Cherry Bomb

CHAPTER 22

ALEX CALLS ALAN’S ROOM from the house phone in the hotel lobby. Jack’s ex-husband doesn’t pick up. She sets the receiver next to the phone without disconnecting and crosses the lobby to the stairs. Alex takes them three at a time, orients herself on the second floor, and quickly finds room 212. Placing an ear to the door, she hears the phone ringing inside.

“Mr. Daniels?” Alex makes a fist and raps hard.

No answer.

He might be a sound sleeper, assisted by pills or alcohol. But the smarter bet is he’s not in his room.

Alex adjusts her bangs, finger-combing them over the scars while considering her next move. Alan might be elsewhere in the hotel, maybe the bar or the gym. She knows his face from his Web site. Alan Daniels is a freelancer and all freelancers have homepages. But people might see her approaching him, recall the police uniform she’s wearing. Better to wait until he returns to his room.

Alex doesn’t like waiting. She likes action. Always has. She remembers being a child in Indiana, when a bully picked on Charles during the walk to school. She kicked the bully between the legs, hard as any eight-year-old ever kicked anyone. They ran away, but the bully promised he’d take care of both of them once school let out.

Alex didn’t even make it through the first hour of classes. The waiting was excruciating. So she asked for a pass to go to the toilet, snuck through the halls until she found the bully’s room, and rammed a sharpened pencil in his eye when he looked up from the math book he’d been leaning over. Well worth the expulsion.

She hurt him bad, but knew from experience that a wounded dog was more dangerous than a healthy one. So later that night, after the police released her, she and Charles rode their bikes to the hospital and used a pen knife on the bully’s other eye.

Good times.

The bully didn’t die. Not then. He grew up, coped with his loss of sight, became some sort of minister. A few years ago Alex followed him home after church, and they had a thoughtful conversation about the nature of good and evil before Alex skinned him.

Alex has lost track of the number of people she’s killed. While in Heathrow, her shrink made some half-assed attempts to get her to talk about previous murders. Alex played it coy. The truth is, she has no idea how many have died at her hands. It’s like counting the number of times you’ve had sex. Maybe you can remember the first fifty. After that, everything becomes a blur.

If there’s a secret to being a good killer, it’s not finding anything wrong with killing someone. Enjoying it can be a plus, but some people with the thirst-like Charles-enjoyed it too much and got sloppy. The best way to treat murder is with apathy. Sometimes it’s necessary, often it’s fun, but it shouldn’t be a compulsion.

Alex thinks back to the bully minister’s death. He begged, like they all do. For fun, she made him renounce the God he’d spent more than half of his life serving. But she didn’t consider her act evil, any more than a shark killing a seal is evil. Pain and death are part of life. And everyone knows it’s better to give than to receive.

Speaking of giving…

Alex looks down the hallway, at all the closed doors. Like a giant box of Valentine’s Day candy, offering the potential for limitless fun. Fun, but necessity as well. Alex can’t check into the hotel-they’ll ask for ID and credit cards, which she doesn’t have. But she needs a room in order to deal with Alan properly.

She approaches the door next to Alan’s, raps twice, turns her head so her good profile and police officer cap are viewable through the peephole.

“Who’s there?”

A child’s voice. Alex can’t tell if it’s a boy or a girl.

“It’s the police. Is your mom or dad there?”

“They went to eat. I’m playing video games. I’m not supposed to open the door.”

“That’s very smart. But police officers are your friends. Push a chair to the peephole in the door and stand on it so you can see me.”

Alex takes a step back so the child can take in her full uniform.

“I see you.”

“Here’s my badge.” Alex holds it up. “When a police officer asks you to open up, you have to. It’s the law.”

“I still can’t let you in unless you know the code word.”

Half of Alex’s face twists into a smirk. She considers pushing it, maybe telling the child that his or her parents are hurt. But this seems like a well-trained kid. One cell phone call to Mom and things could get complicated. Better to find easier prey.

“I understand. I’ll come back later when your parents finish with dinner. Have a nice night.”

Alex tips her cap, then moves on to the next door. Knocks. No answer. Moves another door down.

“Yes?” A woman’s voice.

“Police. Can I ask you a few questions?”

This time the door opens. The woman is at least a de cade younger than Alex, short, a bit plump. She’s got the security latch on and is peering through the three-inch gap. Alex could break in with a single strike of hip, shoulder, or foot, but the finesse is more satisfying. She likes it when victims torment themselves with why did I let her in? thoughts.

“Have you been a guest here for long, ma’am?”

“Two days. Is everything okay?”

“There was an altercation earlier. We’re interviewing witnesses.”

“I didn’t see anything.”

“Actually, you were named as a participant.”

“Me? I’ve been out all day.”

“Then you have nothing to worry about. I just need to verify your whereabouts.”

The door closes. Alex listens to the latch being removed. The door opens again.

Alex enters the room. It’s dark, the bed unmade, the TV with the picture paused. Open suitcase in the corner, some clothing scattered on the floor. Room ser vice dishes sit on the desk, fish bones and squeezed lemons. The woman is wearing red sweatpants and a T-shirt, no makeup, no bra. Her hair has unnatural red highlights. She’s attractive, in a Gen-X kind of way.

A moment after she closes the door behind her, Alex lashes out with the knife edge of her hand, catching the woman on the bridge of her nose. The woman collapses. Alex gets on top, pressing her face into the carpeting, tearing at her cotton top for use in binding her hands. The scream is still building up in the woman’s throat when Alex muffles it with a cloth napkin. Legs are tied using some discarded panty hose, and Alex hoists the woman up to the bed.

“Don’t move, don’t make a sound, and I won’t hurt you.”

The woman freezes, stock-still, eyes wide with fear.

“Now I want to ask you a question, and I need you to answer honestly. Nod your head if the room ser vice fish was good.”

There’s a slow, unsure nod.

“Are you positive? Because I saw the restaurant menu downstairs and they have a prime rib special. I like prime rib, but I’ll try the fish if you think it was worthwhile.”

Another nod, more emphatic. Alex has learned not to trust people who fear for their lives, so she picks up the phone and orders both the fish and the prime rib. Just to be safe.

“So what’s on?” Alex asks. She flops onto the bed next to the woman, gently strokes her hair, and hits the pause button on the remote.