Read Online Monkey on a Chain by Harlen Campbell - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Harlen Campbell
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the funeral. She might not even have thought of it. What she needed was a resolution.
She wasn’t alone. The letter from Toker more than implied a connection between his death and our past, 1991 Los Angeles and 1971 Saigon. And that connection could lead the killer to New Mexico, to me, and perhaps to the others. Rodgers and Coleman. If the past was stalking them, they had to be warned. So I needed a resolution, too.
The shower died. I opened my eyes and looked around, then remembered that there had been only one bed. I wondered how April would handle meeting me this morning, if she would be embarrassed.
She handled it like a zombie. Her eyes slid over me as easily as they passed over the decorative art on the wall behind the bed. She stood in front of the mirror and toweled her hair dry mechanically. She was naked.
I got up and took the towel from her and led her back to the bed. When I pushed her down, she folded like a rag doll. I pulled the covers over her and told her to rest awhile. There was nothing to do until later in the afternoon. Maybe nothing for her then. I showered quickly. It was easy not to think of her breasts, her thin dark triangle. The memory stirred no excitement in me. The emotion I felt was pity. She was reacting like a child and I found myself responding to her as if she were a child. Women had aroused my protective instincts before, of course, but only after a sexual relationship had been established. With April…well, there was some sexual tension. I couldn’t deny that. It had been there since I saw her in my shower the night she arrived. Before that, even. Her eyes, her hair, her faint accent, all were ghosts of what I had lost in Saigon. But she was only half my age, and I wasn’t fool enough to hope that what was lost could be found again. Time had closed the door.
I dressed and went out to get my bearings. The motel was laid out in a rectangle, with rooms stacked two stories high along the sides and back. The area facing the street was devoted to the lobby, front desk, gift shop, offices, restaurant, and lounge. A pool and flagstone court occupied the center. The parking lot surrounded the whole complex. The entrances faced the parking lot, but each room also had a patio door and a balcony overlooking the pool. The ground-floor rooms, like ours, opened directly onto the courtyard. Fifteen or so wrought iron tables, about half with red, white, and green umbrellas that advertised Cinzano, were scattered around the court. The day was warm, the sun bright. Morning in the desert.
I cut across the court toward the lobby. Two boys were splashing in the pool. The contest was apparently to see who could kick up the biggest wave. A woman and her teenaged daughter sunned themselves on two towel-draped lounge chairs. They lay facedown, in identical blue bikinis, as far from the boys as they could get. They were smart to go for the early sun. By midmorning, it would be brutal. Already their backs were dotted with perspiration. The mother looked up when I walked past them.
The coffee shop was serving the tail end of the breakfast crowd. I bought two papers from machines in the lobby, the
Times
and the
Sun
, and ordered coffee and a Denver omelet. There was nothing on Bow’s killing in the L.A. paper, and I discarded it. I looked over the
Sun
more carefully while I finished my coffee, but there was nothing in it to indicate that the trouble had come to Arizona. I flagged down the waitress and ordered another omelet with two large coffees, to go. While the order was prepared, I went to the gift shop and bought a couple of bathing suits.
April was lying with her eyes closed when I got back to the room. Her breathing was irregular. I put the breakfast and one of the coffees on the table beside the bed and made her sit up. She said she wasn’t hungry and weakly tugged the sheet up over her breasts. I put the plate in front of her and told her to eat anyway. Then I rummaged through drawers until I
She wasn’t alone. The letter from Toker more than implied a connection between his death and our past, 1991 Los Angeles and 1971 Saigon. And that connection could lead the killer to New Mexico, to me, and perhaps to the others. Rodgers and Coleman. If the past was stalking them, they had to be warned. So I needed a resolution, too.
The shower died. I opened my eyes and looked around, then remembered that there had been only one bed. I wondered how April would handle meeting me this morning, if she would be embarrassed.
She handled it like a zombie. Her eyes slid over me as easily as they passed over the decorative art on the wall behind the bed. She stood in front of the mirror and toweled her hair dry mechanically. She was naked.
I got up and took the towel from her and led her back to the bed. When I pushed her down, she folded like a rag doll. I pulled the covers over her and told her to rest awhile. There was nothing to do until later in the afternoon. Maybe nothing for her then. I showered quickly. It was easy not to think of her breasts, her thin dark triangle. The memory stirred no excitement in me. The emotion I felt was pity. She was reacting like a child and I found myself responding to her as if she were a child. Women had aroused my protective instincts before, of course, but only after a sexual relationship had been established. With April…well, there was some sexual tension. I couldn’t deny that. It had been there since I saw her in my shower the night she arrived. Before that, even. Her eyes, her hair, her faint accent, all were ghosts of what I had lost in Saigon. But she was only half my age, and I wasn’t fool enough to hope that what was lost could be found again. Time had closed the door.
I dressed and went out to get my bearings. The motel was laid out in a rectangle, with rooms stacked two stories high along the sides and back. The area facing the street was devoted to the lobby, front desk, gift shop, offices, restaurant, and lounge. A pool and flagstone court occupied the center. The parking lot surrounded the whole complex. The entrances faced the parking lot, but each room also had a patio door and a balcony overlooking the pool. The ground-floor rooms, like ours, opened directly onto the courtyard. Fifteen or so wrought iron tables, about half with red, white, and green umbrellas that advertised Cinzano, were scattered around the court. The day was warm, the sun bright. Morning in the desert.
I cut across the court toward the lobby. Two boys were splashing in the pool. The contest was apparently to see who could kick up the biggest wave. A woman and her teenaged daughter sunned themselves on two towel-draped lounge chairs. They lay facedown, in identical blue bikinis, as far from the boys as they could get. They were smart to go for the early sun. By midmorning, it would be brutal. Already their backs were dotted with perspiration. The mother looked up when I walked past them.
The coffee shop was serving the tail end of the breakfast crowd. I bought two papers from machines in the lobby, the
Times
and the
Sun
, and ordered coffee and a Denver omelet. There was nothing on Bow’s killing in the L.A. paper, and I discarded it. I looked over the
Sun
more carefully while I finished my coffee, but there was nothing in it to indicate that the trouble had come to Arizona. I flagged down the waitress and ordered another omelet with two large coffees, to go. While the order was prepared, I went to the gift shop and bought a couple of bathing suits.
April was lying with her eyes closed when I got back to the room. Her breathing was irregular. I put the breakfast and one of the coffees on the table beside the bed and made her sit up. She said she wasn’t hungry and weakly tugged the sheet up over her breasts. I put the plate in front of her and told her to eat anyway. Then I rummaged through drawers until I
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