Gallery of the Dead

Sixty-Two

Agent Brandon had gotten everyone a room at the Lodge on the Desert, a hacienda-style boutique hotel situated on five acres of land, right in mid-town Tucson. The place was as stunning as it was grand, featuring as its backdrop nothing less than the imposing Santa Catalina Mountains.

‘Damn,’ Garcia whispered as he and Hunter stepped out of the car and collected their bags. ‘The FBI does have it a lot better than we do. Just look at this place. If the LAPD were banking this trip, we’d probably be sleeping in the car.’

‘May I carry your bag for you, sir?’ a young porter asked in a tone that sounded way too cheerful for that time of the morning.

Garcia smiled back at him. ‘You certainly may.’

‘And you, sir?’ the porter addressed Hunter.

‘I’m OK,’ Hunter replied, slinging his bag over his right shoulder. ‘It’s not a heavy bag.’

Check-in was done quickly and smoothly, thanks to the three large capital letters that graced the top of the reservation page on the receptionist’s computer screen. Maybe those letters were also the reason why the five best rooms available were allocated to them.

‘It’s 4:22 a.m.’ Agent Williams said as he collected his key. ‘I’d say that we all need to get at least four hours’ sleep. So how about we all meet down at the breakfast room at eight thirty?’

Everyone agreed.

Hunter’s accommodation was number 221, a spacious Old El Paso decorated room, just past a cactus garden in the hotel’s west wing.

As he closed the door behind him and allowed his bag to slip from his shoulder to the floor, Hunter felt exhaustion take hold of every corner of his body like an untreatable illness. Right then he knew that nothing, not even his insomnia, would be able to keep him from falling asleep. Not this time. But despite how tired he felt, he decided to have a quick shower before bed. He was sure that he could still smell the stomach-churning scent from the morgue on his skin.

Hunter undressed by the plush and very comfortable-looking king-sized bed, before making his way into the bathroom.

‘Wow,’ he whispered under his breath as he paused by the door. He was unsure of what had impressed him more — the Mexican Talavera tiles that no doubt brought a lot of color into the bathroom, or its sheer size — about equal to his entire living room. The soft and relaxing scent of primrose and lily of the valley that loitered in the air was also a very nice touch.

Inside the shower enclosure, Hunter closed his eyes, leaned forward, rested his forehead against the colorful-tiled wall and allowed the strong, lukewarm water jet to massage the tense muscles on his neck, shoulders and upper back. If there was such a thing as heaven, this had to be its wet version.

The warm water relaxed him, but still his brain wouldn’t fully disconnect. How could it, really, after the events of the past twenty-four hours? There was so much he needed to process that for the first time in his career, Hunter didn’t really have a clue where to start. What should he analyze first? The murders themselves? The victims? The killer’s MO? The killer’s signatures? The messages? The crime scenes? The locations? The bizarre theory they had come up with? All of it at once?

Hunter could feel his head starting to spin inside his skull, so he decided to use the little strength he still had left to push all those thoughts to one side. He concentrated on scrubbing his whole body until he couldn’t smell death on him anymore. By the time he turned off the water, his naturally tanned skin had acquired a light pink tint and his fingertips had wrinkled.

Back in the bedroom, without concerning himself with drying his hair, Hunter collapsed onto the bed. The sensation he got as his skin came into contact with the luxury white linen was that he had slumped onto a fluffy cloud. His eyelids didn’t even flutter. They simply came down like heavy shutters at the end of a very long day. Less than a minute later he was asleep.