Whirlwind

37

Dallas-Fort Worth Metroplex, Texas

Shelby Nix scratched his three-days’-growth beard as he reviewed registrations for the Tumbleweed Dreams Motel while watching commercials on the big flat-screen TV in reception.

For the past eight years he had been manager of the two-story inn that sat at the city’s southeast edge. Every now and then the ex-navy cook thought about buying the place from the owners who lived in Florida. The glory of the old motel, like its worn, embroidered towels, was fading and it barely broke even. This week was good, he thought; they were at ninety percent, thanks to the tornadoes, but today they had a lot of departures. Shelby was clicking through the guest log on his computer at the counter when the phone rang.

“Tumbleweed Motel,” he said.

“Shell, I can’t make it in today.”

His hand reflexively tightened on the handset at the sound of Daisy Culpepper’s whiny voice. She was the most senior of his four housekeepers, but even if the good Lord and all his apostles helped her, Daisy could not work a full week. He’d warned her several times.

“It’s my back, again. I’m in pain.”

“Daisy, you’re done. I’ll mail you your final check and pink slip.”

“What?”

“You’re fired.”

“But Shell-my doc-”

Shelby ended the call and started another to his junior housekeeper, Maria Mendosa.

“Hi, Maria, it’s Shelby at the motel,” he said in Spanish.

“Hi, Shelby.”

“If your cousin’s still looking for work, tell her to come with you today.”

“Oh, that’s fantastic! I will tell her! Thank you, thank you very much!”

Maria never missed a day and her work was stellar. He was confident her cousin would be a good hire. Upon hanging up, he dismissed any remorse over firing Daisy. Hell, the woman lived a block from the motel but always had an excuse not to make it into work. For the next several moments he reviewed her attendance record.

It was dreadful.

No, he thought, it had to be done. She’s gone.

Shelby’s eyes then flicked to the TV, where he saw the President’s face. The news was on. He used the remote to increase the volume. The White House was confirming the President’s upcoming visit to the Metroplex and its hardest-hit regions.

The commander-in-chief’s coming to town. How about that, Shelby thought.

That report was followed by one showing sketches of two people sought by police.

“The FBI is investigating the case of a baby boy, five-month-old Caleb Cooper of Dallas, who vanished from his mother’s hold in the storm at the Old Southern Glory Flea Market near Kleberg.

The FBI says the baby’s clothing was found under suspicious circumstances 20 miles away in Duncanville. They are appealing to the public for help locating two persons of interest-a white male and white female, who may be traveling with the baby.”

After providing descriptions of the couple, the TV news displayed two sketches of the woman and two of the man.

Shelby pressed the button on the remote to replay the details.

The woman could have short spiky red hair, or shorter dark hair and dark-framed glasses.

Shelby replayed the details again and again then hit the pause button for the part of the report that displayed all four images at once.

“Damn,” he said aloud.

“Excuse me?”

Two older women were standing at the counter, waiting to check out.

“I’m sorry, ladies, just caught up in the news,” Shelby said. “How was everything?”

“Fine,” the taller one said.

“The bed was lumpy-you need to get a new mattress,” her friend said.

“Our apologies, I’ll take ten percent off your account. And how will you be settling with us today?”

The taller one placed her credit card on the counter. Shelby processed their bill, provided a receipt and thanked them. Then he resumed studying the report.

Hell, I think it’s them, he said to himself. I think they’re here.

Unit 21. That couple with the baby. They were arguing yesterday, disturbing everyone near them, prompting complaints.

Shelby’s fingers clicked on the keyboard and he looked up their account. Luke and Ashley Johnson. They didn’t list the baby’s name, which was fine. They gave their address as Houston, no other details. They paid cash in advance to last five nights.

They haven’t checked out yet.

Shelby scratched his beard.

He looked under the counter at the small TV screen that displayed images from the motel’s security cameras. The insurance company insisted the owners install them, but they went with a cheaper system. Shelby manipulated the images to show the view of the lot and unit doors by the north side, including Unit 21. Their pickup truck was gone.

Blinking, Shelby gave the situation more consideration.

Then he reached under the counter for the little laminated clock sign and set it to read: Be Back in 10 Minutes.

He walked along the north side of the motel, coming to Unit 21. He pressed his ear to the door and heard voices, quickly determining that it was the TV over the drone of the air conditioner.

Someone’s in there.

Walking back to the office, Shelby recalled how the woman definitely had red spiky hair when they checked in and that maybe she changed it, made it darker-he wasn’t sure, but she definitely had a baby that was screaming. She was definitely with a man who had the height, build and tattoos that fit the description. By the time he’d returned to the office he was convinced that the young woman and man wanted by the FBI were in Unit 21.

First, Shelby had to take care of the guests who were at his counter waiting to check out. Once he finished their transactions, he reached for his phone.

His pulse quickened as he pressed 911.