I stepped outside my motel room and walked down towards the office. My phone dinged and I glanced down at it. Lavinia had sent me a picture of a thin balding man, Frank, Dad's current body. He looked more like a clerk than a prison guard. I swiped it away and slipped the phone back in my jeans' pocket. Turning, I pushed through the office door and stepped up to the front desk.
The motel manager, Janine, gave me a bit of a smile. Her clothes were rumpled and she had a strained look to her. Her teeth looked darker today than they had yesterday.
"Janine, how are you this fine morning?" I asked, leaning a little on the desk. People sense evil in different ways. For me, it usually starts with a smell, a rotten, hamburger left out in the sun kind of smell. Just whiffs here and there.
"Just fine, Just fine," she said, reaching around to give me my bill.
I glanced at it, then handed her my card. The smell was in the air now. There's a little static shock after each whiff, let's me know that Janine isn't just unhygienic.
She swiped it and waited for the receipt to print. Her hair was thinning enough that I could see flashes of her spotted scalp every time she moved. "It'll take a second," she said.
"How long have you lived in Omaha, Janine?" I asked.
"It's my home," she said, smiling a little again. She handed me my card and the receipt. "I need your signature," she said.
"Sure, could I use your pen?" I asked.
"In the cup," she said.
I held up the empty black cup so she could see it.
"Oh," she said, frowning, "Here, sorry." She slipped one of the pens from the front pocket of her wrinkled blue shirt and handed it to me.
I signed my name, handed the receipt to her, but held on to the pen. "You mind if I keep this pen?" I asked, flipping over my copy of the receipt and scrawling some symbols across its white surface.
"Uh," she said.
"Pretty please, Janine?" I said, smiling.
"Okay, I guess."
"Perfect," I said slipping a thin strand of hair from my pocket and wrapping it around the pen. "Now, Janine. What can you tell me about Kelly Swinton?"
Janine's blank expression darkened. "Who?" she asked.
"Kelly Swinton," I replied. "She lives a couple miles down the road. Small house, real nice lady." I leaned forward a little. "She's been having some bad luck lately though. Pets dying, rats scuttling in the walls, blood in the faucets..."
Janine looked away. "That sounds just awful," she murmured.
"Janine," I said, and she looked back up at me. "Where is it?"
"I'm not sure what you mean."
"Where is it, Janine?" I asked again.
"Where's what?"
"Tell me where it is," I said. "Save us both a little time."
"I don't know what you're talking about!" said Janine.
I scratched the scruff on my chin. "The book. The old book you've been using to ruin a woman's life. Where is it?"
"You're crazy," she said.
YOU ARE READING
Walking the Ley Lines
Paranormal"you can trust me when I say that my grandfather was the spree killer Charles Starkweather. Grandma met him in Nebraska after he climbed out of his grave. It took another couple years before he died for real. Nobody liked him except her." Zale is wa...
