Twenty minutes later, Jerry pulled our bus up to the hotel — an imposing black glass building in a pyramid shape. By that time I was totally wiped. As I lowered myself down the bus’s stairs, the lack of sleep hit me like a two-ton brick. I stumbled on the last step. Wendell caught me. “Whoa there.”
“Thanks.”
Bellmen hustled to take our bags. When they were done, I managed a wave at Jerry. “Thanks so much!”
“No problem.” He saluted and closed the bus door.
As we turned toward the entrance, he drove away.
I dragged into the nearly empty lobby, flanked by the two bodyguards, Bruce as tall and intimidating as Lurch, and Wendell as muscular as Atlas. Good grief, I thought. One look at these two guys and nobody would mess with me.
Wendell checked us in. The Rayne entourage would occupy the top floor, number sixteen. “Only your party will be on that level,” the desk clerk said. His eyes lingered on me as he handed over the slide-in cards — a look that pulsed with knowledge from news reports. “It’s quiet here tonight. We just had a big convention pull out of town this afternoon. Enjoy your stay.”
“Thank you.”
Quiet I could handle.
Bruce had been assigned a room right across the hall from my suite, and Wendell’s room was two doors down from mine. Later, when everyone else showed up, they’d both be getting roommates, but until then they could enjoy some rare privacy.
In the elevator I sagged against the wall, eyes closed.
When we reached my room — last one before turning the corner to the stairwell — Wendell checked it out, including the bathroom. The bellman glanced at Wendell curiously, then pulled my suitcases over to the bed. I tipped him, and he left.
“All right.” Bruce pointed his thick finger at me, his face in a stark, angular frown. “You’re not going anywhere, understand? Not without calling us.”
“Don’t worry. I’m not leaving this room. I just want something to eat and to go to bed. You two rent movies on TV and enjoy the evening.”
Wendell smiled, light catching the shiny surface of the scar on his chin. “I’m planning on it.”
Bruce stroked his goatee. “I might go down to the restaurant. So call my cell phone if you need me, not the room number.”
“Gotcha.”
They stepped into the hallway. Bruce looked back. “Bolt your door.”
“I know, Bruce. Now go away.”
For emphasis, I shut the door in their faces. Click went the bolt. There. Now maybe they’d be satisfied.
I staggered to the bed and fell on it, not even bothering to take off my flip-flops. In a jeans pocket, my cell phone dug into my back. I leaned to one side, slid it out, and laid it on the nightstand.
Across from me on a table I noticed the binder that would contain the room service menu. Sigh. It seemed so very far away. I’d get it … in a few … minutes.
My drooping eyes closed …
A heavy thud sounded from the hall.
My eyelids hinged open.
What was that?
I lifted my head from the pillow, listening.
Bruce? Wendell?
A groan.
My breath stopped. Had I really heard that?
“Sha-ley.” A low voice, thick, dragged out. Like someone calling for help.
Was I dreaming?
I sat up, pushed off the bed. My limbs and chest felt drugged, blood moving like sludge through my veins. Part of me wasn’t even sure what I was doing.
My feet stumbled across the carpet to the door. I pressed my ear against the wood, fingers splayed and tensed.
Another groan.
Bruce.
Heart leaping to my throat, I fumbled with the bolt, shoved it back. Cautiously, I opened the door.
He lay on his back in the middle of the floor near the corner. One leg drawn up, left hand to his huge chest.
Red seeped through his fingers, bubbled from his mouth.
“Bruce!” I blurted his name and ran to sink onto my knees beside him. “Wh-what happened?”
His face crumbled with pain, eyes squeezing shut. Jaw wide open, he dragged in air. It gurgled in his windpipe.
The world blurred. “Bruce, please. Don’t —”
I pushed the bloody hand off his chest, smearing my own fingers. A red and black bullet hole pierced his shirt near his heart.
No.
Dizziness swept over me. I swayed, catching myself with a fist against the floor.
Wendell. I needed to get him. He had to help.
I pushed up, trying to rise.
Bruce’s red-stained fingers clamped around my wrist.
Air backed up in my throat.
Bruce’s eyes opened. His head turned, bleary gaze searching for my face. “H-he …” Breath backfired in his chest. His back stiffened, arched off the floor, then back down. “He s-said …”
A sob spilled out of my mouth. “What, Bruce? Who?”
His hand fell from my arm. I saw his eyes flatten, life draining away like ocean water through sand. With all his might, he struggled to move his lips. They came halfway together, trying to form a name. His throat jerked in a swallow.
“Just hang on! I need to get my phone, call 9 – 1 – 1.”
“Nn —” The sound vibrated from his throat. Blood bubbled out of his mouth.
I dug my fingers into the carpet, leaving an imprint of blood. Oh, no, Shaley, don’t faint. Get up, get your cell!
Bruce’s right arm rose from the floor. With a shaking hand he pointed down the hall. “W — “
He trembled violently, and his hand thumped back to the carpet. His face relaxed. His head flopped over, eyes looking straight at me. Glazed, seeing nothing.
“No, Bruce, no!” I wailed. I rocked his body. He didn’t stir.
Grief and panic descended, suffocating me. Bruce had been shot.
The killer’s here.
Somehow I pushed to my feet, staggered down the hall toward Wendell’s room. I could barely breathe, barely think.
Five feet from his door, it hit me. W — . Bruce had tried to say his name. Had pointed toward his room.
No. Not Wendell.
Yes, Wendell. Otherwise he’d be out here. I’d heard something; why hadn’t he?
Mind whirling, I lurched away on stiff legs. Refusing to look at Bruce’s body. Get to your room, lock the bolt. Call for help!
I rammed into my door, one hand fumbling with the handle. Blood smeared onto the gold metal.
Locked.
My shoulders sagged. Of course. It locked automatically. And my key was inside.
Bruce’s cell. It should be clipped to his waist.
My head turned, eyes taking in his body, the red on his chest and face and hand. I would have to touch him, move his heavy torso to get to the cell holder at his side.
A force beyond myself swiveled me toward him. As I reached him, I turned away from his face. Not for anything could I look into those flat, open eyes.
I bent over, held my breath. Reached sticky, trembling fingers toward his side.
A sudden sound nearby—a bolt sliding back.
I jerked around. Which room had it come from? Wendell’s?
No time to gamble. I shoved to my feet and ran.