Play with Fire

chapter Fifty-Six

A GENTLE SNOW was falling as Morris pulled into the courtyard of the Buffalo Bill Motel at about four fifteen on Saturday afternoon. He slid the rental car into an open slot near the motel office and went inside.

“I’ve got a reservation,” he told the clerk, a blonde, painfully-thin woman in her early fifties. “Name of Quincey Morris.”

She consulted her computer. “That’s right, Mister Morris. Got it right here. You’ll be staying with us for two nights?”

“Yeah,” Morris said. “After tomorrow, it won’t... sorry – that’s right, two nights.”

“Would you fill this out for me, please?”

As Morris handed back the completed registration form, he asked, “Have you had any folks from back East check in today? New York, maybe, or Baltimore?”

She hesitated. “I’m not supposed to give out that kind of information... but, no – you’re the only one’s checked in all day, and I’ve been on the desk since six.”

“Great,” Morris said, although it was clear he felt otherwise. “Tell me, have you got a list of the local churches? Tomorrow being Sunday, and all.”

“You’ll find that in your hospitality book, Mister Morris. Every room’s got one – should be right on top of the little desk in there.”

“Okay, fine. How about a town map – got any of those?”

“Yes, sir, got some right here. Have to charge you two dollars, though.”

“No problem – I’m sure it’s worth every penny.”

The motel lady had told him true. In his room – which was larger and cleaner than he expected in West Podunk, Kansas – there was indeed a small desk, and on it a binder marked “Guest Hospitality.” Mostly it contained ads for local stores and restaurants, but the last page was headed “Places of Worship.” Listed underneath were the names and addresses of thirteen local churches. Morris wasn’t superstitious, but he hoped the number didn’t mean bad luck – either for him, or for the world.

He spent the next hour with the city map, marking on it the location of each church on the list. He wasn’t surprised to find that all of them were of some Christian persuasion or other. Oakley had Catholics, Episcopalians, Baptists, Lutherans, Presbyterians, and a few that Morris wasn’t sure about, like the Gateway Fellowship Church. Pity, in a way. A nice Buddhist temple would have been a likely target for Ware and made his job easier. But right now, it looked to him like Mission “f*cking” Impossible. “Where the hell’s Tom Cruise when you need him?” Morris muttered.

He tried to figure out something useful he could do by himself tomorrow morning. Just driving around town until he saw smoke billowing in the air seemed stupid and futile. Besides, by the time he saw smoke, it would already be too late.

Morris had brought the Desert Eagle, disassembled in his checked luggage. He’d halfway expected a hassle from TSA anyway, but they’d let the bag go through. Morris would have welcomed the chance to blow Theron Ware’s brains out, but he didn’t figure the demon was going to make himself a passive target, any more than Ashley would have.

He was contemplating the wisdom of calling in a bomb threat to every church in town tomorrow morning when there came a knock on his door.

He picked up the Desert Eagle, cocked it, and held it alongside his leg – just in case Theron Ware or any of his crew had decided to be proactive about their security. Morris placed himself against the wall next to the doorway, grasped the knob left-handed, and flung the door open, ready to deal with whoever, or whatever, stepped through it.

Nobody came through the door, but after a moment he heard a woman say, “Take it easy, cowboy. Nobody here but us good guys.”

Morris carefully lowered the hammer of his weapon. He’d have known that voice anywhere. “Come on in, Libby.”