Fun and Games - Duane Swierczynski [73]
Absolutely the same in almost every hotel.
Hardie had mastered those key-card door locks late one night after walking back from an Applebee’s across the street and realizing that, at some point, he’d lost his plastic key card. The sensible thing would have been to approach the front desk, produce identification, and ask for a replacement card. Hardie had not been in a sensible frame of mind. He’d been downright contrary, in fact. That night, he’d downed three double bourbons, seven (maybe eight) pints of Yuengling, and then somebody down at the other end of the bar started buying shots of Jäger for somebody’s promotion at some firm somewhere, and Hardie joined in, then realized that he should probably hold that all down with another double bourbon, or two, just to settle his stomach. So by the end, Hardie reasoned, he couldn’t form the words to ask for a replacement key card. His tongue had begun refusing commands from his own brain.
But his hands still worked.
And he could fish a wire hanger out of the trash, run it under his own door, and open the handle with a quick jerk.
Hardie didn’t want to burglarize an occupied room; they needed an empty room. The easiest way to do that would be to check the maid’s pencil charts. There was usually some kind of floor diagram, printed each morning, to tell the maids which rooms to bother cleaning and which had gone unsold for the night. It was late afternoon, but the cleaning staff was still out working the floors. After only a few minutes of roaming the halls, he found a cart, helped himself to the floor list. A lot of empty rooms on the floor, which was great. Room 426 was open, and near a staircase. Even better.
Once inside, Lane announced:
“I’m going to take a shower.”
“Okay. I’m going to make that call. And hey, help yourself to whatever’s in my bag. There’s nothing fancy in there, but at least they won’t have blood and smoke all over them.”
She gave him a deadpan look.
“You think you have something in my size? Maybe a bra, too?” Hardie looked at her and smiled.
“Now we’re really delving into personal territory.”
Finally Lane cracked a smile. A big, unabashed, toothy smile. And God, did it make her look stunning.
When Lane rooted through Charlie’s luggage, she saw a tiny leather bag. She unzipped it. There was a plastic deodorant stick—Momentum. A metal razor with replaceable blades. Worn toothbrush. A small hard-plastic prescription bottle made out to Charles D. Hardie. Vicodin. Lane glanced over at Hardie. He wasn’t paying attention. She grabbed a T-shirt and tucked the bottle inside, then stepped into the bathroom.
She was tired of being hunted, of having the guilt gnaw away at her heart. If it came down to it, Lane would go out on her own terms. She wasn’t going to hurt any more people.
And she wasn’t going to let Them win.
Hardie sat on the edge of the king-size bed, listening to the springs groan under his weight, trying hard not to think about Lane undressing on the other side of the flimsy door.
He wanted a beer—just a little bracer—before calling Deke. Maybe he should go out and get one. There had to be a tavern or bodega somewhere nearby that would sell him a single or a six. He’d earned it. God, how he’d earned it. Maybe there was even a liquor store that would sell him a bottle of Jack.
But he stayed put. A sliver of sun blasted through the dirty gold blinds. Dust motes floated in the air, suspended by some unseen forces. On the other side of the door, she turned on the shower.
Time to call.
Hardie really wanted a beer.
Usually he didn’t mess around with beer. He went right for the bourbon. Beer