Fortress

67

The Tijuana Motel had seen better days. A low, L-shaped structure, it had been painted a lurid orange, evidently some years past, perhaps in an attempt to attract the attention of passing trade. But time and the seasons had not been kind to it: so much of the orange had flaked away that the mottled surface now looked more like some misconceived kind of camouflage than the outside of anywhere people would choose to stay.

There was no reply to his text so he waited another ten minutes. He chose not to call Beth’s mobile in case Carter was still with her. But after half an hour he began to get impatient. Her pick-up was still there, and the only other car in the lot, a beaten-up Ford, didn’t look like it was going anywhere. He decided to take a closer look at room forty-five.

There was a do-not-disturb sign on the door. The curtains were closed and there was no light on, except from the blaring TV. He knocked once, then again. He tried the door. It was open.

Beth lay sprawled on the bed. She was cold. He probed desperately for a pulse, hoping, yet knowing there was no hope. There was foam on her lips, and blood from where she had evidently bitten them. A needle hung from her arm below the latex glove that had been used as a tourniquet. On the bedside table there was a lighter, a spoon coated with residue, a syringe pack, bottles of hydrocodone syrup and promethazine, and an empty foil of oxycodone pills. Some of the powder clung to a small knife, which had been used to chop up the pills. On its side on the bed was a bottle of Streak vodka.

Whoever had done this knew their stuff.

He lifted the pillow beside her. The underside was speckled with blood. They had smothered her to finish the job. Tom thought of closing her eyes but thought again. Then he turned back to the door, pausing only to wipe the handle on the way out.