Kyle drove past the chain hotels like Courtyard and Hampton Inn. If his new ID was ever burned their nationwide-computers could be used to track him down. Instead, late in the day he pulled into “The Hoosier Pride Motor Inn” just off the 69 near Warren, Indiana. His room smelled of bug spray and the TV was an old-fashioned CRT with basic cable.
“Shit hole,” Kyle muttered, but it would do for one night. He just had to focus on the Penthouse Suite he’d soon be occupying at some fancy resort in Road Town or Alice Town or Nassau, someplace full of sun and beaches, great food, cold drinks and hot women. That’s what he had worked for. That’s what he had earned. If he had to endure a few nights in some cheap-ass motel room in Armpit, Nowhere, well, that’s what he would do. Eye on the prize, he told himself as he waited for the ancient TV to flicker to life.
While he flipped past some South American soccer game and the Home Shopping Channel, LED screens in sheriff’s cruisers and city police cars all over the mid-west were filling with his picture above the legend:
BE ON THE LOOK OUT for Kyle Neddick. Wanted for multiple counts of murder, armed robbery, and rape. Armed and extremely dangerous. Reputed to be the ringleader of a group of home-invasion robbers popularly known as “The Mad Dog Gang.” Caucasian, six feet one inches tall . . . .
A link led to several other images taken from the video supplied by Georgia Purcell. At the bottom the form contained Virgil’s and Stan’s cell numbers and a request for any and all information regarding any sightings of the subject. As yet the BOLO had only been electronically distributed to law enforcement. By tomorrow morning Kyle Neddick’s picture would be on every TV and newspaper in the Midwest.
Kyle stopped pressing the Up-Channel button when he stumbled across a broadcast of Scarface. He settled back and smiled. He hoped he hadn’t missed the part where Tony ripped them all apart with his “Little Friend.”
By seven-thirty p.m. boredom and hunger drove Neddick from his motel room and into the barely more exciting attractions in Warren, Indiana. He ordered a hot roast beef sandwich from the Farmhouse Diner and ate it as fast as he could shovel the sliced meat and gravy-soaked Wonder-Bread into his mouth. From there he moved on to The Hometown Bar which was mostly populated by overweight white men listening to a random mix of songs by either Blake Shelton or Bruce Springstein. The most complementary term Kyle could think of to describe the women was “corn-fed” and, in a foul mood, he left after one scotch that tasted like the Target house brand.
May as well buy a bottle and drink it in my room, he thought, and pulled into a Gas & Go a half a mile from the motel. A long-faced girl barely old enough to sell beer manned the cash register. In between customers she watched some vampire movie playing on the TV monitor on the wall behind the counter. Two boys who looked like brothers, around nineteen or twenty, came in a couple of minutes after he did and made a beeline for the beer cooler.
The store didn’t sell whisky, but Kyle grabbed a couple of bottles of water, a six-pack of beer, some Doritos and, remembering the microwave in his room, a frozen “breakfast box” of waffles, syrup and a side of sausage. He was reaching for a plastic bottle of lemonade when he heard the girl say, “I need to see your ID.”
“Oh, come on, it’s just beer.”
“You gotta be twenty-one to buy beer,” she insisted.
“Hey, we’re twenty-one, well, he’s twenty-one. I’m twenty-two.”
“Fine, show me your ID.”
The first boy slapped his pockets. “Shit, now where’d that go? Hah!” he laughed. “I must’ve left it in my other pants.”
The second kid thought that was hilarious, and slapped his brother on the shoulder.
“No ID, no beer,” the girl told them, though Kyle could hear a little concern creeping into her voice. Fuck this! he thought and pushed past them to the counter.
“Hey, wait your turn!” the first kid snapped. Kyle just stared at him and after about three seconds both boys took a couple of steps back. The girl rang up Kyle’s purchase and he paid with cash. He was about to turn away then he paused and tossed her a couple of twenties.
“Forty dollars worth on pump two out there,” he told her. She hit a couple of buttons on the panel next to the register.
“You’re all set,” she said and gave him a weak smile.
The boys wandered around fingering packages of Slim Jims and Twinkies until they saw Kyle drive away, then they headed back to the counter.
“How about that beer?” the first one said, waving a twenty at her.
“No ID, no beer,” she repeated with an irritated whine.
The kid’s phony smile degenerated into a frown and he looked at his little brother. The thought, If I let her get away with this he’s gonna think I’m weak, raced through his head.
“Fuck this and fuck you!” he half-shouted, turning back to the girl. “That there twelve-pack is fourteen dollars. I’m givin’ you twenty. If you’re smart, Charlene, you’ll take it and keep your mouth shut. Grab it Bobby and let’s get the fuck out of here,” he ordered, throwing down the bill. Bobby hesitated for a moment then grabbed the beer and they both hurried out of the store. The girl waited until they were gone then dialed 911.
“I’ve been robbed,” she told the operator. While she waited for the night-shift deputy, Trey Carlson, to show up, she washed her face, applied fresh lipstick and makeup and brushed out her hair in the hope that maybe he’d get the message and ask for her phone number.
“So, they didn’t actually steal the beer,” Trey said when she had finished giving her statement.
“Sure they did, I mean I didn’t sell it to them so they had to steal it. Here, it’s all on the security camera.” Charlene fiddled with the controls for half a minute then the horror movie was replaced by the feed from the surveillance system.
“See, that’s them,” she said, hitting ‘Pause.’ “They asked for beer and I told them that I couldn’t sell it to them without an ID.” She tapped the button and video resumed.
“Who’s that guy?” Trey asked, pointing at Kyle.
“Oh, just some customer. He bought some stuff and got forty dollar’s worth on pump two. He left before they took the beer. Now watch, see, he leaves and this is the part where they steal the beer.” Trey watched the clip through to the point where the boys grabbed the twelve-pack and ran out of the store. “See, just like I told you.”
Trey scratched his head. “Well, they committed some kind of a crime, that’s for sure. I’ll let the sergeant figure out how to write it up,” he said, half staring off into space.
“Will you need me to testify?” Charlene asked hopefully.
“Nah, they’ll probably plead out to something.”
“What if they don’t?”
“What do you mean?”
“If they don’t and it goes to court won’t you need me to be a witness?”
“I guess. Is that a problem for you?”
“No, I mean, that’s my job, right?” She pulled a flyer off the counter and began to write on the back. “Here’s my address and phone number in case you need me to come down and give a statement or anything.”
Oh, now I get it, Trey thought and gave her another look. Hmmm, nice tits.
“Great, thanks.” Smiling, he shoved the folded page into his shirt pocket. “Well, I guess I’ll go track those knuckleheads down. They’re probably in their mother’s basement drinking the beer.”
“Let me know if you need me,” Charlene told him as he turned away. Trey got about two steps, then stopped. “Did you forget something?”
“No, well, I’m not sure. It feels like I did, but I don’t know what.”
“I hate when that happens,” Charlene said, giving Trey her warmest smile.
He looked around the store then back at Charlene. “Hmmmm,” he muttered, “I know it’s something. . . . Well, it’ll come to me. See you, Charlene.”
“Yeah . . . call me.”
Trey tracked down Donnie and Bobby Wilcox at their mother’s house, loaded their drunk asses into his patrol car, booked them on a charge of petty theft (Let the sergeant figure out if that was going to stick), went home, went to bed, woke up with a full bladder around five-thirty in the morning, and halfway through peeing said out loud, “Fuck, that guy looked like the armed killer they had on that Detroit BOLO!”
By five after six he was back at the store, comparing the image on the security footage with the face staring out of the wanted poster from Detroit. It sure as hell looked like the same guy to him. Two seconds later he had his cell in his hand and had started dialing.