His body began to throb again. He sat perfectly still, letting the ache do its work.
Finally, he stood, again letting his head have its way, and walked to the door.
It was locked, but it was a cheap bathroom lock and a half minute with his penknife released it.
He eased the door open.
There was still night darkness in the house. The light came through an open door at the far end of the room he had entered. It was a storage room, boxes of silver chains and clasps, plastic bags of turquoise stones. Boxes filled with white cardboard gift boxes.
Paine went into the outer room, slowly, delicately, painfully.
He was in the cellar of the house. Basement windows showed blackness from outside. There was a workshop, a lathe, a drill press, racks of jewelers' tools on pegboards hung on the walls. A single overhead bulb with a pull chain was on by the stairs.
Paine stepped on the stairs and smelled blood.
The door was open at the top; Paine saw more light in a hallway. As he approached the top the smell of blood was very strong.
An arm lay on the floor across the opening into the cellar, the hand palm up. It wasn't attached to anything.
Paine stepped over it, and saw that the hallway was littered with human limbs.
He found their heads in the living room of the house, the showroom. They were on the sales counter by the cash register, facing one another. The woman's long black hair had been carefully curled around the neck; her earrings did not dangle, two long ovals of turquoise on silver hangers resting on the counter. Quinones's head regarded her; it looked as though his left eye were staring at her earrings.
Paine went to the front door. It was open, warm desert night air filtering into the shop. The moon was up, waxing toward full; the outside world looked nearly as dreamlike as the inside of the jewelry store.
Perhaps because it all looked like a dream, or perhaps because he was getting used to it, or getting angry, this time Paine did not vomit.
22
From the elevator, Paine could tell that the door to his hotel room was open. He stepped back into the elevator car, waited for the doors to close, and pushed the button for the lobby. The elevator went down and let him off.
He went to the desk, smiled. The nightman smiled back, ignoring the battered face.
'Hi,' Paine said. 'I'm in 417. Could you tell me if my friend checked in yet? He's supposed to be in the room next to me, but I don't know if that's 415 or 419.'
The nightman checked his book. 'Would that be Mr. Chambers in 415?'
Paine frowned. 'I thought for sure he said 419.'
'Room 419 is vacant, sir. Would that be Mr. Chambers?'
'Sure,' Paine said, moving away. 'Thanks.'
Paine went to the end of the lobby, pushed through the glass doors into the pool area, and went to the far end. An old man was in the pool, doing slow laps in dog paddle. He didn't look up as Paine went by.
Paine pushed through to the outside. His room was in the rear, facing the parking lot. The lot was empty.
Paine climbed the fire escape to the fourth floor. There were balconies, and he made his way to the balcony outside room 419.
There was a sliding glass door, which took Paine a few minutes to get through.
He went into the room, slid the door closed behind him. He walked to the bathroom, took a glass tumbler from its sterile wrapper, went into the bedroom and sat on the bed.
He put the glass open end to the wall over the bed and put his ear to the other end.
There was silence in the room next door, then a yawn.
'Shit,' someone said in a hard whisper.
'Be quiet,' a second voice said. 'You've been complaining for two hours.'
'Doesn't this fucker ever sleep? I'm hungry.'
'You'll eat when we're finished.'
'I'm hungry now.'
'You should have brought something.'
'I ate it an hour ago.'
'Just be fucking quiet.'
'It's uncomfortable, too. These chairs are uncomfortable.'
The other one sighed loudly. 'This is the last time I work with you, Martin.'
Martin laughed. 'You think I complain too much? Tell Gordon to transfer you. Fine with me, Sims.'
'You did nothing but-'
'You hear something?' Martin said in a fierce whisper.
There was silence; Paine heard someone walk by in the hallway outside, whistling. After a moment he heard the elevator doors open and then close. The whistling went away.
'Wasn't him,' Martin said. 'Where the hell is he?'
'Will you be quiet?'
'I told you I was hungry and uncomfortable. These chairs are uncomfortable.'
Paine pulled the glass away from the wall, set it down on the table next to the bed. He picked up the phone, dialed room 417.
The phone rang awhile. Paine could imagine them arguing in the dark as to whether to pick it up or not. Finally, one of them did.
'Sims?' he said purposefully. 'Gordon told me to tell you we've got him spotted across the street at the Marriott. Go downstairs. Tell Martin to wait outside the door, in the hallway. You hear me?'
Sims started to protest, but Paine said, 'Gordon says now,' and hung up the phone.
Paine went to the door and waited. There was a commotion next door, then the door opened and someone strode to the elevator, got on it, and was gone.
Paine opened the door, stepped out into the hallway, pretended to lock his own door. He walked quickly by Martin, standing in the hallway, turned and punched Martin in the face.
'Hey!' Martin protested, but Paine pushed him back through the door into his hotel room, punched him again, kicked the door closed behind him. Martin was feeling around his chest under his jacket, so Paine planted his fist in Martin's groin and Martin went down to the rug groaning. Paine pushed him back with his foot and went through Martin's jacket, coming up with a snub-nosed.38 in a shoulder holster. He put the gun to Martin's nose.
'Talk very clearly,' Paine said, the adrenaline rush masking the pain that had flared when he'd punched Martin.
Martin was still groaning, so Paine made a deeper impression on Martin's nose with the barrel of the gun until Martin's eyes focused on him.
Paine said, 'Are you FBI?'
Martin shook his head no.
'Who?'
'Bullshit,' Paine said. He pushed the circle of steel harder into the side of Martin's nose. 'Where's your ID?'
'Inside pocket, right side,' Martin said.
Paine kept pressure on the gun, and reached into the jacket pocket opposite the holster. There was an ID there, identifying Raymond Martin, special agent, Drug Enforcement Agency.
'What the fuck are you doing in my hotel room?' Paine said. Martin became silent.
