Annabel Lee Page 14

  Blood-Eaters, for instance. Stem cells and physiatrical superintendence. Sacred relics. A man with a withered hand. DNA supra-actualization and neuroregenesis. That kind of stuff.

  She talks about the Order of Heinrich von Bonn like everybody knows what it is, but I ain’t never heard of that religion. Apparently, Dr. Johannes Schmitzden was the leader of it, and she was his follower. But Dr. Schmitzden, like Marelda Gregor, was also a biologist of some kind, so I can’t figure whether these two was in a cult of some unknown flavor or if they was just research scientists. Maybe they was both. I’ll have to keep translating to find out more, I guess.

  I think about getting up and working more on Marelda Gregor’s journal, but I still can’t stop watching that dog. Worrying.

  It’s funny how you can get worn out just doing nothing but sitting on a bunk bed watching a near-dead dog. I guess it’s the hours of fretting that get to you, make you feel tense and bothered, make you start wishing you could just relax and close your eyes, just for a minute or two.

  With my eyes shut, I can hear the soft hum of the battery lights and the shallow puffs of breath slipping out the dog’s nose at regular intervals. I start counting the puffs like counting sheep.

  One.

  Two.

  Three . . .

  Forty-eight . . .

  Ninety-six . . .

  When I open my eyes again, the dog is sitting on his haunches, right next to the bed, staring at me.

  “So I guess we both slept,” I say through a yawn.

  The dog just looks at me, and I remember that it has now been hours and hours since either of us has eaten anything. Almost as if on cue, the animal licks his lips.

  I give him a good, hard look. He seems downright normal again, like nothing ever happened. Eyes bright and attentive. Intelligent. Body sleek and muscular again, not uncoordinated and ill. Whatever happened, he appears to be over it. And he appears to be hungry.

  “Right,” I say. “Food. Got it.”

  A moment later, the dog is wolfing down canned tuna and a row of crackers, eating like he hasn’t had food in weeks. He finishes so fast, I go ahead and give him my can of tuna too, and I head back to the shelf for an MRE with mystery meat and vegetables. The dog digs into the second helping of tuna and then freezes, mid-chew, swinging his heavy head toward the door.

  “What’s on, Dog?”

  The dog swallows his current mouthful and looks over at me. I can see a snarl forming on his face, teeth just getting tempted to bare themselves at something.

  Dog abandons his tuna and turns toward the door. No growl, just full attention, fangs slightly showing, tail standing at high alert. I start to say something, then figure I’d better take a cue from the guard animal. I keep still and silent.

  Is that a noise outside the door?

  There was a brushing sound, or at least I think there was. It happened so fast and quiet, I can’t be sure, except that my dog responded to it. My animal steps quickly toward the locked metal entryway and leans into a crouch, tail vibrating, ready to attack.

  For several minutes, nothing happens, no noise, no movement. Then the dog finally lets his tail dip to half mast, relaxes a bit, and steps closer to the door. He starts sniffing, trying to discern something with just his nose.

  “Dog,” I whisper. He ignores me.

  Was someone here? Was someone finally here? Just outside that door?

  “Dog.” I whisper it again, more forcefully. He turns toward me with a question mark in his eyes.

  “Komm her,” I say softly. For some reason, it don’t feel safe with the dog so close to the door right now. My animal responds immediately, trotting to my side, where he sits back on his haunches, ears pricked high, eyes still focused intently on the steel door.

  Should I open the door? I think. Unlock the bolts and take a quick peek outside? What if it’s Truck out there, finally comin’ to get me?

  But my uncle’s last words to me stick in my head.

  Don’t open that door for anybody, you got it? Not even me, not unless you hear me say the safe code.

  There’s a moment more of heavy breathing on my side of the door, then without warning, my dog suddenly relaxes completely. His ears flick backward and his muscled torso returns to rest. He lies down on the floor beside me and even lets his tail swish once, side to side.

  Whatever it was that got him all alert and interested ain’t an issue no more.

  I feel a pang of loss, like I might’ve missed an important opportunity. That’s quickly replaced by a pang of fear, like I might’ve just missed something awful and dangerous. But it don’t matter, because there ain’t nothing but me and that dog in here. Just us two, nothing more.

  I feel myself release a sigh. The dog looks up at me, then at the leftovers of his dinner. He licks his lips.

  “Okay,” I say. “Nimm futter.” Eat your food. That dog don’t wait for a second command. He leaves my side and returns to his business with the tuna. I don’t wait for him to finish before returning to my own meal, but it’s tasteless to me. I only eat it because I know my body needs it, because my stomach is burnin’ for it.

  There was something out there, right? Something that brushed up against my door and set off all kind of alarms in my German shepherd’s head. Was that right? Or was it just my desperate imagination at work again?

  I put away the refuse from our meal, dumping cans and such down one of the holes in the outhouse. But my mind keeps working the puzzle.

  Maybe it was nothing. Probably it was nothing.

  Maybe it was just some woodland animal. A squirrel or skunk or something, just accidentally scraped outside my door, lost in this tunnel, trying to find its way out again.

  Maybe there wasn’t no noise at all. Probably that was true.

  Probably I just imagined it like I imagined them random ghosts. My mind using my senses to play another mean trick on me.

  Or maybe . . .

  Maybe I’m gonna be trapped inside this bunker forever.

  22

  Trudi

  Sunday, September 20

  It was a few minutes before 2:00 a.m. when Trudi pulled Samuel’s Ford GT into the parking lot of the strip mall where Coffey & Hill Investigations kept its offices. The only other car in the lot was that same beat-up Toyota truck that had been left there for a few weeks now, obviously broken down and abandoned, for the time being at least.

  Still, Trudi sat in the car for a moment before risking the first step out. Things were always well lit in this neighborhood, something she was suddenly grateful for. She waited, checked her mirrors, looked for any sign of Dr. Smith or one of his goons in the vicinity. The offices that shared this little lot with hers—a florist, an independent hair salon, and an insurance agency—were all dark, closed. The parking lot at the Tire South shop next door to her strip mall was empty, as was the Express Oil Change on the other side. Behind her, in the large Kroger parking lot across the street, Arby’s was closed. Taco Bell had lights on but was also unpopulated. There were a few cars scattered in the rest of the Kroger lot over there, but that place too seemed relatively abandoned for the night.

  Safe, she said to herself. No worries. Stop being paranoid, Tru-Bear, and get out of the car.

  She popped the lock on the GT and stepped onto the pavement. No shots rang out. No bad men jumped at her from behind the thick shrubbery that landscaped the bank side of this strip mall parking lot. She was alone.

  She sighed in spite of herself and headed toward the office door. She was annoyed when she discovered that it was unlocked, then remembered that she’d left it that way when she and Samuel had made flight for Birmingham. She stepped in the door and locked it behind her. She wouldn’t be long, but she didn’t want anyone sneaking up on her through an unlocked opening anyway.

  She paused inside the reception area, checking for other signs of entry, just in case she wasn’t alone in here after all. Everything seemed clear, just as she’d left it. She did the routine, checking an
d clearing of each room in the office before venturing to relax. Only when she was certain the place was indeed empty did she allow herself to sit at her desk, to relax, and to get organized.

  It had taken almost a week before she felt ready to escape from Samuel Hill’s clutches.

  Well, escape was probably a strong word—it’s not like Sam was holding her prisoner. But it helped her to think of it that way when she was planning this little detour. Really, all she wanted to do was get here to her office, pick up her gun, and then get back to the hotel in Birmingham before Samuel had a chance to wake up and realize she was gone. But in order to do that, she had to spend time studying her man again, familiarizing herself with his routines and weaknesses, understanding his personality quirks and then deciding how to use them to her advantage. Fortunately, thanks to nearly eight years of marriage as background work, she was a quick study.

  Samuel was a smart and capable person, but he wasn’t her jailer. In fact, he didn’t even feel the need to keep an eye on her when she left the room or stood right behind him, looking over his shoulder at some obscure fact he’d ferreted out online. Trust, that was his weakness. In spite of everything, he still trusted her. He assumed that she was still his partner, that she would never betray him or go rogue without warning him.

  At night, when he came back from picking up takeout dinner, he simply dropped his car keys on the desk near the hotel room door and forgot about them until he needed them next. And each night when Trudi was the one to go out and pick up dinner, she did the same. One night she told Samuel she had a craving for grilled quail (and really, didn’t he want a rib eye steak instead of a burger for once?) from Highlands Bar and Grill on 11th Avenue South. He agreed, so she preordered their dinner, then casually picked up his keys and left on the errand.

  What she didn’t tell Samuel was that, on her way to pick up the quail and rib eye takeout she’d called in, she stopped at the tiny locksmith shop on 14th Avenue and had a spare key made for Samuel’s GT. She also bought a magnetic hide-a-key container there. She put the new key in the container and stuck it under the front bumper of the car, ready for her whenever she needed to make her move.

  Step two was a little harder. It involved getting a pair of jeans, a sweater, and slip-on shoes hidden under the seat of the car, hidden in a way that Samuel wouldn’t accidently discover them. She finally settled on rolling each clothing item into a tight cylinder, and then wedging them under the passenger seat, high and toward the front. She figured Sam would never ride in that seat and so he wouldn’t move it forward or backward to accommodate his long legs. If the seat didn’t move, neither would the clothes. She was ready.

  And so, last night, Saturday night, she put on her satin pajamas, just like every other night they’d spent in this hotel room. She’d retreated to her bed and tried to sleep, wanting to actually rest a bit before driving all night long. She’d heard Samuel watch the news on TV, then heard a bit of one of the late night sports shows before he finally shut out the light and went to bed. She checked the clock. It was 11:22 p.m.

  She heard him let out an extended sigh, a cleansing breath that usually preceded the time when he would fall asleep. She heard his breathing slacken, become shallow and even. In the darkness, she peered toward him and tried to tell if his legs were twitching yet. At 11:31 p.m., she was fairly certain he was out, but she waited until 11:45 p.m. just to be sure. If he wasn’t asleep, he was putting on a pretty good act.

  She slid out from under the covers on her bed and moved toward the door. She slipped a hotel room key card into the waistband of her pajamas but didn’t bother with anything else. She was in the hallway as silently as a cat, holding down the room’s door handle so the latch wouldn’t make a “click” when she brought it to a close. Then she waited. If Samuel was aware of anything, he’d come out that door within the next two minutes, so she started counting the seconds backward.

  One hundred twenty. One nineteen. One eighteen.

  Down the hall she heard a door open and shut. She decided to ignore it. A tired-looking businessman stepped into the hallway, tapping on the end of a pack of Camels.

  Ninety-seven. Ninety-six.

  The businessman stopped when he saw her, did a double take, then relaxed into a light grin. He nodded approvingly in her direction.

  Eighty. Seventy-nine.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him dig in his pocket and come out with green paper. He walked in her direction, flashing a $20 bill. She rolled her eyes.

  Fifty-two. Fifty-one. Fifty.

  He pressed the money into her hand as he walked by. “When you’re finished here,” he whispered in what she assumed must’ve been his sexy voice, “come on down to room 321.”

  Trudi said nothing, and the man took that to be approval. He walked on past, letting his non-cigarette-hand stray across her pajamas as he moved down the hall. Trudi wanted to kick him in the groin and leave him groaning on the freshly vacuumed hotel carpet, but she resisted. Perverted, lonely guy sees a woman standing in the hallway in satin pajamas. Of course he’ll assume sex worker, she told herself. She didn’t look like a nun, she knew, but it still made her angry. Why couldn’t a woman just be a woman? Why always a sex tool? She tried to shrug it off and focus on the task at hand.

  Twenty. Nineteen. Eighteen. Seventeen.

  After two full minutes had lapsed, Trudi figured it was time to go. She hurried down to Samuel’s car, getting an odd look from the night clerk when she passed through the lobby, but gratefully avoiding the skeevy gent from room 321. At the car, she rescued her hidden key and then discreetly changed into the jeans and sweater in the empty parking lot. She was gone by midnight. Two hours later, she’d pulled up to her detective office in Atlanta, ready to get her gun.

  Now Trudi settled into the chair behind her desk and felt complete, at least for the moment. This was where she belonged, where she’d felt most comfortable in the days, weeks, years since Samuel left. Her home was nice, no doubt, but also an empty space with too many reminders that it was supposed to be filled by a family. This place, though, her office, her desk, had always been just hers. Even when Samuel had worked here, he’d been banished across the hall to what was now just a cluttered storeroom of miscellaneous junk.

  She inhaled and felt the old familiar thrill of the room. It was the wee hours of the morning, but just sitting here made Trudi want to get back to work.

  They’d made progress on two fronts over the past ten/eleven days in Birmingham’s DoubleTree Inn, but still nothing that rang of finality. At first, they tried to share Samuel’s laptop, but that had gotten old, fast. So after a few days, Trudi’s ex-husband had gone out and bought her an off-the-rack HP machine from the nearest Office Depot. It wasn’t as powerful as the one she kept here in Atlanta, but it worked well enough to be useful. She set up a remote office in their hotel room and joined Samuel in the work.

  She surveyed her own desk now, her real desk, and smiled inside. She was tired of working on that Office Depot laptop, sitting in a stale hotel room, always aware of Samuel doing similar work so close by that it was annoying.

  Most people were surprised when they found out how boring detective work really was. It was more drudgery than excitement by a factor of ten or so. Hours, sometimes days, spent picking line by line through a phone record. Expanding eons doing nothing more than tracking down city real estate tax records or combing through ancestry records on the internet, trying to figure out who was related to whom, where they last lived, and who might have been in some kind of contact with the object of your search.

  Having Samuel Hill on your team certainly made a difference, because he knew people who knew people, and because he himself was “people” with a range of access to otherwise private documents. So that helped, but still, when it came to Leonard Truckson and Dr. Jonathan Smith, the going was slow.

  At this point they’d uncovered one very good lead in regard to Truck but only hearsay and rumors about Dr. Smith.

  A
s for Truck, they’d tracked down one of his men from the time he was stationed in Iraq, a southern boy named Rendel Jackson-Fife. A name like that might have been a badge of character in the Deep South, but it was like a lighthouse beacon in the stormy seas of private investigation. Name like that was hard to hide, hard to take off the grid.

  They’d tracked young Rendel from Fallujah to Fort Bliss in Texas, to an honorable discharge, to a post-military career as a roughneck in the Port Arthur area of the Texas Gulf. Samuel had recognized the oil company that employed Mr. Jackson-Fife; he’d worked for that outfit himself during summers at college. Now they just had to track down Jackson-Fife’s whereabouts after he left the roughneck world and disappeared into society about four and a half years ago. A good lead.

  As for Dr. Smith, the rumors were hard to sift. The best they could arrive at was a cloudy history behind the Iron Curtain, where he’d been educated as a medical research scientist, possibly doing work in stem cell studies. After the end of the Cold War, after the Berlin Wall came down in 1989, his whereabouts got fuzzy until sometime in the mid-1990s. Then he turned up in Iraq as a bureaucrat at a research hospital that was somehow remotely associated with Fallujah General Hospital and had blurry ties to Abu Ghraib prison. The name of the research hospital, and Dr. Smith’s name, showed up in some classified records that Samuel dug up, but the address or exact nature of the research done there was still a mystery to them. For now.

  Trudi restarted her desktop computer out of habit, then stopped herself.

  It was 2:20 in the morning. Samuel was a predictable riser. With or without an alarm clock, his bladder usually got him up right around 6:00 a.m., and that was when he started his day. With that in mind, Trudi figured she needed to be back in her DoubleTree Inn bed by 5:00 a.m. at the latest. It was a two-hour drive from Atlanta to Birmingham. That meant she’d have to get out of here before 3:00 a.m., and really, she ought to leave by 2:30 a.m. to give herself some leeway in case something unexpected happened.