The motel was a dump, and Fuller had to search for the room. His heart was beating faster now, the sound like a bass line in his ears. He found 9F next to a soda machine, and tapped lightly on the door. “It’s open,” a voice called from inside.
He took a deep breath and entered the room. Amber lay beneath the sheet of a queen bed. She’d put a low wattage bulb in the lamp on the night table, and it cast a creamy patina on the room’s cheap furnishings and nautical wall paper. Fuller thought about the two hour minimum as he removed his wallet and extracted his money. Maybe he would use it up this time. He started to throw the money on the bed, then froze.
“Who the hell are you?”
“Krista,” the girl said.
“I asked for Amber.”
“Amber’s sick.”
She slipped out of bed and came over to where he stood. Naked, about five-seven, with everything he liked in a woman except for the scar running across her belly. A C-section, he guessed.
“Amber called me, and asked that I take the job. She told me all about you.”
Fuller was holding the money in his hand. Krista tried to take it, but Fuller wouldn’t let go. “What does that mean?” he said.
“Amber said you were into bondage.”
“That’s right. Are you?”
She flashed a devil’s smile. “Isn’t everybody?”
Krista had brought two pieces of white clothesline and a silk gag. She talked about herself while Fuller tied her arms to the headboard. She’d gone to Atlantic City High, liked to smoke grass and party, blah blah blah. Normally, he tied his girls so they were lying face up, but the scar on her belly was a turn-off, so he tied her face down. To make her comfortable, he put a pillow under her stomach. Then he stripped off his clothes.
“You want to use the gag?” Krista asked.
“Only if you keep talking,” he said.
The fun left Krista’s eyes and she grew silent. Fuller liked it when a girl was a little afraid. It made him feel in control.
“I’m going to turn off the light,” he said.
“Do whatever you want.”
He turned off the light on the night table, then started to climb on top of her. He heard a door bang open, and felt a blast of cold air invade the room. He looked fearfully over his shoulder. Standing in the doorway was a man wearing a baggy green Army jacket and a plastic Richard Nixon mask, cradling a sawed-off shotgun.
“Hello, Special Agent Fuller,” the man said.
The man entered, shutting the door with his foot. Krista’s head snapped around, and she started to scream at the top of her lungs.
“Shut her up!”
Fuller did not want to die. He shoved Krista’s face into the pillow, silencing her.
“Guess who,” the man said.
Fuller hesitated, his mind racing. “You’re the Dresser.”
“Yes, I am. I followed you from your motel. You were so anxious to see your friend, you didn’t even see me.” The Dresser waved his shotgun. “Release her.”
Fuller let her go, and Krista pulled her face out of the pillow.
“Oh, god,” she sobbed.
“I need to have a chat with Special Agent Fuller. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Please, let me go.”
“I’m afraid that’s impossible. In fact, I’d like you to help me. You see, Special Agent Fuller is with the FBI. I need to search his clothes, and find his gun. Then, I’m going to drop his gun in the toilet. Special Agent Fuller may try and run. And that leaves just you and me. Am I making sense?”
“What do you want me to do,” Krista said.
“You appear to be a limber young lady. I’m going to have Special Agent Fuller put his legs between yours. I want you to tie his legs up with your legs. Think you’re up to it?”
“Okay.”
The shotgun’s cold barrel touched the crack in Fuller’s ass. Fuller moved his legs between Krista’s, and she wrapped him up. The Dresser crossed the room and proceeded to search through Fuller’s clothes. Finding his gun, he disappeared into the bathroom, and they heard a loud plop in the toilet.
“I can disarm him,” Fuller whispered.
“Don’t even dream of it,” she said.
“But —”
“Shut your mouth.”
The Dresser returned to the bedroom and stood by the bed. From the pocket of his Army jacket he removed a
