five thousand dollar retainer. Up front, of
course.”
“Your confidentiality does have a price, doesn’t it?”
Colonel Hollister picked his jacket up off the bed. He pulled a money pouch out
of his pocket, unzipped it, and removed a stack of cash, all hundreds. The
colonel counted out fifty, left them on the bed, and slipped the pouch back in
his jacket.
He picked up John’s business card, wrote on the back.
“This is my number.”
“I’ll contact you when I find something,” John said.
Colonel Hollister motioned his men out.
“You know,” he said, stopping at the door, “I’m usually
pretty good at anticipating the unforeseen, but, I must say, I did not expect
you.”
“What, a P.I.?”
“No, an Abernathy.” And he walked out.
John ran to the door, tried to catch him, find out what he
meant.
“Wait! Wait!” John shouted, running into the parking lot
as the colonel was pulling away from the motel, his taillights already down the
road.
John chased them down Grand Avenue, heedless of the loose
pebbles and broken glass that were scattered across the street, gouging his
bare feet. He lost sight of them when they turned onto East University, heading
to the interstate.
Standing in the middle of the road, the stomach pains from
earlier returned and John clutched his bloodstained shirt. A breeze picked up,
blowing dirt across the road, a desert visitor. The air was fragrant, not the
normal smells of trash, diesel exhaust, dead skunks, the slow decay of a small
town, but with something that made John remember his childhood, sitting in the
park reading comic books with his mother. It sedated him, made him feel
content.
He walked back to the motel, holding his stomach, the pain
dwindling as he approached his room.
In the motel bathroom, John rinsed caked blood from his
face and blew blood clots from his nostrils. He calmly went to bed, knowing the
Air Force wouldn’t return. They might return some night, waiting in the room
for him again, but not tonight. Tonight, John fell asleep, unaware of the eyes
peeking just above the bottom of his window.
The
next morning, a key turned in the lock. The sound snapped John from his sleep.
He sat up in bed, reached for the gun on the nightstand. He was not the same
angry kid Rooftop used to take to the shooting range, envisioning his father’s
face on the targets. He hadn’t been to the shooting range in years, and art
school had changed his Old West views. But the Air Force spooked him. The
broken chain rattled as the key turned and there was nothing stopping someone
from forcing their way into his room. John pointed the gun at the door and his
hand shook as the door creaked open a crack and the morning and the routines of
the small hotel imposed themselves upon him.
“Housekeeping,” a woman said in a thick, Mexican accent.
It was just the maid, not uniformed men armed with guns and iPads .
“Still sleeping. Come back later,” he said, collapsing
into the bed. He clutched the gun to his heart.
She apologized in broken English, and quickly shut the
door. A cart, heavy with cleaning supplies, creaked to the next room on worn,
uneven wheels.
John put the gun on the nightstand. The clock. It was a
little after eleven. Six hours of tossing under starched sheets and synthetic
blanket. The sun burned through the cracks in the curtains. He tried to fall
asleep again, but lay there, feeling sticky from a stressful snooze. John
rubbed his throat where the soldier had held the knife. He could have died last
night, been killed just like the kid, on his own for the first time,
unprepared. What had he gotten himself into? He could pack up, run back to
Denver, but the kid had died alone in the desert, unable to fulfill his
journalistic aspirations, while John clicked away at his computer, searching
for the right words. He rubbed his wrists, noticed the abrasions from the
handcuffs were gone, his skin fresh and healed, and decided to get up, to keep
looking for the
course.”
“Your confidentiality does have a price, doesn’t it?”
Colonel Hollister picked his jacket up off the bed. He pulled a money pouch out
of his pocket, unzipped it, and removed a stack of cash, all hundreds. The
colonel counted out fifty, left them on the bed, and slipped the pouch back in
his jacket.
He picked up John’s business card, wrote on the back.
“This is my number.”
“I’ll contact you when I find something,” John said.
Colonel Hollister motioned his men out.
“You know,” he said, stopping at the door, “I’m usually
pretty good at anticipating the unforeseen, but, I must say, I did not expect
you.”
“What, a P.I.?”
“No, an Abernathy.” And he walked out.
John ran to the door, tried to catch him, find out what he
meant.
“Wait! Wait!” John shouted, running into the parking lot
as the colonel was pulling away from the motel, his taillights already down the
road.
John chased them down Grand Avenue, heedless of the loose
pebbles and broken glass that were scattered across the street, gouging his
bare feet. He lost sight of them when they turned onto East University, heading
to the interstate.
Standing in the middle of the road, the stomach pains from
earlier returned and John clutched his bloodstained shirt. A breeze picked up,
blowing dirt across the road, a desert visitor. The air was fragrant, not the
normal smells of trash, diesel exhaust, dead skunks, the slow decay of a small
town, but with something that made John remember his childhood, sitting in the
park reading comic books with his mother. It sedated him, made him feel
content.
He walked back to the motel, holding his stomach, the pain
dwindling as he approached his room.
In the motel bathroom, John rinsed caked blood from his
face and blew blood clots from his nostrils. He calmly went to bed, knowing the
Air Force wouldn’t return. They might return some night, waiting in the room
for him again, but not tonight. Tonight, John fell asleep, unaware of the eyes
peeking just above the bottom of his window.
The
next morning, a key turned in the lock. The sound snapped John from his sleep.
He sat up in bed, reached for the gun on the nightstand. He was not the same
angry kid Rooftop used to take to the shooting range, envisioning his father’s
face on the targets. He hadn’t been to the shooting range in years, and art
school had changed his Old West views. But the Air Force spooked him. The
broken chain rattled as the key turned and there was nothing stopping someone
from forcing their way into his room. John pointed the gun at the door and his
hand shook as the door creaked open a crack and the morning and the routines of
the small hotel imposed themselves upon him.
“Housekeeping,” a woman said in a thick, Mexican accent.
It was just the maid, not uniformed men armed with guns and iPads .
“Still sleeping. Come back later,” he said, collapsing
into the bed. He clutched the gun to his heart.
She apologized in broken English, and quickly shut the
door. A cart, heavy with cleaning supplies, creaked to the next room on worn,
uneven wheels.
John put the gun on the nightstand. The clock. It was a
little after eleven. Six hours of tossing under starched sheets and synthetic
blanket. The sun burned through the cracks in the curtains. He tried to fall
asleep again, but lay there, feeling sticky from a stressful snooze. John
rubbed his throat where the soldier had held the knife. He could have died last
night, been killed just like the kid, on his own for the first time,
unprepared. What had he gotten himself into? He could pack up, run back to
Denver, but the kid had died alone in the desert, unable to fulfill his
journalistic aspirations, while John clicked away at his computer, searching
for the right words. He rubbed his wrists, noticed the abrasions from the
handcuffs were gone, his skin fresh and healed, and decided to get up, to keep
looking for the
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