It's a Yaris.
My hand had twitched over the red Lincoln MKZ on the online reservation form. Not exactly a Pagani, but I wouldn't mind road testing it for a few days. Despite the temptation, I inevitably clicked on the Yaris hatchback. Low key.
I sign off on the scratch and dent form, throw my bag into the back of the Yaris, and settle into my new ride. Thank Jeebus there's a GPS.
If I were smart, I would go scout out the conference area, but I just want to get to my hotel. I finagle with the GPS for a few minutes until I manage to map what appears to be the right address Karl had sent me, then pull out onto the road.
New Orleans feels small compared to Phoenix, though it's still a decent sized city. The hotel isn't far, and before long, Ralf has checked in.
I flip on the light in the room. Apparently, Karl thinks I'm ungrateful or something, because a cell in Alcatraz would be more interesting—and inviting—than this room. He should just let me book my own flight and stay. I think the only reason I get to choose the car is because he has no idea what I actually do on my assignments. He would likely approve renting a tank if I sent him the bill for one.
Maybe I should try.
I shut the door behind me and cross to one of the two beds to drop my bag. With a sigh, I flop onto the other bed and stare at the ceiling.
Sleep. I need sleep.
In a few hours, I'll be gunning down a man who probably doesn't want to die just yet. They never do.
I kick off my shoes, remove the jacket and shirt and pants, and crawl under the covers. I should have showered first, but now I'm too comfortable to move.
My eyes close, my brain drifting toward unconsciousness, the undeniable hum in the background.
***
I try to open my eyes, but the overhead light catches me in the face. Blinking, I struggle to clear my brain. Something woke me.
My phone. I un-bury myself from under the covers, feeling like the bastard child of the Tin Man and Scarecrow, and lean over the foot of the bed. My phone is still in the pocket of my pants lying on the floor. I fish it out and, with a grunt, fall back into the pillows. I squint as the screen lights up.
A text message.
I grin and tap the icon.
It's a picture: a boob shot from Syd. Underneath it says, You back?
I reply, Not yet.
My eyes start to close when another text message comes in.
I miss you.
I'm not sure what to reply, so I lay the phone on the mattress next to me and try to go back to sleep. Still, I can't help but smile.
***
I wake in the late morning to a thrumming in my head. That's the hum. It's gaining. I sit on the edge of the bed, feet planted on the floor, and rub my eyes with my palms. The hum is like a hangover, a caffeine headache, and what I imagine that noise people claim to hear in Taos, New Mexico sounds like—all rolled into a big wad of misery and crammed into my skull.
Mostly, though, I hate what it will become. Hate it enough that my thoughts go right to Phil's imminent death. His speech is this evening. I have a plan.
Not a very good one. But a plan.
I trudge to the bathroom, smacking my palm to my head and muttering, “Quiet, already. I'm working on it.”
Since I packed next to nothing, I grab the little courtesy bottles from the vanity and leave my phone in their place. Traveling light makes the situation feel like it will be over faster. Plus, less potential of leaving clues behind.
I flip on the shower and hop in. I could piss better water pressure.
Thank you, Karl. Your generosity overwhelms me.
Multimillionaires don't get that way by being frivolous, I guess.
Half way through my shower-coma, my phone vibrates on the vanity.
“Dammit, Syd.” I splash off the last of the soap.
Then I realize it's probably not Syd.
I fumble from behind the curtain and grab my phone on the last ring.
Before I can speak, a man on the other side says, “I am looking for Dimitri Hayes.”
He sounds so formal, I feel like I should be in a suit and tie just to answer his call. I recognize the routine. He's one of Karl's men. Karl has them all over the country, and possibly the globe.
“Dimitri Hayes, that's me.” I unfold a towel from the wall rack and wrap it around my waist. “And yes, it's room two-eleven.”
“Thank you.” He hangs up.
These guys move fast. I barely slip on my pants before there's a knock on the door. I don't even bother to peek out. I'm the most dangerous thing in this hotel, and maybe the whole damn city. If I'm told to be, anyway.
A man is standing at the door, wearing jeans and a Saints jersey and holding a large brown envelope with one hand. He stares at me.
I put up my hands and wiggle my fingers. His frown deepens. He grabs my wrist and narrows his eyes.
“No fingerprints,” I say.
He concludes for himself, then hands me the envelope. I shut the door in his face and walk to my bed.