The Sun Down Motel(104)

“Fawcett,” Viv said. “Christine Fawcett.”

“Miss Fawcett, I’d appreciate it if you’d wait over there until we’re finished with your niece.”

“Of course, Officer.” She reached out and squeezed my hand. Hers was warm; mine was icy cold. “I’m not going far, sweetie. I’ll talk to you soon.”



* * *



? ? ?

They took Nick away. It wasn’t an arrest; there were no handcuffs, no reading of rights like on TV. They took him for questioning and he went quietly, his eyes downcast. He was Nick Harkness, the son of one of Fell’s most notorious murderers, the boy who may or may not have been in his bedroom. He was found crouching over a man who wasn’t breathing. He was a suspect whether I liked it or not.

I answered questions as a paramedic checked my blood pressure, checked the bump on my head, shone a light in my pupils, had me follow her finger as she wagged it in the air, had me walk in a straight line. She didn’t think any of my ribs were broken. She gave me some Motrin for the pain.

It seemed to take forever. Yes, I worked at the Sun Down. I had for a few weeks now. No, I did not know Callum MacRae very well; I had only met him a few times. Yes, Nick Harkness was a guest at the motel, even though his name wasn’t in the guest book. He had a deal worked out with the owner.

“What about the damage?” the cop said, flipping the page in his notebook. “You say you’ve worked here a while. Did you notice it?”

“What damage?” I asked.

“The flooding, the leaks, the cracks in the walls.” He looked curiously at me. “You say you’ve never seen it?”

I glanced past him to the motel. For the first time I noticed that there was water dripping off the second-floor corridor, as if the upstairs level had flooded. What I had taken for shadows on the walls in the darkness—they might be mold. Black mold. The office door was open, and there was water in front of it, too. I tilted my head back and saw that swaths of shingles were gone from the roof, the wood beneath dark with rot.

“I don’t . . .” I was nearly speechless. There was no sign of Simon Hess or Betty Graham, the boy in the pool or Henry, the smoking man. Was the feeling of being watched gone, or was it just my imagination? “It wasn’t like this when I left,” I said.

“That’s what your friend Nick said.” The cop kept saying your friend Nick, as if that were an accusation in itself. “Funny that he’s been staying here so long and hasn’t noticed that the ceiling is so water damaged it’s about to cave in.”

“What?” I said.

“The flooding is bad, and old. The carpets in most of the rooms look wrecked. Same with the carpet in the office, even though we haven’t had heavy rain in a long time. There are cracks in some of the load-bearing walls. There’s mold all over the ceilings on the upper floor. Looks like there was a leak in the AMENITIES room, too, so the entire ceiling is almost black.” He looked up from his notebook and at the motel, as if looking for answers like I was. “It’s strange, but I guess you haven’t been in the rooms very much. Neither has anyone else. No one really comes out here, do they?” He shrugged. “We can’t say how it happened, only that it’s there.”

Betty, I thought, what did you do?

But she didn’t have to tell me. I had checked her killer into the motel, after all. Betty is going to be furious. This was Betty’s version of trashing the place.

As for Simon Hess . . . I had no idea what she had done to him.

“Can I get my things?” I asked the cop as the paramedic finished up. “They’re in the office.”

He nodded. “We’ll have someone get them for you. Then I’ll have someone take you home.”

“I’ll take her.” Viv appeared at my side, putting her hand on my shoulder. “You can’t drive, honey,” she said to me, as if she’d been my aunt all my life. “I’ll get you home.”

When I had my keys and my bag back from my car, Viv led me away. “Viv,” I said, “I appreciate this, but I don’t—”

“Of course I’m not taking you home,” she said. “We’re going to the police station to get Nick out of there. This isn’t over yet.”



* * *



? ? ?

“Callum had no visible injuries,” Viv said as we drove into town. “They’re doing a full exam, of course, but it doesn’t appear that he was attacked. They’ll have to do an autopsy to be sure.”

“So he’s dead,” I said numbly.

“As of a few minutes ago in the ambulance, yes,” Viv said. “The official cause of death will likely be something natural, like heart failure or an embolism.”

“And the unofficial cause of death?”

“Betty Graham.” She glanced at me. “He was her killer’s grandson. He should never have gone into that motel. God knows why he did it. Now we’ll never know.”

I looked out the window, wondering what Callum had seen in his last minutes, what had lured him up to the motel’s second floor. His grandfather? Betty? Something else? Despite everything, I felt bad for him. It didn’t seem like he’d had a very happy life. “How do you know he died?” I asked Viv. “You can’t tell me you weren’t talking to Alma Trent on the phone.”