?Well, actually, it turns out that we do have an unexpected checkout. If you don'?t mind a room that hasn?'t been made up yet??
Walt laughs good-naturedly. ?Son, before I struck it big, I stayed in places a cockroach would have run from. You just print me out a key. I'm ready to get down to one of them boats and lose some money.?
?Yes, sir. Right away.?
Walt looks around and sighs expansively. ?Seems like a lot going on for this town. This ain?t Pilgrimage month, is it??
?No, sir. It?s the Balloon Festival. The only reason this room is free is because we had a problem this morning with the flight.?
Walt?s inner sentry goes on alert. ?What kind of problem?
?Well, someone took a shot at one of the balloons.?
?I'?ll be dogged. Kill anybody??
?No, sir. But they did have to crash-land the balloon. And the mayor was in it.?
?The mayor?? Walt barks a laugh as he thinks this through. If Penn had been badly hurt, Tom would have called despite instructions not to save in dire emergency. ?No kidding? He make it??
?He?s fine. They just had a hard landing.?
?He must have pissed somebody off, huh? Wrote the wrong ordinance or something. I?'ve known a couple mayors I wouldn'?t have minded shooting.?
?They think it was squirrel hunters.?
?I'?ll be dogged,? Walt says again. ?Balloons flying tomorrow??
?Yes, sir, Sunday too. But everybody?s nervous, and some of the pilots have left town. It?s a pilot?s room you?re taking tonight.?
?Sounds like I owe the lone gunman a favor. Otherwise I wouldn'?t have a room in this fine establishment.?
The clerk slides a form toward him. ?If you?ll just initial here, and here, and sign at the bottom. Please note the fine for smoking in the room.?
?Hell, I'?ll just pay you now.?
Brad frowns. ?It?s two hundred and fifty dollars, Mr. Gilchrist.?
Walt laughs like a man for whom $250 is a minute?s pay, then signs his name with a flourish. ?Just pulling your chain, Brad.?
As the clerk tries to pull back the form, Walt leans in close. ?Say, what?s the action like around here??
Brad looks confused. ?The casinos are all beneath the bluff. Our concierge can help you with anything else, but he?s busy right now.?
Walt slides a $100 bill across the desk. ?I'm talking about girls, Brad. I know where the gambling is, but that?s only half the party. I?'ve been hankering for a colored girl, to tell you the truth. Been a while, you know? This seems like the right town for that. They got girls on the boats or what??
Obviously offended, the clerk lets his voice take on a haughty tone. ?I'm sure I don'?t know, sir.?
?What about cockfighting? I know you got some of that around here. That'?s the kind of action I'm talking about. Blood sport.?
Brad straightens up and squares his shoulders. ?Sir, if you don'?t mind, there are people waiting.?
Walt snatches back the bill. ?You?re in the wrong job, sonny. You say the concierge is busy? You got an elevator man? Somebody around a hotel has to know what?s what.?
The clerk?s cheeks are red. ?Will you be needing help with your luggage??
?I need a bellboy who can earn that C-note with some useful information, that?s what I need.?
?Perhaps someone can help you on one of the boats.?
Walt walks away muttering loudly, ?I never heard of a deskman in an oil town who don'?t know nothin? ?bout the local trim.? He turns and shouts, ?Send a bottle of Maker?s Mark up to my room from the bar. You know what that is, don'?t you??
?A full bottle??
?Jesus, Brad, where?d they find you? I want whiskey, and if you'?ve got a pretty maid who can bring it up, send her up with it.?
There was a time when the way he?d behaved in the last five minutes wouldn'?t have shocked any hotel man in the South, and not many around the country.
I guess times do change,
Walt thinks.
But not that much.
The clerk would gripe to somebody about the old asshole he?d had to deal with, then repeat what Walt had asked for, and soon enough, like ripples in the proverbial pond, word would reach the proper ear. It was simply a matter of waiting.
Any fisherman could tell you that.
CHAPTER
25
?Do you have any food in your backpack?? Caitlin asks. ?I think better when I'm eating.?
?No food, sorry.?
She?s pacing the supply room of the
Natchez Examiner,
studying my handwritten transcription of the text message Chief Logan showed me, the one Tim sent to Linda Church shortly before he died. I?'ve told Caitlin all I know of the case so far, but true to character, she has set aside the larger questions to focus on an immediate challenge. She?s something of a savant with puzzles, and nothing if not obsessive in all pursuits.
?I don'?t think this is a password,? she murmurs to herself. ?It?s too long, plus it?s counterintuitive. Have you gone to this URL, www.thief.com??
?Yes. I don'?t see how the site could be related to any of this. And there?s no dot-com in the text message. We?re just assuming that one follows.?
?Right, right. What
is
in the backpack??
?A gun and a satellite phone.?
She looks up, checking to see if I'm joking. When she sees I'm not, her gaze drops back to the message. ?I suppose there could be more to the Web address, and Tim knew Linda would know what the rest
of it was. But if that?s the case, we?re not going to find that without Linda. Not easily, anyway.?
?Obviously it could be a code of some kind, but it?s not simple enough for me to break it.?
?Maybe,? Caitlin concedes. ?But the words that follow don'?t appear to be random. ?Kill mommy. Squirt too.? But they don'?t actually say that, do they? Are these letters exactly what you saw in the police station??
?I think so, yes.?
?And you don'?t believe Tim would have tried to get rid of his wife and kid to run off with this Linda woman??
?No way in hell. He lived for that kid. I'?ll be surprised if it turns out he was even having an affair with Linda.?
?I won'?t.?
