknob, but a hidden one in the back of the never-used closet. A solid hip to the left of it, and it would open, but only when unlocked from the other side. That back door just happened to lead to a narrow, unlit hallway, low-ceilinged but straight. Those in the know (and few of us were) knew that there was a small penlight stashed up over the doorway. And that passageway led right into Mrs. Presley’s kitchen, and thence to the outside via a private exit.
Room 111 was always the last to be rented out. And the door was locked to most clientele, who were unwitting of its existence. But I knew for a fact that at least two women had escaped from abusive ex-husbands that way. And here was the best part — if anyone unwanted were foolish enough to find and burst through that hidden door, they’d receive a lovely how-do-you-do from one of Mrs. Presley’s hulking sons at the other end of it, neither of whom would have qualms about beating the crap out of an intruder. Those boys were just that protective of their mom.
“I don’t want to get you into trouble, Mrs. Presley,” I’d said, when I’d landed on her doorstep. “But holy shit, I’m in trouble!”
She’d raised an eyebrow. “Cops after you?”
“Yeah,” I admitted. “ I can understand if you don’t want to—”
“Trouble? Ah hell, we all have troubles. Quit complaining! You need a room? I got a room. That’s it; case closed.”
No need to sign the register. She just slipped me the key.
I slipped her a couple hundred from the Jennifer Weatherby advance, which Mrs. Presley promptly pocketed behind her pencil-pen-pencil combination. She was a businesswoman, after all. But I know Mrs. Presley, if I’d come there flat broke and on my ass, there’d be the same room and the same hospitality for me.
And yes, the same old Elvis jokes.
With a gentle suggestion that I might want a shower (okay, more like a ‘phew, you really stink’), Mrs. Presley left me. She took the back door, the one that led directly through her apartment and out. She was short enough so that she didn’t have to stoop to pass through, and knew the route well enough she didn’t bother with a light.
“Usually, I lock this door, but sometimes I forget,” she said with an obvious wink. “I’ll send that handsome young assistant of yours through when he gets here.”
If anyone happened to see Dylan enter the Underhill Motel, they’d only know he entered the main lobby and he’d exit from the same. They’d not see him entering Room 111.
As if in afterthought Mrs. Presley added, “Oh, and when you get in that shower — and I hope that’s soon — stick those old clothes in the passage, I’ll send Cal or Craig down to get them and throw them in the wash for you. I’ll have ’em back in an hour.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Presley.”
She headed for the closet/back door and gave it a hip check that would have taken out Tai Domi. “Take care, Dix. I mean that. And you get your ass down that hallway double time if you need help. Me and my boys’ll be home all night.”
The door snapped back into place as she left — back into near invisibility. And I let out a shaky breath I hadn’t even known I was holding. And when I took a breath back in — holy shit — even I had to grimace.
Mrs. Presley was right. I did need that shower.
I stripped from my standard uniform — jeans, t-shirt, granny panties and sports bra. I hipchecked the door open and quickly (as in I’m naked here, quickly) shoved the soiled clothes into the hallway to await retrieval by one of the Presley boys. Then I ran into the bathroom, closed the door and ran the water as hot as I could.
The warmth of the water felt amazing. I shampooed my hair twice, emptying the little hotel bottle of shampoo, and scrubbed every inch of me for a good ten minutes. With the side of my hand, I wiped clear the bathroom mirror, and I combed out my long blond hair. Despite having opened the lone, small window, the bathroom was steamy when I’d finished. Hot. And when I let myself out, despite the terrycloth bathrobe Mrs. Presley had provided, the cool air hit me.