The Easy Way Out

43

In an economy motel room so compact it felt like a furnished elevator car, Rachel reclined on a bed amused by the TV program.

The few local channels that the ancient TV could receive offered local southern televangelists, imploring viewers to look deep within their hearts to make room for the Lord and to look deep within their wallets and checkbooks to demonstrate their devotion. Rachel never put much stock in spending hours crawling deep into the cold, dark recesses of her heart shining the lamp of self-examination. She accepted at face value the simple notion that we are who we are. Why make it harder than it needs to be?

She dozed in and out of a restless nap. For most of her life, she'd been in a waking state of slow-wave sleep, like a mammal napping with half its brain while the other half was fully alert, watching and listening for predators.

A light tapping at the door opened her eyes. She muted the television, swung her legs off the mattress, then crept to the motel room entrance, gun in hand. She peered through the peephole. When she'd identified her visitor, she jammed the Glock into her shoulder bag and opened the door.

A gray, unfamiliar version of Blake staggered into the room, wobbling like he was walking on bowling balls. He leaned against the paneled wall, closed his swollen eyes, and exhaled a dying breath, which incited a series of violent coughs that rattled his chest.

Rachel poked her head outside, surveyed the parking lot, then secured the lock. She wrapped her arms around him, embracing the broken man, kissing him again and again. She then withdrew, stepping back to measure the damage.

"My God! What did they do to you?"

He stumbled forward, collapsed onto the bed, teetering on the edge of consciousness. She nuzzled beside him, delicately stroking his hair. His eyes were cold, as though they were almost used up, continuously scanning the horizon for escape routes.

"Oh, Babe. Let me run a nice hot bath for you," she whispered. "Make you feel better."

"Just let me lay here," he groaned. "Just for a minute."

"How did you get here?"

"Drove." His face tightened in anguish. "I took that asshole's Tahoe." He licked his raw lips. "And I got his..."

She got up, made a narrow gap in the curtains, and peeked out into the parking lot. "I don't see the car."

"Ran out of gas," he gasped, his voice thin. "About five or six miles up the road."

"You walked?"

He didn't answer. She moved closer to the bed and discovered that he was out cold. She watched him surrender to exhaustion, his breaths separated by extended pauses.

########

When Goldberg entered the cramped office, Hobbs was leaning back in his chair applying eye drops. "So let me guess," Goldberg said, sipping his coffee. "You didn't even go home last night."

"Occupational hazard."

"Your eyes look like you boiled them."

"Probably from looking at your crisscross shirt and striped tie," Hobbs muttered, wiping liquid trails from his cheeks.

"Not crisscross. Grid check."

"How much do you spend on clothes, anyway?"

Goldberg shrugged. "I'm not Amish. Life's too short for plain white shirts and black ties. And cop shoes."

Hobbs slipped his glasses back on then turned his attention to the computer screen, trying to refocus his hazy thoughts.

"Data dig not producing results?" Goldberg asked.

His partner shook his head. "Blake Gannon. Squeaky clean. Got everything from his grade school transcripts, to his job history, bank records, credit score. You name it."

Goldberg finished his coffee. "Still nothing on the girl?"

Hobbs looked down at a marked-up yellow legal pad and circled the name, 'Rachel Ferris' with his pen. "She's a ghost." He tapped his pen then rubbed his eyes.

"Sure seems that way."

Hobbs reached for the mouse, then scrolled, scanning the screen. "Her employer paid her in cash. She doesn't have a bank account. Or a social security number."

"Or a driver's license," Goldberg added.

"No record of her former employers or her former addresses."

Goldberg took a long drink of coffee then said, "What I got from interviews at the apartment building and from her high-class employer, Booty's Sports Bar," Goldberg rolled his eyes. "People said this Rachel chick is a smoke show."

"Run that by me again."

"A hottie. A looker."

"Yeah. Heard that, too," Hobbs replied with a weary nod.

"I can't find a single picture of her," Goldberg said.

"Me neither."

"Isn't that what hot chicks do these days? Take a million selfies making kissy faces with their butts hanging out and post all over social media?"

"Apparently, not this girl." With the click of the mouse, he opened another browser tab then typed in the search bar. "Would it come as a complete shock to you if this Blake Gannon turns up as a corpse?"

Goldberg flattened his palm on the desk and leaned forward to look at the screen. "You got a body?"

Hobbs rubbed his eyes and shook his head.

"So where you going with this?"

"Just thinking out loud."

########

With the curtains flushed with the fading glow of daylight, the headboard repeatedly banged the motel wall accompanied by the crying out of the old box springs. Amidst discarded clothing, an empty pizza box, and soft drink containers, Blake and Rachel lay entangled naked on the bed. He wasn't making love, he was angry, repeatedly slamming his bruised body against hers.

"Hey, Babe," Rachel whispered. "Easy. Easy."

He rolled her onto her stomach, grabbed her hips, yanking her up onto her knees.

"Babe, you're hurting me."

A few more savage thrusts then he collapsed, clutching the sheets in pain. He paid a heavy physical price for channeling his rage, his chest rising and falling with each desperate mouthful of air.

She slipped out of bed, into the bathroom, and returned with a wet washcloth, placing it gently across his fevered forehead.

"It's not out there in the car..." He gasped. "Is it?"

She lay beside him, both of them coated in a gloss of perspiration. "I thought I was never gonna see you again," she whispered, tracing her fingers gently over his bruised face before going for his emotional sweet spot. "I love you so much."

She kissed him gently on the cheek, then sunk into her pillow.

"The money." His voice sounded like the hiss of a radiator.

"I made a mistake," she whispered, pressing her face to his hand. "I should have ditched the car, but I wasn't thinking. I was so worried about you and what I was gonna do if... If you didn't come back." She forced the tears but didn't achieve the desired results.

He turned onto his side, drawing his knees up toward his chest. With his eyes closed, his breath slowed.

"I got pulled over," she said.

That opened his eyes.

"Small town cop," she whispered. "I had no choice."

"You took off?"

"He was gonna run the license and registration."

Blake winced.

"I ditched the car in town and got a cab to the airport."

"Wait. What?!"