Hendricks was on the seventh floor. The hotel portion of the Pendleton’s casino complex stretched twelve stories high. Hendricks chose the seventh floor for two reasons. One, he knew any systematic search of the building would begin at top and bottom, meeting somewhere between four and nine depending on occupancy, so the middle floors afforded him the most leeway with regard to time. And two, Pendleton’s had dome cameras mounted at the end of every hall-not a problem to his left, because the hallway jagged around a corner four rooms down, but a huge problem to his right, where the camera at the end of each hall had a clear shot of the fire door. Everywhere but the seventh floor, that is. On the seventh floor, some member of the cleaning staff had left the utility room door open in his or her haste to flee-even though the shooting downstairs had lasted only minutes, word spread quickly through the Pendleton’s complex, sending patrons and employees alike into hysteria-and the door, prevented from closing by an abandoned cleaning cart, now blocked the camera’s sight line to the fire door.
Hendricks had half a mind to leave a tip.
He padded silently through the abandoned hallway- neither slinking nor hurrying, and affecting a look of fright and worry in case anyone was watching his progress through the peepholes in their doors. A good quarter of the doors were open-some wide, some kept ajar by the brass-plated ovals of the interior door latches, protruding from the door frames like bookmarks-but many were still closed, and Hendricks had no way of knowing how many of those rooms were actually occupied.
Hendricks snatched the ice bucket up from the hall, scooping as much of its spilled contents back in as he could manage. He popped his head into every open door he passed, examining at a glance the open closet space inside like some hard-boiled Goldilocks. Too big. Too small. Too showy. In one case, the dimensions were about right, but he thought the odds of him walking out unspotted in this enormous woman’s pink chiffon dress unlikely.
Then, finally, he hit pay dirt.
Once he’d found what he was looking for, he closed the door behind him and threw the bolt. He removed the wad of cash Lester’d sent him-rolled tight and rubberbanded-from his pocket and set it on the nightstand. Then he stripped naked, folding his clothes as flat as he could and placing them between the mattress and box spring.
The room belonged to Norm and Patty Gunderson of Parker, South Dakota. Hendricks knew this because of the tags on their luggage and the printed Google driving directions on the nightstand. They must have skedaddled in a hurry, because the TV was still tuned to KMBC’s coverage of the shooting. As Hendricks riffled through their belongings, he couldn’t help but feel sorry for them. The suitcase was filled with patterned polos, iron-creased denims, and wrinkle-free blouses in a cascade of Easter pastels. The closet held two pairs of khakis and two dresses as appropriate for Sunday service as dinner out. Below them on the floor was a pair of boat shoes-a little small for Hendricks, but they’d have to do-and a pair of sensible, low-heeled pumps. There were no ties, sport coats, or any other indications of business-wear to be seen.
The Gundersons were on vacation.
Hendricks wondered if they’d ever take another one.
Hendricks padded naked to the bathroom and eyed himself in the mirror. Nothing I can’t work with, he thought. Sure, his shoulder hurt like hell, and his body was a road map of bruises, but apart from the cuts drying sticky-red on his left hand, a half-inch-long knife wound across his Adam’s apple-bleeding, but superficial-and some slight swelling on his right cheek, his injuries weren’t the sort most folks would notice.
Pawing through Patty Gunderson’s dopp kit, Hendricks found a pair of tweezers. He ran his left hand under the bathroom tap, rinsing away the drying blood, and found that although he’d been cut multiple times by the shattered rocks glass, none of the cuts were deep. Carefully, he tweezed free what few shards of glass remained, dropping each of them into the trash.
That done, he grabbed a hand towel and filled it with ice, pressing it to his swollen face until the worst of the puffiness had receded. A faint dusky smudge streaked below his right eye, riding the tangent of his orbital socket’s curve across the meat of his cheek, and would likely darken in the hours and days to come. If that proved the worst of his problems, Hendricks would consider it a win.
The shower stung like needles against his skin, and ran pink from clotting undone. Hendricks scrubbed himself clean and then stood beneath the water until it ran clear. When he was finished, he toweled off gently and disinfected his hand with a goodly helping of ol’ Norman’s Aqua Velva. It smelled like Hendricks’s first foster father- a hard, mean man-and it burned like perdition, but it made a fine disinfectant.
Hendricks filled the sink basin and, with Norm’s disposable Gillette, removed the ratty bristle of horseshoe mustache he’d sculpted from his stubble for the job. He used Patty’s tweezers again, this time to thin his eyebrows some and change their shape, softening his standard frown from one of determination to one of worry. He eyed his handiwork for a moment and then picked up the razor once more, using it to take his sideburns up to an unfashionable forty-five-degree angle. The end result was a man who looked little like the cocky cowboy who’d sauntered into the casino this morning. A dab of Patty’s concealer on the bruise beneath his eye, and his transformation was complete.
All that was left to his plan was to wait. So he sat down on the edge of the tub, a bathrobe tied around his frame, to do just that.
He wasn’t waiting long.
The rapping was loud and sharp. Seven in a row, meant not to be ignored.
“That you, Patricia?” Hendricks called, dropping the drawl he’d been affecting in favor of a tone more broadcast-neutral. “Don’t tell me you forgot your key again! Well, hold your horses-I’m in the bathroom!”
He splashed some water on his face-avoiding his makeup job as best he could-and grabbed the razor from the vanity. Then he headed for the door. Hendricks had scarcely disengaged the interior lock before the electronic lock buzzed-unlocked from the outside-and the door swung in toward him. Outside was a blazered, khakied mound of flesh with a buzz cut and spiral-wired earpiece- Pendleton’s security-and a more compact but no less intimidating man in full-on body armor aiming an automatic rifle at him-FBI SWAT. For a millisecond, Hendricks calculated the odds of taking them-grab the SWAT guy’s barrel, force the gunstock into his throat, turn the weapon on his cohort once he crumples and releases it-but he dismissed the thought as soon as it flitted through his consciousness. Fighting wasn’t going to get him out of here.
So instead, he threw his hands in the air, the razor clattering to the floor, and he let out a not entirely manful scream, cowering at the sight of the gun.
“It’s all right, sir-but I’m going to have to ask you to calm down while I search your room. Are you aware, sir, that you’re bleeding?”
“What? I-” The security guard gestured to his own neck, and Hendricks echoed his movement as if uncomprehendingly. He touched the knife wound on his neck and acted surprised when his fingers came back bloody. “Oh!” he said. “Oh, my! I was shaving when you two-and then the knocking startled me, and…wait-what do you mean you have to search my room? What the heck is going on here?”
The two men shared a glance, and the security guard said, frowning, “There’s been an incident. A shooting just off the gaming floor. Can you tell me, sir, who’s registered in this room?”
Hendricks backed away from the doorway, feigning terror. “Me and-I mean, N-n-norm and Patty Gunderson,” he said. “You think the shooter is up here?”