When Death Draws Near (6 page)

SURPRISINGLY, THE HOTEL LOBBY WAS EMPTY
, the only sound coming from the hidden speakers playing Muzak. The convention—or tour or whatever the noisy group was—must have been out or turned in for the night. I suspected they'd rallied at some other location.

I'd relax with a long, hot bath and read an article in
Forensic News
before turning in.

The scent of dried leaves and asphalt greeted me as I opened the door to my room. I paused, then flipped on the light. The sheer curtains in the living area puffed and swirled as chilly air blew in.

I didn't remember opening the window.

From my position by the door, I could see most of the two rooms. Empty. Swiftly I pulled the pepper spray from my purse. In four quick steps I was in the bedroom. The closet door was open with only my meager wardrobe hanging inside. The bathroom was empty. Nothing looked out of place.

Returning to the living room, I checked the window. The
sash could only be opened a few inches before being blocked. No one could fit through the narrow opening. I was about to turn away when I gave the window a quick tug upward. It opened easily.

Biting my lip, I shoved the window closed and locked it.

Another tour of the room assured me it was empty. I placed the pepper spray back in my purse, took off my jacket, and tossed it on the bed. The white duvet was disturbed from when I sat on it earlier.

The phone rang.

Kicking off my shoes, I picked up the receiver. “Hello?”

A deep male voice said, “You need to leave before you get killed.”
Click.

I gasped and dropped the phone. I spun, trying to remember where I'd placed Clay's phone number.

The chocolate-colored scarf across the foot of the bed shifted.

My mouth dried. I grabbed the duvet and jerked it off.

The coiled snake reared its head and prepared to strike.

I froze.

The snake shook its rattles, starting with a slow
chchch
, then speeding to a continuous
cheeeeeheeeee
. Its head waved side to side, its tongue flickering.

I opened my mouth to scream, but no sound came out. My body refused to move. My heart pounded in my head.

The bedclothes vibrated.

The snake turned its head and looked at the sheet.

I tore my gaze from the coiled beast and glanced down. I was still clutching the covers in a white-knuckled trembling hand. With excruciating slowness, I lowered my hand.

The snake watched, tail vibrating.

I edged backward, one foot, then another.
How far can a snake strike?

The snake dropped its head.

I fled from the room. Slamming the door shut, I headed to the lobby, clinging to the walls, my legs barely able to keep me upright.

The clerk must have heard me coming. She gawked at my appearance.

Grabbing the counter to keep from collapsing, I stammered, “Ssss . . . snake! There's a ssnake . . . bed. Call-call the police . . . Shut door . . .”

“Now, there . . . is it Miz Marcey?”

I gripped the counter harder and nodded.

“Well, Miz Marcey. Those little ole snakes won't hurt you. They sneak in under the door. I'll get maintenance to catch—”

“Rattlesnake.”

The woman paused, phone halfway to her ear. “Are you sure?”

I nodded.

She opened a drawer, pulled out a telephone book, and swiftly flipped pages until she found what she needed. She dialed. After identifying herself, she explained the situation. “I'll meet you outside with a room key. I don't want guests in the lobby or hall to see you or they'll panic. Come and leave through the side door.” She hung up. “Jason Morrow, the snake handler with animal control, will be here shortly. This sometimes happens. Can I make you some coffee or tea?”

“No. No. What do you mean this sometimes happens? How many poisonous snakes have turned up in people's beds here?”

The woman wouldn't meet my stare. “Um, well, not when I've been working here. But I've heard—”

“How long have you worked here?”

The woman's eyes narrowed at my tone. “Now, Miz Marcey—”

“Never mind.” I rubbed my arms. “Someone opened my window, put that snake in my bed, and called and threatened me. Where were you when I came in earlier? The front desk was unmanned. Anyone could have walked through those doors.”

“I only stepped away for a moment.”

“Where's your manager?”

Her face flushed red. “We're shorthanded. I'm the manager on duty.”

“Listen. Once that snake's gone, you need to get me another room. Someone knows what room I'm in. Last night's attempt to run me down, the snake, the phone calls . . . It's not safe—”

“I can't move you. We're booked solid. Sorry.”

She said “Sorry,” not “I'm sorry.” She left out the pronoun.
I moved away from the reception desk, my forensic training in high gear. I understood what people really meant by the words they used. A pronoun shows possession, commitment, and responsibility. By leaving it out, she was saying she wasn't sorry. Was she the one who put the snake in my bed? Or who opened the window to let someone in? Did she know who did? Or was she simply glad I had to sleep in that room, with or without a reptile?

“Would you find me a room at another hotel?” I politely asked.

“Sorry. All the available rooms in town are booked. Have been for months. It's the tournament, you know.”

I didn't really know, and I didn't care. As I thought of a suitable comment, a man tapped on the glass outside the lobby. Jason Morrow, the snake wrangler, was a fair-haired, even-featured man in his late twenties, wearing gold, wire-rimmed glasses, and with powerful shoulders and a slim waist. He held what I recognized as snake tongs and a five-gallon plastic bucket with a perforated lid.

The clerk strolled to the door and handed him a key card. “Room 137. Last one.”

A hot flash, yet another reminder of my estrogen-positive cancer and the hormone treatment that put me into early menopause, left me leaning against the counter. I could see the small television screens displaying the security feeds from the different areas of the hotel. It reminded me of the night before, searching for a missing Ina Jo while comforting her wailing daughter. Jason appeared on one, walked directly to my door, looked around, and entered.

The screens flickered, jerked, and two went blank. The clerk stepped over and banged the side. “Stupid thing never works right.”

In what seemed like a very short time, Jason appeared on a screen outside my room. The screen flickered for a few moments. When it came back on, the hall was empty.

Jason tapped on the glass doors outside the lobby, held up the bucket, gave a thumbs-up, then nodded at me. The clerk retrieved the key. Walking to the reception desk, the clerk pasted on a smile that didn't reach her eyes. “Well now, Miz Marcey, I can get you clean sheets, but housekeeping doesn't come on until—”

I waved her away, trooped to my room, and locked the door.
Except for the bedcovers lying on the floor, the room looked bland and harmless. Goose pimples broke out on my arms anyway. I found a blanket in the bottom drawer of the bureau in the living room. Wrapping the blanket around me, I curled up on the sofa.

The clock beside my bed in the other room
tick-tick-tick
ed the minutes away. My eyelids grew heavy.

Bam!

I jumped from the sofa, sending the blanket flying.

Bam, bam!
“Miz Marcey?” Clay asked through the door.
Bam.

I raced across the room and let him in. “It's a good thing you're the sheriff. Otherwise you'd be arrested for disturbing the peace.”

“I just heard about the snake. Came to see if you were okay.” I picked up the blanket and rewrapped it around me. “Snake's gone. I would be, too, if there were another room to rent in town.”

“Let me work on that.”

“And someone threatened me. By phone.”

“Oh? What did he say?”

“ ‘You need to leave before you get killed.' And don't forget the truck that tried to run me down.”

Clay's eyes became distant and unfocused. “That's . . .” He reached for the door. “Keep your door locked. I'll have a word with security here.”

I trailed behind him to the door. He paused before opening it. “You know, I might have an idea of where you can stay. Let me make some phone calls.”

“It's 2:00 a.m.”

“I'll wait till a decent hour. Don't worry. Get some sleep. Okay?”

“Okay.”

After the sheriff left, the room didn't seem quite so cold and impersonal. I again curled up on the sofa. Like a jerky movie reel in my brain, I pictured the snake coiled in my bed, the baby's sobbing face, the dead man in the morgue, Shelby Lee's bruises.

It wasn't until I woke up and was taking my shower that the thought popped into my head.
I didn't tell the sheriff it was a male voice. Why was he dressed and prowling around town at two in the morning? And who told him about the snake?

BY THE TIME I'D DRESSED IN BLACK SLACKS, A
beige shell top, and a navy blue jacket and made my way to the lobby, the bus crowd was gone, leaving meager pickings for breakfast. I finally settled on a hard-boiled egg, bowl of canned fruit, slice of whole wheat toast, and coffee. Something
wasn't quite right, so I added two Danish and a croissant. Most of the tables hadn't been wiped down, and crumpled napkins, Styrofoam cups, and folded newspapers littered their surfaces. I found a relatively clean table and sat on an upright wooden chair not designed for comfort.

The newspaper was filled with news on the rapes and missing girl. Clay had issued a statement that they would soon begin a door-to-door search in outlying areas, and citizens should remain alert for suspicious activity. I finished reading the latest on the case, discovered the tournament was actually an all-class sports reunion, scanned the local football scores, and moved on to the classifieds. I was well into reading about free kittens,
a “spade” dog, and a rabbit hutch complete with rabbits when Clay arrived.

“Ah, good, you're up. Any more death threats?”

I shook my head. “How about you? Did you find Ina Jo?”

He frowned and shook his head.

“I was going to start on the video image you gave me yesterday, unless you have something else you want me to work on.”

“We'll get to that.” The sheriff wandered over to the coffee urns and poured a cup.

Watching him reminded me of my question. “Clay, who told you about the snake in my room?”

“You did, at least indirectly. The hotel clerk said you told her to call the police. Smart move on your part as well as hers. Insurance, you know. Liability.” He sat down next to me and took a sip. “Anyway, I'd left word that if anything came up about you, she was to go straight to me. I got dressed and came over.”

“How did you know the phone call was made by a man?”

“That made sense. It was, wasn't it?”

“Yes.” I felt like an idiot for asking. “Thanks, in case I didn't say that earlier.”

“No problem. You want a new place to stay?”

I nodded.

“So, I have a bit of a confession.”

Finally.

He took a sip of coffee. “I've never worked with an artist. I'm not sure if what you do really works, and there's no way our budget would stretch to bring you out. I told your sheriff I wasn't interested in your services. But a . . . friend of mine put up the money to bring you in.”

I relaxed. That made so much sense. “Okay. But why?”

“My friend's a politician—”

I rolled my eyes.

“Wait, he's a great guy. Big mucky-muck in helping folks and rich enough to do so. He says crime such as this is a reflection on his leadership.”

“In other words, he's running for office, or a higher office, and wants a clean record.”

Clay studied his coffee cup for a moment. “I called Arless, the man paying for you to be here, and he said you could stay with him.” He saw the look on my face. “And his wife,” he added quickly. “You'll be safe there. They're expecting you. Let's get you moved.” He finished his coffee, stood, picked up my kit, and strolled down the hall.

I trailed behind. When we reached my door, I pulled out my plastic key card, then hesitated.

The sheriff must have noticed my pause. He took the key from me and opened the door, then swept through the rooms, peering under the bed and sofa, before waving me in.

“Tell me more about the folks I'll be staying with,” I said.

“Blanche and Arless Campbell.” He glanced at me, eyebrows raised, and smirked.

“Wow. Wonderful!” I pumped my arm.

Clay gave me a thumbs-up.

I pulled out the box I'd shipped the clutter of art supplies, portable drafting table, scanner, and printer in, now thoroughly battered by the airlines. “Who are Blanche and Arless Campbell?”

The sheriff's grin turned into a frown. “You've never heard of them?
The
Blanche and Arless Campbell? Campbell Industries?”

“Oh. You mean
that
Blanche and Arless? Of course.” I tried to keep a straight face. “Still never heard of them.”

“Arless is one of the richest people in the country.” Clay helped me Bubble Wrap the items. “He's a state senator. But he's on his way to the top.”

“Top?”

“Sure. He has the good looks, piles of money, trophy wife, and all the connections. Everything he needs to go straight up the food chain to the White House.”

“What about his politics?”

Clay snorted. “No one cares about his politics.”

“Except he actively cleaned up crime in his hometown?”

He frowned at me, then left to take the box to his car. While he was gone, I tugged out my mismatched suitcases and packed. I'd just finished tucking my toiletries away when he returned.

“Are you sure these folks want a stranger staying with them?” I zipped the second suitcase closed.

Clay lifted it effortlessly. “Sure. Place is always full of folks staying with them. They have a huge home just outside of town, but it's considered their ‘mountain retreat.' Their main place is in Lexington.” He waited by the door with the larger case while I did a quick, final sweep of the room. I grabbed the smaller carry-on, gave him an encouraging nod, and he maneuvered my suitcase down the hall and into the lobby.

“Your host, Arless Campbell, may be the politician,” he said over his shoulder, “but Blanche is the driving force. I wouldn't be surprised if she already has the new china picked out for the White House.” A number of people were in the lobby. Clay wove between them, not slowing as we passed the front desk. Apparently the room bill was already taken care of. “Of course,
they've had to work hard to get people to take them seriously as presidential material.”

“Why's that?”

He stowed my suitcases in the backseat of his sedan next to my box. I slid into the passenger side. Clay got in and started the car. “Well, even though they're from the rich horse country around Lexington, a lot of folks think someone from Kentucky is a backward, uneducated hillbilly. And folks can be snobs. Anyway, they want to meet you. By the way, do you own a dress?” He pulled out into the street.

“What?”

“They're throwing a dinner party in your honor. Tonight.”

The Campbell house, make that mountain retreat, was the size of a hotel, sprawling against the hillside, with naturalized flowers, massive boulders, discreet directional lighting, and a waterfall splashing down the front lawn. I was glad I still wore my only suit, albeit secondhand, but my shoes were from a discount shoe rack at Walmart. Clay grabbed my battered luggage from the rear seat of the car. “I'll come back for your box.” He headed to the front door. I slunk behind.

The door opened before we could knock, and an attractive woman in black slacks and top ushered us in.

I held out my hand. “Mrs. Campbell, I want to thank—”

The woman looked at me as if I'd kicked her dog. “I'm Mrs. Fields, the housekeeper.”

Swiftly stuffing my hand behind my back, I smiled without showing my teeth. “Um . . . how do you do?”

“Well, thank you. Follow me.”

I fell in line behind her starched back, and Clay took up the rear with my luggage. We strolled past a massive stone fireplace at one end of a Native American–motif living room to a short hall. Everything smelled of lemon oil and gleamed with polish. My room proved to be an apartment-sized space decorated in neutral beige and off-white colors.

Mrs. Fields pointed to a phone with numerous buttons. “You're in the guest suite. When this button lights up, it's for you.”

“Thank you again.”

“Lunch is at noon if you're here. We dine at seven.” She gave me a short nod and left.

Clay placed my suitcases on the plush carpeting before looking around the room. “Whooee. This is a step or two or eight up from your digs at the hotel.”

“Thank you for all this.” I waved my arm.

“Glad to help. I'll bring in your box, then I'll have to leave. I've got to get some paperwork done, but I'll see you at dinner.” At my expression, his lips twitched. “Arless and Blanche are old friends of mine. I'm almost like another houseguest.”

He left, returning shortly with my box of art supplies. After placing it next to the desk, he gave a quick wave and once again left.

Alone, I explored the room. I moaned in pleasure at the bathroom, with a double thick copper bathtub and matching copper-vessel sink. Fragrant rosemary-eucalyptus soap rested in a baroque gold compote dish. The cedar-lined closet had far more hangers, shelves, and space than I had clothes at home. I quickly hung up my meager wardrobe, taking up only a minuscule corner of the huge closet. After stashing my suitcases, I closed the
closet door and admired the bedroom. Matching oversize desk, rustic dresser, brown leather accent chair, and end table made up one side of the room with a fieldstone fireplace in the center. The king-sized bed, hosting a dozen throw pillows, invited me to check it out. I pushed, then bounced on its surface like a little kid. I'd be cradled in my sleep. No attempts to run me down, weird phone calls with hang-ups, death threats, or snakes.

The thought wiped the grin off my face.
It's not as if I'm a threat to anyone.
I was just a forensic artist doing her job. I hadn't even identified any bad guys. Yet.

Opening the window, I sucked in the autumn air, then checked the time. I could probably finish the video image sketch in the next few hours if I started now.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out. “Gwen Marcey.”

“Miz Marcey, this is Elijah Adkins. We met outside the police department. You gave me and my wife the drawing of our boy.”

“Yes, Mr. Adkins.”

“We'll have to get Samuel in the ground right quick and all, but we're havin' a celebration of his life on Friday at eleven o'clock. I'd be pleased if you'd join us. Your drawing of Samuel is . . .” A pause, then he blew his nose.

“I'd be honored to come.”

He gave me directions, then disconnected.

I shut the window, then slowly placed the phone on the dresser. The directions were not to a church but to their home. I'd need to ask the sheriff what to wear and where I could get a rental car.

Pulling from the box the art supplies I needed, I sat at the desk and removed the video surveillance photo from the file.

A single frame of a video, taken from a camera mounted above the street, showed the image of a man wearing a cobalt-blue sweatshirt and dark pants. The blurry series of pixels suggested light-colored hair, and the individual facial features were nothing more than impressions. Although many video images led to identifications, the equipment used by businesses varied in quality, and it wasn't unusual that someone like me would be used to help clarify the images.

Propping the photo up against the desk lamp, I stood and walked halfway across the room. With my back still to the image, I tugged out a facial identification catalog and block of Post-it notes from my composite kit. Counting to five, I turned and looked at the photo from a distance, then squinted. The pixels blended together and I could see the suggestion of a face. Before that image disappeared, I flipped through the pages of the catalog and applied Post-it notes to the closest photo matching the surveillance appearance. I returned to the desk and looked closely at the picture. A hint of something white, just a couple of pixels in size, showed by the man's temple. I knew what that was. I'd seen it before. Gold-rimmed glasses, with sunlight glinting off the frames.

I moved the photo to the dresser across the room, then set up my drawing area on the desk. The slanted drawing board, ruler, circle template, erasing shield, electric eraser, kneaded rubber eraser, and Bristol board soon littered the surface.

Drawing a six-inch line down the center of the paper, I bisected it with a four-inch line halfway down. Within the
four-by-six-inch box would be the proportioned face of a typical Caucasian male. The width of the eye would fit five times across the middle of the average face. I'd marked my ruler to that measurement. The nose would be about one and one-eighth inches from the eye line, and the opening of the mouth would be one-third the distance between nose and chin. Once I'd scaled the proportions, I opened the book and sketched in the features I'd selected. With glasses, I wouldn't have to be overly accurate on the eyes. I thinned the face a bit and added ears.

I stood to get some distance on the sketch, but before I could move away, my cell phone buzzed.

“Hi, Mom. Dad wants to talk to you.”

Before I could say a word, my ex-husband, Robert, was on the line. “Gwen, I've got a problem. Caroline's father had a heart attack.” Robert had married Caroline four months earlier. I attended the ceremony and had since become tentative friends with her.

“Oh, I'm so sorry—”

“I'm flying with her to Seattle, then I have to be in Los Angeles for a meeting. I need Aynslee to come stay with you.”

I felt a slight tug on my heart that Robert showed such care for his new wife's father. He'd divorced me the first chance he got after I'd been diagnosed with breast cancer. “I'd love to see Aynslee, but I'm not in my hotel room anymore. Can Beth—”

“Believe me, Gwen, I would far rather have her go anywhere than with you.”

I opened my mouth to protest but he went on.

“I tried Beth first. She has houseguests. And before you ask,
I did try Dave as well. He's off on some Torch Run. I really need for you to take her. It's only for a week.”

I picked up a pencil and tapped it on the desk. “Robert, I told you—”

“If you're about to say you're in danger again, then I'll figure out something else.”