I brake in the parking lot entrance and slouch down until I can just see over the dash. Phil gets out of his car, fumbles with his briefcase and the door lock, then stumbles toward the hotel. I swing my car around the other direction without headlights, park, and get out.
He enters through a glass back door. I dart up the steps, a few yards behind him. He's too drunk to notice me. Just as I reach the door, it falls shut. I yank the handle, but it won't budge.
Shit.
Something jingles behind me. I turn as a woman comes up the walk.
“Hey, I left my key in my room.” I wave her over. “Can you swipe this for me?”
“Sure, of course,” she says.
People are just too helpful sometimes.
She opens her purse, peers inside, shifts around the contents, pulls out her hotel key card, flips it over, and—two seconds before I snatch it from her—finally swipes it across the reader.
The door clicks unlocked.
I burst through, into the bright hallway, and take off, jacket thudding against the back of my legs. The hum bounces in my brain. I round the corner, muscles tensed for a fight, and stop short.
No one is there. At all.
I've lost Phil.
My heart pounds in my chest. The gun and silencer are heavy in my coat. And this persistent little hum is going to be a raging bitch in the morning.
I smack my palm against my head and mutter, “I'm trying, I'm trying, god dammit.”
Not like it helps. Never has. The hum knows my intentions. It knows I'm hunting Phil. But the hum gets pushy after a while. Grows a little louder, pulses a little deeper.
Then it gets wicked.
Murmuring catches my attention. I listen around the hum. One of the voices sounds familiar.
Phil is talking with someone.
I try to soften my footsteps as I hurry toward the next turn. I peer down the corridor. Phil is standing with another old man outside a room. The other guy is wearing dark pajama pants and nothing to cover his gut. They chat away like they're at a barbeque.
Looks like Phil knows everyone in this damn city. Their conversations carries, but I can't make out their words. Mainly because I don't care. I need Phil to say goodnight so I can put him to rest.
I crouch down and dare another peek. The two men shake hands. Phil trips over himself to another door, then fumbles with his key card until the lock opens. The door thuds closed behind him.
I check my phone, trying to ignore the fact I still don't have any new messages from Syd, and start the countdown. Five minutes. That will give Phil enough time to take off his shoes, have a piss, generally get comfortable. Relaxed. Unsuspecting.
My leg goes numb, so I stand up and shake it out. A few more minutes. I'm so close to fulfilling this wish. Then the madness in my head will be silent again, and I can go home.
I miss my bed. My house. Even my Accord, though the Yaris is kind of cool for the short term.
Tick, tock. After three minutes, I lose patience. The hum won't shut up and seems louder while I stand in the empty corridor. Phil is drunk, so he's probably already passed out anyway.
I stride down the hall, stop at his door, and knock. I might be nervous, but I'm focusing on the hum. Home in on it.
I knock again.
I can't hear anything but the hum. I don't want to hear anything else. This is when I need the insanity it brings.
The door opens. Phil looks … surprised.
I shove him back and slam the door shut with my foot.
He stumbles into the luggage rack. It goes over, and he lands ass to the floor.
His mouth is moving.
All I hear is the hum, but I nudge it back. Just enough to make out his words.
He's stuttering. “Ralf? Why are you here? Ralf?”
I grin a little. I'd forgotten about that: Ralf is going to kill him.
“Please, whatever you want, just take it.” His eyes dart about. “Are you needing a fix?”
I suppose I do look like a druggy. I pull the gun from my jacket with one hand and the silencer with the other and screw them together.
I should have done that already, but who cares? What is Phil going to do? Whistle at me?
He skitters back a few feet. “Please, Ralf. You don't want to do this. Let me help you.”
Little does he know, he is helping me.
He reaches up to the desk, pulls to his feet. I don't try to stop him. He's not going anywhere.
I hold up the gun to inspect it. Looks like everything is sitting right. I lower the weapon and meet Phil's gaze.
“Please, don't. Please, please, don't.” His voice shakes.
I fuckin' hate when they plead.
“You don't want to do this,” he says. “You don't want to do this, Ralf. You do not want to do this.”
I clock him in the face.
The hum should be happy. It should just disappear now that I'm here, but it won't. Not until I'm done. Not until Phil is dead. Otherwise, the hum will continue to fill up my brain. I swear if someone were to touch my head, they would feel my skull vibrating.
And this isn't the worst. It has not even started yet.
I do not want it to evolve. I will do anything to keep that from ever happening again.
“Please, Ralf,” Phil says, blood running from his bashed up nose. “Please, think about this.”
I raise my gun and pull the trigger. And then Phil, like the hum, is finally silent.
***