Wild Blood by Nancy A. Collins Page B

fingers, and then slid it into the slot. “Operator, I’d like to make a collect call to Lucas Blackwell, area code 870-555-3962.”
    He hated calling Luke this way, but what else was there for him to do? He was the closest thing to family Skinner had left. He didn’t really expect Luke to make his bail; he just wanted someone, somewhere to know where he was and what was happening to him.
    The phone rang five times, then six. On the seventh ring someone picked up the receiver. “Hello?” Although the voice was distorted by distance and static, he realized it wasn’t Luke’s.
    The operator’s abruptly came on the line. “I have a long-distance person-to-person call for Lucas Blackwell. Will you accept the charges?”
    â€œThis is Phelan, Luke’s cousin. Skinner, is that you?”
    â€œYes, it’s me! Phelan, can you put Luke on the phone?”
    There was a long pause and then the operator came on the line again. “Sir, will you accept the charges?”
    â€œFor God’s sake, Phelan!” Skinner shouted. “Say yes!”
    â€œI’ll accept the charges,” the farmer said reluctantly.
    â€œPhelan, where’s Luke?” Again the uncomfortable silence. “Phelan? Are you there? Speak up!”
    â€œI thought you’d heard,” Luke’s cousin replied slowly. “I reckoned that was why you was callin’ …”
    â€œHeard about what? Phelan, what’s happened? Where’s Luke?”
    â€œHe’s dead.”
    Skinner stared at the receiver as if he could see Phelan’s cow-eyed, slab-like face in the ear piece. “Dead? How?”
    â€œShot himself. We found him yesterday evening, stretched out on the bed, dressed in the suit he married your mama in. He stuck the shotgun in his mouth and—well, you get the picture. We’re burying him Saturday. Can you make it back in time for the service? Hello?”
    Skinner hung up the phone without another word.

Chapter Six
    The buzz of the after-hours check-in bell woke Leon Sykes out of a sound sleep, yet again. He emerged from his apartment and stumped toward the night registry, a small cubicle that resembled a drive-up bank teller’s booth that faced the parking lot. He rubbed his eyes and peered through the bulletproof glass at the couple waiting for him. They were trash, of course. Hell, all he had to do was look at ’em to know they were no good, especially the guy. Assuming anything with hair that long could be called a ‘guy’. The woman had enough makeup on her face to hide everything from acne scars to five o’clock shadow and wore a skin-tight red sheath that stopped just short of flashing beaver. She giggled as she wriggled against her companion, a young punk with waist-length hair that looked almost white.
    â€œWe want a room,” the punk said, his voice was distorted by the speaker into something like the snarl of an animal.
    Sykes put a registration card and ballpoint pen into the hopper on his side and punched a button. “That’ll be thirty dollars plus a five-dollar key deposit. Thirty-five dollars total. Please fill out the card.”
    As the punk fished inside the pockets of his leather jacket, Sykes noticed that the sleeves raggedly ended at the shoulder, as if chewed off by a dog. The younger man tossed a fistful of wadded bills into the hopper and then scribbled a signature on the card. As he did so, Sykes noticed a tattoo shaped like the head of a wolf on the top of his left hand. After he took the money, Sykes passed a keycard back through the machine. Meanwhile, the bimbo continued to rub herself against the punk like she was trying to start a fire without matches.
    The punk grunted something and headed in the direction of the motel units, his lady friend in tow. Sykes watched them go, trying to decide whether he was envious or disgusted.
    He went back to bed and completely forgot about the lovebirds