* * * * *
Fearing another crazed, knife-wielding psycho might be awaiting me at my apartment, I decided to check into a hotel that night and tried to convince Fiona to do the same. Of course being an attractive young woman, she might have already been conditioned against the idea of spending a night in a hotel room with a near stranger. That conditioning coupled with her own sense of independence made her adamant about going back to her place. Apparently she and her friend shared a student house with about four other roommates. Fiona insisted she was safe there and assured me that being a small-town girl, she was more than capable of putting the .357 revolver she kept on her nightstand to use.
All in all I was still worried about her safety. I promised Kurt a few free drinks if he would take Fiona home and made sure she was safely in the house before taking off. He agreed, more out of boredom than the free booze and soon he and Fiona were off to her apartment via Kurt’s souped-up motorcycle. Why didn’t I see her home? Like I said, I trusted my life to the Twins and therefore easily trusted Fiona’s life to Kurt. Besides I didn’t want to bring any more attention down upon her then necessary. With her as safe as she was going to be tonight, I tried to clear my mind of Fiona and the eerie story she had burdened me with.
Unfortunately it stuck to my mind like tar.
After pounding back a few more drinks, West gave me a ride to the nearest hotel. That is, if the flophouses around the Bin could be considered worthy of the title. Upon checking in, I made it clear to the desk clerk that no one was to disturb me…though the night auditor was hardly a comforting first line of defense against drug dealing cultists or crazed junkies.
Despite feeling mentally and physically drained and wanting to do nothing more than fall into blissful sleep, I couldn’t. Not yet anyway. It was best to always play it safe so that meant I had a few tasks ahead of me before sweet, sweet slumber.
To begin, I took off my pants. There was a rust-colored stain on one pant-leg where I had cleaned my switchblade of the junkie’s blood. I knew that those cop shows with the super scientists and crime labs were bullshit but blood was a pretty easy connection to a crime scene. Odds are the cops hadn’t even discovered the body yet (unless that spooky girl I’d seen had called them, which was doubtful considering she was probably drugged out of her mind) but better safe than sorry. Using my switchblade, I cut the bloodstained section of cloth from my pants and headed towards the hotel’s laundry room.
Once inside the cramped and humid laundry room, I reached under the folding table and grabbed a bottle of bleach someone (probably the desk clerk) had been too lazy to put away. Popping the lid off the bleach, I rolled the bloodstained cloth up nice and tight and then slipped it into the bottle. After replacing the cap, I put the bleach bottle into a washing machine that had an “OUT OF ORDER” sign taped to it. By the time anyone found that bleach bottle, the bloodstain and most of the fabric would have been eaten away by the powerful chemical.
Now that the only physical link that connected me to the dead junkie was taken care off, I went back to my hotel room. With safety being on the forefront of my mind, I spent a few minutes fortifying my surroundings the best I could. First I locked the only door to the room and then put a chair up against it just encase someone was handy with a lock pick. My misspent youth had educated me on how easy locks could be overcome with the right tools. However, it didn’t matter if you were a locksmith, no one could get around a door jam like a chair silently.
Once the door was taken care of, I turned my attention to the window.
The small window had a view of the street, as well as thick curtains and a small latch. Even after locking the window I took a wooden coat hanger from the closet and snapped it in two. I then carefully put the wood shafts along the window track, making sure they fit nice and snug. If anyone tried popping the window open, the wooden dowel would jam it and prevent anyone from slipping in…or at least slip in undetected.
Last but not least, I unscrewed a light bulb from one of the lamps and put it in a towel. Folding the bulb in the towel, I stepped on it several times, shattering and crushing it down again and again. After that, I sprinkled the shattered glass along on the floor in front of the door and window.
Shattered glass was a crude caltrop but it crunched underfoot rather loudly.
Only after locking and barricading myself inside the bedroom, my paranoia was relatively satisfied I was safe. At least for now. Usually I wouldn’t have taken such precautions unless I had really pissed off some bad people such as the Tong (stole their money), the Russian Mafia (sold trade secrets to a rival operation) and the Irish Mob (slept with a lieutenant’s sister and didn’t call her back). Despite my dealings with such dangerous groups in my youth, I was still shook up by this cult. Sure, they should have been small time considering my other enemies. In fact, Zotkin’s petty operation was more dangerous than some kid-snatchers like the Daughters of All. But my sixth sense for trouble was working overtime, telling me I was well within my rights to worry.
With sleep not coming as easily as I had hoped, I made a list of why it was perfectly reasonable for me to be worried. First and foremost on my list was that damn junkie who had tried to carve me up. The more I thought about it, the more I realized his crazed gibberish just might be more than some drug-induced psychobabble. Had he actually been spouting some religious nonsense as he had tried to cut me up? Was he some sort of knock-around guy for the Daughters of All? If that junkie was indeed working for the Daughters of All, what tipped him off? After all, I had hardly mentioned any interest in the cult save for that girl who was looking to join the Daughters of All. That conversation couldn’t have possibly been grounds for murder, could it?
The second reason on my mental list of worry was the fact someone had trashed my workplace within the hour. Sure I had plenty of enemies but none who could slip in and out of a fourth floor office without being spotted by security cameras. For someone to be able to track me down so quickly while avoiding detection took a level of talent that you didn’t find just anywhere. Only a handful of people could accomplish this feat and none could have done so without at least a day or two of preparation. So exactly what kind of mystery methods was this cult using?!
Speaking of mysterious, what the fuck were the Daughters of All up to anyway? Most religious kooks followed a certain MO that they made public, trying to recruit as many wayward souls as possible. But not this cult. According to both Fiona and Father O’Brawley, the Daughters of All started out as a shady organization that focused on luring teenaged runaways into their fold but the fact they hadn’t been thoroughly investigated or at least in the headlines meant they had some powerful friends in this city.
My logic-deprived situation was forcing my mind into mental gymnastics in an attempt connect the dots. Maybe the Daughters of All were a group of drug smugglers, recruiting rebellious teens to be their mules? Probable. Perhaps one of the drug dealers had recognized me when I entered the Hell Scratch? Doubtful…but if they had, would they have sent some addict to silence me? That sounded like a stretch even to my intense levels of paranoia. Then what? After realizing their junkie had failed, the same drug dealer sent some thugs to my office to send me a message by wrecking the place? No, that didn’t add up either. None of this really fit together and the frustration began to work on my last nerve.
My exhausted mind couldn’t take much more and the call of sleep was more coaxing than a pair of drunk, fun loving blonds. Drawing my switchblade and placing it within easy reach on the nightstand, I then flopped on the mattress, not even bothering to crawl underneath the sheets. A bad experience involving Jamaican pirates had taught me to crank up the heat instead of sleeping underneath the blankets. Blankets and comforters could easily become restraints to hold you captive.
Despite my worrisome nature and the excessive fear of having my throat slit in my sleep, the sandman eventually found me. Looking back I wished I had enjoyed that night more thoroughly because it would be one of the f
ew peaceful chances of rest I had left.