Off the Grid

Have to be bold. Have to be fast. Greg had one chance. He had called the hotel earlier before he had dealt with Kelly and was mulling through the possibilities. He asked to be connected to her room, the clerk said sure and Greg stated like he knew, she’s in room 210 right? And the clerk said no, she was in 341 and once the clerk connected the call Greg hung up. He didn’t want her picking up the phone. On their website, they had the floor plans listed so Greg even knew where the room was in the hotel. Almost too easy. Like fate was telling him to do it. He thought if he could get to the detective before she left the hotel, before she even got out of her room, he could keep her in the room and have time to talk to her. Time to persuade her to give him the recording or to tell him what she had done with it. Then he’d kill her because asking about the recording, she would know whose face it was under the ski mask and wielding a shotgun. Greg would use the shotgun if he had to though. Pretty damn loud, blasting one off in a hotel. He had another knife on him. Hell, he had plenty of knives and they were so much better to use than guns any day. They were…personal. He thought of Kelly’s eyes, the total fucking surprise man, the like what the hell expression on his face and then the blood pouring out and coating his glove. He could feel the warmth of it through the leather. Damn. No other feeling like it. He had to get to the detective quick, though. If she was already gone…huh, he could search her room at least. Make it look like a break and enter or something. He shook his head. No one would buy that shit. Kelly getting stabbed and the detective he had been driving around town had her room broken into? Still, what could they do about it? Provided Greg got back before midnight, he’d have an alibi and everyone could go and fuck themselves as far as he was concerned. Including his brother and that tool, Ray.

Greg was steaming along, thinking his angry thoughts as he navigated through the town on autopilot. He didn’t need to think of where he was going. He grew up here. He knew every little place. He knew the hotel was right by the main road into town and behind it was the failed paper plant. It was abandoned and about to be torn down to make way for more businesses, more hotels, more everything. Greg knew there were no cameras there. He pulled into the lot and turned off his headlights. If he’d pull this off he’d be a fucking hero. Neil and Ray would beg to kiss his ass. And he might even let them.

He crammed a dark ball cap on his head and stepped out of the truck. He threw on a long, dark coat to hide his shotgun. He could tuck the butt under his armpit and hold the barrel through the fabric of the coat. Anyone looking at him would see a man walking weird but no one would think gun. He stuffed the other set of gloves into the mask and put them in his pocket. He opened a little paper packet and poured a bit of powder on the webbing between his thumb and index finger. He’d taken some before leaving the cabin because fuck those guys. He snorted the cocaine and felt the lightning in his blood as the drug shot energetic tendrils to his brain and he said, “Goddamn!”

He picked up his shotgun and tucked it under his coat. Staring at the lights of the hotel, the cocaine made him feel invincible, he smiled, locked his truck, and jogged through the construction churned dirt to the detective.

The lights drew him on. The cocaine buzzed under his skin. His heart bumped his ribs and his breath expelled in a hard rasp. Even with the cocaine to aid him, he thought he should try to get into better shape. The drugs conjured up the idea that, once all of these loose ends were tightened, he could start running, maybe even compete in a marathon or something. The good thought brought more good feelings fuelled further by the synthetic happiness coursing through him. He stopped at the hotel lot and breathing hard. Standing on a curb outside the radiance of the adjacent gas station lights, frowning at the sign and sweating from jogging in the heavy coat trying to calm his hammering heart, he considered his options. He couldn’t walk in like this, could he? Especially not through the main lobby. Bound to be cameras in there. What the fuck was he thinking? Cocaine had many side effects but the most common one happened to be paranoia and Greg wasn’t immune. He straightened with fear. What if the cops were here now, waiting for him, wanting to ambush him? What if they knew he had stabbed Kelly and hoped he’d come here so they could justify shooting him down? He swallowed a hard lump and he checked his surroundings without looking like he was trying to check his surroundings. Anyone watching him would be suspicious of a man wearing a hat pulled low, long heavy coat on a hot summer night with his head on a swivel. He would give off all sorts of ‘uh-oh’ vibes and thinking this made him step off the curb and continue walking with as much cool as he could. A lucid part of him convinced himself the cocaine was making him paranoid and that his plan was still a good plan. He just needed the balls to pull it off. He decided not to go through the lobby and hope the good detective hadn’t heard what had happened to Kelly yet.

He walked around the side of the hotel careful to stay out of the light. Cars dotted the pavement and bright circles of light from overhead posts shined off paint and chrome. No one wandered through the lot. He knew you needed a card to get in the back way and he didn’t have one. It wasn’t like he could just go in and register for a room now. With his free hand, he started biting his nails, wandering back and forth along the wooden fence line in the shadows. What was he going to do? Fucking recorder. Fucking stupid lying in the back of the cop car while they sat there and let him keep lying about it like they didn’t know! They were cops! Weren’t they supposed to call people on their bullshit?

A car pulled in the lot and Greg slid behind a bush and ducked. The headlights swept over him and he waited, his hand cramping from holding the shotgun tight to his side for so long. He heard the car park and peered around the bush. A middle-aged woman exited, tight jeans, with her hair done up in nice glossy black ringlets. Going on a date? Coming back from one? Didn’t matter. Greg could do this. He had to time it right, but it could be done.

The woman rummaged in her purse, looking for who-knew-what, and then satisfied, began walking towards the door. Greg picked up his pace while trying to stay silent. Someone running up behind you is liable to startle you and he didn’t want that. He wanted to be a nice hotel customer, reaching the door the same time she did so that she wouldn’t think to ask him for a card or even care. And that’s what he did. He heard the beep of the card reader and she yanked open the door and he was behind her to hold it wider while she walked inside. She glanced at him, offered a corner cheek smile and went through the fire exit door into the first-floor hallway and Greg was left alone. He stood still, listening for steps on the stairs above and hearing nothing he took his hat off and removed his mask and gloves. He stepped away from the door because he had to put the shotgun down to get on his gloves and mask and didn’t want anyone walking in on that. He wanted to see into the lot before anyone could see him. Hurrying, he put on the gloves, pulled down the mask and put his ball cap into the pocket he removed his mask from. Tucking the shotgun under his coat again, he paused, listened for footsteps or a banging stairwell door and hearing nothing he inhaled a few quick breaths through the cotton mask and ran up the stairs. This was the tricky part. Running up all exposed like this. There was no explaining away this weirdness.

He opened the door on the third floor, listened at the open door, heard nothing and then pulled it open and stepped into the hallway. And there she was, maybe fifteen feet away with her eyes all big in her face looking at him, like the dummy he was, standing in a hallway with a ski mask on. He pulled out the shotgun, wanting to scare her, get her hands up and hopefully talk her back into her room. He was raising the barrel to bring the sights up to his eyes and the detective’s hand dropped and like magic, a gun appeared in her hand. His eyes widened, feeling like they were going to pop from his skull concentrating on the detective’s gun rising to point at him and then the sights of his shotgun were level with his eyes and he thought, too fast, she’s going to fucking shoot me and so he pulled the trigger first but as he did it, he knew he was way off and he was. He cringed from the deafening boom of the shotgun and managed to keep his eyes open to see the shot tear into the roof above the detective, tearing drywall and shattering the plastic glass over the ceiling lights. She dropped to one knee, the gun aimed right at him and he backed up hoping to pop open the door with his butt and her gun fired. The glass plinked behind his right ear and he jerked and following her example he dropped to one knee and the glass behind where he’d just been was rapidly being shot out. He was going to fucking die in this damn hallway! He had the drop on her and everything and she was kicking his ass out here and he was going to fucking die and his brother would be pissed and the shame of that, the bitterness of a lifetime of disappointing his older brother made him gather himself for one more push and he dove onto his stomach with the shotgun held out before him, bringing it to his shoulder to take aim except he had his finger on the trigger when he hit the ground and it boomed before he could properly aim it. The shot skimmed along the ground and this time he closed his eyes because his chin hit the floor and made his teeth clack together painfully. He heard a scream, thought, got her, and considered finishing her off or making sure it had been a kill shot when he heard sirens in the distance. Fear made his sphincter loosen and he clamped it shut. It was hard to run with a load of crap in your pants. He stood, grabbed the handle to the stairwell door, yanked it open and hearing one last yelp of pain he grinned in his mask. Serves her right. Another shot plunked into the metal frame on the door, where his head had just been. He flinched, said, “Fuck!” And fled down the stairs. He ran out the door into the parking lot bothering to hide the shotgun in his coat. He ran all the way to his truck, sticking to the shadows, gasping for air with sweat soaking him under his pits, across his chest and running into the crack of his ass. At the truck, Greg put the shotgun on the floor of the truck behind the seat. He ripped off his mask, took off his coat and gloves and tossed them on the passenger seat. He started up his truck and within twenty minutes, he was in his driveway and sneaking into his house using the walk-in basement door out back. Once inside, he wrapped his shotgun, coat, sweaty clothes and mask in plastic and sealed it with duct tape. He put the package in the sump pump well. He took a shower in the basement and then walked upstairs. His wife was smoking a cigarette in front of the TV, and blowing the smoke out the open window. He barely talked to his wife, a situation that suited them both, but he wanted her to remember him being at home. He made a big deal of telling her he’d be working in the basement garage earlier for that reason. It was a gamble. Because if she had gone down there, he wouldn’t have been there but then she never went down there. Too busy smoking cigarettes and watching TV. Not much of gamble, really.