the bare room in which to hide.
He swallowed hard as he saw the door handle to the room jiggle.
John Stallings found the key marked “6” and slid it into the lock, while he said quietly, “Is this the day that changes my life?” He had his Glock in his right hand and turned his head every couple of seconds to make sure the clerk didn’t move. His heart pounded in his chest as he considered what a bonehead move this was, but he had no choice. He couldn’t risk losing Dremmel.
As soon as he felt the door lock click open, he shoved the door hard and ducked low, out of the doorway, where he knew he’d be silhouetted by the streetlights. He scanned the room once quickly with his pistol out in front of him, trying to control his breathing.
There was no one here. Stallings rose slowly with his Glock still out in front of him and crept toward the bathroom and closet at the far corner of the room, trying not to give away his position. When he reached the short wall that separated the bedroom from the closet and bathroom he paused, took in a breath, and then darted around the barrier, gun up and ready to fire.
Still nothing. The small closet was completely bare.
He could see into the open bathroom and it appeared empty. He stood to one side and used his left hand to push open the door until it clinked with the wall. He flipped on the single light and checked all the way inside, letting his eyes sweep the tub, toilet, and back wall.
Clear.
Where could this asshole be? Had Stallings’s luck just run out and he missed Dremmel? Had he gone to eat?
He had turned to check on the clerk, when he noticed the paneling inside the bare closet. Something didn’t look right.
William Dremmel had pulled the loose panel back in place, covering him in the hole inside the closet just as the door to the motel room swung open. It was tight and dark, but he could stay in the narrow gap for a while.
He waited, knowing someone was in the room, then, after a few seconds, sensing the person move past the closet into the bathroom. It had to be a cop.
He gripped the stun gun up close to his chest and tried to breathe silently, which was harder than he expected when he concentrated on it. There was no hidden tunnel, just a gap in the wall where he pressed up against the drywall of the main part of the motel room. An insect scurried across his face, but he didn’t move or make a sound.
He heard the light and fan in the bathroom come on. Whoever it was, they were close. A tremor ran through his body as the events of the day caught up to him. He didn’t think his shudder caused any noise as he continued to sulk in his cubbyhole.
Stallings paused, peering into the closet as well as listening for anything unusual. He could hear the light traffic trickle by on the street and the far-off sound of a boom box as the bass pounded off buildings. Then he noticed it. A slight dip in the design of the wall where the ancient paneling didn’t match up just right.
Briefly he considered just unloading a few rounds into the wall. Instead, he reached in with his left hand and probed the panel. He stepped into the closet, pistol ready, and started to pull the panel when he saw some movement, heard a familiar clatter, then felt a tremendous jolt of electricity run though his arm.
The shock threw him back out of the closet as he lost his equilibrium.
Then he saw Dremmel burst out of the closet, leap over him, and dart toward the door.
Stallings rolled to one side, and, still disoriented, rose to his knees then onto wobbly legs.
He heard the buzz of the stun gun again and a scream, raised his pistol, and stumbled around the closet into the motel room.
Fifty-one
Dremmel got a partial shock on the arm of the guy in the closet, then didn’t waste any time racing for freedom. He leaped the fallen, stunned man, zoomed through the room, and aimed for the open door. Without breaking stride he passed through the doorway, then slammed into someone coming inside, colliding with terrific force. He didn’t hesitate and brought the stun gun up to the man’s chest and squeezed the trigger.
The shock sent them in opposite directions. When he landed, Dremmel looked across the cement walkway and realized he had just sent the motel clerk into a violent convulsion on the ground.
Dremmel had started to rise to his feet when he heard someone from the motel doorway say, “Move and you’re a dead man.”
William Dremmel looked up into the barrel of a semiautomatic pistol held by a tough-looking man with a badge clipped to his belt.
Dremmel paused and said, “Who are you?”
“John Stallings, JSO.”
Then Dremmel made his last pitch at freedom.
Stallings had this creep at gunpoint and he’d identified himself. But instead of considering the best way to hold him until backup arrived he found himself assessing his chances of shooting this stinking pile of shit and getting away with it. He edged closer, his pistol still up.
Dremmel surprised him by driving up on powerful legs like a nose tackle coming into the offensive line. His arms up in front of his face, he struck Stallings hard, shoving him back into the room, knocking the pistol loose.
Stallings tumbled backward onto the hard floor with Dremmel landing on top of him. He braced for another jolt from the stun gun. Nothing. Just the younger man trying to stabilize himself to land a punch.
Stallings drove his knee into Dremmel’s groin. He heard the gasp and yelp so familiar to any male ever hit below the belt. He slid away from Dremmel and felt his pistol on the floor as he did. He grabbed it and jumped into a crouch, raising the gun at the same time.
He yelled, “Don’t move.”
Dremmel froze, gasping for air.
Slowly Stallings backed away, giving himself more room and respecting Dremmel’s athletic ability. He stood and looked down at his prisoner.
Dremmel seemed to recover from the blow to his groin and looked up at Stallings with defiance in his eyes.
Stallings glanced out the door and saw the clerk was still on the ground, virtually unconscious. This was the exact situation he wanted. Just the two of them, isolated, with no witnesses. He thought about Lee Ann Moffitt, Tawny Wallace, and Trina Ester. That old anger started welling up in him. He let himself wonder about his own daughter as he looked at this predator who had tried to claim two more victims, one of them his own partner, Patty. He thought about her in the hospital, then raised the pistol. He wished it was a revolver so he could cock it and let this asshole think about what was coming. It wasn’t even murder. It was justice.
Dremmel stared up silently.
Maybe this is what he wanted? Then Stallings hesitated just long enough to think about Patty and her desire for him to think through his violent tendencies. Now was not the time to be indecisive. He kneeled down so he was the same height as Dremmel. He didn’t want an ambitious crime scene tech to figure out the trajectory of the bullet made it look like an execution. He already had a stun gun burn on his arm and a lump on his head from being knocked back by Dremmel. No one would ask questions unless he got stupid.
Dremmel’s expression never changed as Stallings went down on his left knee, keeping the front sights of the pistol in the center of the killer’s face.
Stallings had to ask. “What pushed you to do it?”
Dremmel shrugged, showing no concern. “You tell me. Looks like we’re not that different.”
“Yes, we are.”
Fifty-two
