Making Monsters (4 page)

Paul slid into the passenger’s seat as she pushed to start the car and threw the vehicle into
gear. The smell of burning rubber made his nose twitch. The car veered to the side as she took
the corner and bounced when it fell back on all it wheels. They continued on the straightaway
which would take them out of the warehouse district. He twisted in his seat to ensure no one
followed them.

Malia turned away from the road and looked at him. “Baby, I do believe we may be up
shit’s creek without paddles.”

 

He strummed a thumb over her cheek. “Malia, I think you may be right,” he sighed. “Let’s
find a room somewhere. I’m not sure if it would be safe for us to go home, and I need to think.”

 

“Paul?”

“I really need to think, Malia.” There was something about that place that was familiar. The
name wasn’t common and he distinctly remembered someone mentioning it but he couldn’t
place who. The left side of his head was starting to thump with a migraine. The links to the
deaths were there, but they continued to elude him.

Malia turned onto the entrance ramp that led to the Interstate, and he closed his eyes.
Chapter Four

Ivan pulled the cellphone from his
slacks pocket and dialed his boss’s number. In the
distance, he could see the red tail lights of the car getting away. While waiting for the line to be
picked up, he looked over at his partner. The idiot held up his hands, his .38 special revolver
dangling from his right index finger. He shrugged. Ivan shook his head. He liked his partners to
possess below average intelligence. They made easy fall guys when shit turned sour, but he’d
really scraped the bottom of the barrel with this new guy.

“You know better than to call me on this line.” His boss finally picked up.

 

“We have a problem.” Ivan ran a finger around the collar of his shirt.

 

“Speak, and make it quick.”

 

“That assistant coroner and his girlfriend were here.”

 

“And?”

 

“I’m not sure what else they found, but the head is no longer salvageable.” Ivan swallowed.

 

“Then I suggest you find me a replacement, or I may have to use yours.” A soft
click
and
dead air filled the line.

Ivan got the message loud and clear. Nobody he’d found so far fit the stric
t requirements
which had been placed on him in regard to the head. It wasn’t easy to find a brown haired guy
with lighter highlights and hazel green eyes. The nose and lips had to be in perfect symmetry
with the forehead. Hell, he’d barely gotten approval for the last guy because his eyes were blue.
He stared down the empty street. It was pure luck he’d found that man. He kicked at the pebbles
littering the road. It was time to go hunting.

***

Malia passed the ratty, rent-by-the-hour motel and pulled into the alley behind it. Parallel
parking the car, she used the large commercial trash receptacle to hide the vehicle and glanced at
Paul. He’d withdrawn into himself. His lips were pursed, his eyes were closed, and he leaned his
head against the head rest. A sign he was deep in thought; it was a face she’d become familiar
with and knew he was trying to work out their problem.

“Honey, I’m going to go check us in.” She ran a fingertip across the back of his hand.

He briefly opened his eyes and lifted his head in acknowledgement, then dropped it onto the
same spot. Paul didn’t need to say a word. She saw concern flash in his expression before he
quickly shuttered it. She reached into the back seat for her light jacket, took a deep breath, and
exited the car. Malia wiped a hand down her face and crossed the dank alleyway. The wind
picked up. Trash and loose paper skittered along the pavement. Malia slid her arms into her
jacket and pulled it across her middle, to cover her holster.

She stepped up into the motel
’s covered walkway. It was more derelict than she
remembered. Having processed several murder scenes at the place in the few years she’d been
with the department. The peeling paint revealed different shades of green, and what once may
have been flower beds only held weeds in various stages of death. Their stalks were a unhealthy
shade of brown and bent, escaping their confines to lay in the corridor. The concrete paths were
cracked and completely broken in some places, as if someone had smashed the two sides
together. Malia turned, following the stone trail to front office. The neon letters of the OPEN
sign flickered; a black gap where the “E” should have been. The glass door squeaked on its
hinges when she pushed it open.

Hot air, tainted with the scent of rotten cabbage, blasted her face. Malia turned her head in
an effort to escape the rancid smell. She swallowed her saliva to try and control her gag reflex.
The room felt like a sauna, and sweat started to dot her brow. She walked up to the wall in front
of her with a window size, plexiglass insert. A small square was removed from the middle, with
a wood shelf bolted to the bottom of the cut out. A bench sat along the length of one wall next to
a small, two-tone table which looked like a paint project someone had given up on. She took the
few steps to the check-in counter. Fresh, cool air blew out of the space, and in the background,
she could hear the hum of an air conditioner, sputtering to battle the heat.

An old woman appeared at the window, and Malia hunched over to see her. Her salt and
pepper hair was pulled back from her face in a severe bun. The hairdo drew the woman’s
leathery skin tight over her skull, giving her eyes a slightly slanted look and thinned her
practically invisible lips. She blinked slowly and moved her mouth to speak. Malia was reminded
of a tropical lizard she’d seen a picture of.

“I’d like to rent a room.” Malia took the registration card the woman offered her.

 

“We rent by the half hour. How long?” The clerk’s rough voice matched her appearance.

 

“All night.” She pushed the form back through the widow.

 

“Then you’ll be needing the presidential suite,” the attendant cackled, “seventy-five
dollars.”

Malia dug into side pocket and pulled out crumpled bills. Loose change chimed, knocking
against each other in her hand. She dropped the change on the counter and rubbed the bills
between her palms to straighten them. She was going to be woefully short for the cost of the
room.

“I have thirty four dollars and…” she added up the change, “…eighty-three cents. Take it or
leave it. I can go to the next lodge down the street.”

 

A set of keys, attached to a long narrow yellow rectangle scrap of wood, appeared in the
narrow opening. “You’re lucky we’re in a recession,” she grunted.

Malia picked it up. The room number was etched in blue; twenty one. She pushed her
handful of money through the slot. With a nod, she quickly got out of the sweltering, tiny room.
She trotted around the outside of the building and along the dilapidated fence which hung at an
angle and ran along the side of the structure. The grass had grown high; old cans, pieces of
clothing, and other debris peeked out along the edge where the pavement and ground met.

She could hear Paul talking before she rounded the corner. His deep voice raised an octave
with every step she took. She stopped at the grill of the car and watched him.

 

“Victoria, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I called to give you a heads up about this
ambulatory service.”

 

Silence.
Paul paced back and forth next to the car. “What the hell does that mean? I’ve never done
anything to the bodies. Who, exactly, is making these allegations?”

 

There was another lull in the conversation.

“It doesn’t matter where I’m at. No, Malia has nothing to do with thi
s. Fuck that! Turn
myself in for what? I haven’t done anything wrong…” He looked over at Malia. His face was
flushed, and a muscle ticked in his jaw. “…An APB out on us as people of interest in the hospital
slayings. That’s a bit far-fetched.”

Malia pushed her hands into her pockets and turned around, taking a seat on the hood of the
vehicle. She stared down the alleyway, watching paper, caught in the breeze, chase each other
through dirty puddles.

“Victoria… Go to hell. If you want us, come and find us.” He dropped the phone on the
pavement and stomped on it, grinding it under his heel. “Malia, give me your phone.”

 

“If they are tracking us by GPS, they’ve probably already triangulated the cell towers.” She
slipped the phone from her pocket.

 

“If they haven’t, now’s a good time to get rid of them.” He crooked his fingers.

 

She twisted and slid the phone across the hood. He threw it on the ground and crushed it.
Paul crouched to pick up the pieces. She arched a brow when he held up the bits.

 

“What do you plan to do with those?” She nodded at the shattered parts.

 

“What room are we in?”

 

“Twenty-one.”

 

“I’ll be back.” Paul started jogging in the opposite direction they’d come in.

 

***

His shirt was damp from the sprint he’d taken to drop off the phones—
two separate
locations; just in case. He leaned on the side of the corner store, hands on his knees, taking in
deep draughts of air. That was the quickest two miles he’d ever run. Paul took a moment to
think. He looked across the street to the motel Malia had checked them into, Sunset Sands Motel.
For a few minutes, he stared at each inn that flanked the empty street. It was dark, and this
section of town should be hopping with prostitutes and drug abusers; anyone male or female
down on their luck and anxious to make a quick dollar. The lanes were eerily still. Guilt ate at
him, and he wiped a palm down the back of his neck. Sweat wet his hand and continued to roll
down his back. His and Malia’s situation turned from sugar to shit in the course of one afternoon.

He ambled down the sidewalk to the road and checked both ways before jogging across.
Paul didn’t check because of the traffic; he wanted to make sure he wasn’t followed. He had no
intention of leading anyone to Malia.

The conversation with Victoria continuously looped in his mind.

His boss had practically begged him to come in, and she informed him that Chief Wald had
issued an APB out on him and Malia. He shook his head; it wasn’t possible. There was nothing
to find in his home; he didn’t take work to the house. Yet, Victoria told him, based on an
anonymous tip, the police had raided his domicile. He took the stairs two at a time to the second
floor landing and looked over the wrought iron railing. What had once been a pool was now a
cement pond of stagnate water and green sludge. Weeds grew from the cracked concrete pad
surrounding it. He put his hand on the top rail, and the metal shrieked, giving slightly. Red dust
drifted down to coat the tips of his tennis shoes.

Something wasn’t right. He turned
to walk down the passageway. He could bounce ideas off
Malia. She understood how his mind worked. The tarnished, brass twenty-one reflected his stare
as he raised his fist and rapped on the door.

“Malia, it’s me,” he whispered between knocks.

The door drifted open. Paul slipped through the crack and pushed the barrier shut. His
scanned the room. The rattle of the air conditioner filled the space, and it obviously had a leak.
His clue was the damp dark circle on the threadbare carpet surrounding the unit. A king-sized
bed sat in the center of the space, flanked by cheap imitation wood nightstands. Bolted to one
small table was a medium black box with a coin slot.

Malia followed his line of vision. “It’s a vibrating bed, Paul.”
“Oh, that’s different.”

 

“Not so much for this motel.” She shrugged.

 

“Did you try the TV? He stepped fully into the room and tapped the television's On button.

 

“I wouldn’t do that if I…” Malia laughed.

Moans and grunts filled the room. He tilted his head and stared at the screen. An orgy filled
the monitor. Arms and legs were splayed, and the picture was panning in to display specific acts
as one woman’s every orifice was filled. Paul reared back and squinted.

“Is that a…?” He pointed toward the TV.

 

“You don’t want to know.” Malia leaned forward and shut off the graphic scene. “Talk to
me, baby. Tell me what’s happening.” She grabbed his fingers to garner his attention.

He dropped his head and studied their intertwined digits. His stomach roiled. He wasn’t sure
how to explain the mess he’d gotten her into. Paul moved toward the bed, tugging her with him.
When he sat, Paul drew her down with him. She yanked her hand, and he held tight, lifting her
fist to his lips.

“I am so sorry,” he breathed against her knuckles.

 

“Spit it out.” She reached up to cup his jaw and turned his head to face her. “We’ll never
solve this if you don’t talk to me.”

 

“There’s an all-points bulletin out on us as persons of interest for the hospital murders,” he
blurted out.

 

“Say again?”

 

“I said—”

 

“I heard you. It was a figure of speech. I take it this is what your precious Victoria told
you?”

 

“This is serious, and you’re going to bring up Victoria?”

“How can I not bring her up? The heifer spends more time meddling in our lives than in her
own. That crazy cadaver lady has a fixation on you. She’s had one from the first time she met
you.” Malia brushed his cheek with her thumb.

“Malia, she looks at me like a little brother, as someone that she has taken under her wing.
I’ve told you before, you read too much into our
working relationship
.”

 

“And you’re blind to the fact that—that bitch probably has more to do with this than she’ll
admit, or you want to see.” Malia rose. “I’m going to take a shower.”

Paul watched her ease behind the bathroom door and pull it firmly closed behind her.
Granted, Victoria was very touchy, feely but he chalked it up to the way she chose to express
herself. He’d never noticed any impropriety when Malia was around. Of course, when one was
with him, the other usually made a hasty retreat, and that person was normally Victoria. The
headache which had started earlier in the evening, now gripped the entire front of his head. He
rubbed his temple. Malia had nothing to be worried about, Victoria was beautiful, but she just
that; a gorgeous shell with no substance that he could ascertain. No, his heart belonged to the
brown beauty currently alone in the bathroom. Maybe he should remind her exactly how much
she meant to him.