punched the elevator button a little too hard. The car arrived, and they stepped on. Bear's face kept its pissed-off cast for a few floors, then loosened. "I would have gone for The Stone Killer myself."
Seated in Bear's Dodge Ram in the parking lot, they watched Reggie at the motel front desk. As Bear had promised, they'd found him on shift, elbows on the counter, fists shoving his cheeks skyward. He was entranced by the hatchetfish and platies circling listlessly in the fifty-gallon aquarium next to the blotter. Gray bags rimmed both eyes, raccoon-defined against his sallow skin. A flannel shirt, standard red and black checks, hung over his rail-thin frame, his wrists poking from the sleeves. Had Tim not known Reggie's age, he would have put him near forty.
Bear said, "Tell me why you like this guy?"
"A new friend, maybe from Tramine's time in the cult."
"You don't even know it's the same cult as Leah's. Just because Tramine was recruited off Pepperdine..."
"He did freak out when I mentioned the Teacher."
"The shape he's in, he might have freaked out if you'd mentioned the Pillsbury Doughboy."
"No, he actually responded warmly to the Pillsbury Doughboy."
"Oh," Bear said. "Well, that's cheering."
They climbed out together. Bear took up a post outside, and Tim entered, the top of the door smacking the obligatory dangling bells. Reggie tensed up. His eyes, mud brown and piercing, darted constantly -- he took in Tim with abbreviated sweeps and climbs. Tim stayed focused on Reggie's right hand, out of view beneath the counter.
"Help you?"
Tim stepped up to the counter. "Are you Reggie Rondell?"
He worked his gum a few chews, then swallowed hard. "Yeah."
"Friend of Ernie Tramine's?"
"Never heard of him." His forearm tensed, indicating his hand had just grasped something.
Bear had run Reggie, and he'd come up clean, but there was no telling what crime he might have just committed, what visits he was fearfully anticipating.
"Listen. I'm only here to ask some questions about a cult --"
The hand pulled up, gripping a metal flashlight. The instant the silver handle cleared the counter, Tim's vision tunneled, the scene slowed. Tim shuffled back two steps, the .357 up and sighted on Reggie's chest before the flashlight finished its arc.
Reggie swung the shaft into the aquarium. The glass popped and avalanched down, the water holding its rectangular form for an instant before following suit. Reggie shot around the counter. He threw the door open, but instead of daylight there was just Bear's hulking form all but filling the frame. Reggie hollered. Bear spun him effortlessly and proned him out on the carpet, his cheek pressed to soggy gravel, fish flopping next to his face.
Reggie had frozen up. "Don't kill me, man. Please don't fucking kill me. I won't say anything. I won't talk to anyone, I swear."
Tim crouched, helping Bear frisk Reggie. "Be careful of the glass."
Short of a wallet holding the same license that had graced the Cell Block computer monitor minutes earlier and a bulky ring of keys, Reggie's pockets were empty. Bear hoisted him to his feet and leaned him against the counter. "You gonna be cool?"
Reggie's eyes widened a bit as he took in Bear. He nodded.
"We're not here to kill you," Tim said. "We're deputy U.S. marshals, investigating a cult."
"Lemme see your badges." Reggie crossed his arms and squeezed them to his chest. "I'll know if they're fake." He was trying to play cocky, but his tremulous hands gave him away.
Tim and Bear laid out their stars, and Reggie took them, holding them under the dim desk lamp as if checking for watermarks.
"They check out there, Mr. Ashcroft?" Bear asked.
"Okay if I look back here?" Tim asked. Reggie nodded, and Tim walked behind the front desk, making sure there were no hidden weapons.
One of the hatchetfish quivered on the counter, drawing Reggie's attention. He watched it, head cocked like a dog eyeballing a squirrel. A good thirty seconds passed.
Bear's blue
Seated in Bear's Dodge Ram in the parking lot, they watched Reggie at the motel front desk. As Bear had promised, they'd found him on shift, elbows on the counter, fists shoving his cheeks skyward. He was entranced by the hatchetfish and platies circling listlessly in the fifty-gallon aquarium next to the blotter. Gray bags rimmed both eyes, raccoon-defined against his sallow skin. A flannel shirt, standard red and black checks, hung over his rail-thin frame, his wrists poking from the sleeves. Had Tim not known Reggie's age, he would have put him near forty.
Bear said, "Tell me why you like this guy?"
"A new friend, maybe from Tramine's time in the cult."
"You don't even know it's the same cult as Leah's. Just because Tramine was recruited off Pepperdine..."
"He did freak out when I mentioned the Teacher."
"The shape he's in, he might have freaked out if you'd mentioned the Pillsbury Doughboy."
"No, he actually responded warmly to the Pillsbury Doughboy."
"Oh," Bear said. "Well, that's cheering."
They climbed out together. Bear took up a post outside, and Tim entered, the top of the door smacking the obligatory dangling bells. Reggie tensed up. His eyes, mud brown and piercing, darted constantly -- he took in Tim with abbreviated sweeps and climbs. Tim stayed focused on Reggie's right hand, out of view beneath the counter.
"Help you?"
Tim stepped up to the counter. "Are you Reggie Rondell?"
He worked his gum a few chews, then swallowed hard. "Yeah."
"Friend of Ernie Tramine's?"
"Never heard of him." His forearm tensed, indicating his hand had just grasped something.
Bear had run Reggie, and he'd come up clean, but there was no telling what crime he might have just committed, what visits he was fearfully anticipating.
"Listen. I'm only here to ask some questions about a cult --"
The hand pulled up, gripping a metal flashlight. The instant the silver handle cleared the counter, Tim's vision tunneled, the scene slowed. Tim shuffled back two steps, the .357 up and sighted on Reggie's chest before the flashlight finished its arc.
Reggie swung the shaft into the aquarium. The glass popped and avalanched down, the water holding its rectangular form for an instant before following suit. Reggie shot around the counter. He threw the door open, but instead of daylight there was just Bear's hulking form all but filling the frame. Reggie hollered. Bear spun him effortlessly and proned him out on the carpet, his cheek pressed to soggy gravel, fish flopping next to his face.
Reggie had frozen up. "Don't kill me, man. Please don't fucking kill me. I won't say anything. I won't talk to anyone, I swear."
Tim crouched, helping Bear frisk Reggie. "Be careful of the glass."
Short of a wallet holding the same license that had graced the Cell Block computer monitor minutes earlier and a bulky ring of keys, Reggie's pockets were empty. Bear hoisted him to his feet and leaned him against the counter. "You gonna be cool?"
Reggie's eyes widened a bit as he took in Bear. He nodded.
"We're not here to kill you," Tim said. "We're deputy U.S. marshals, investigating a cult."
"Lemme see your badges." Reggie crossed his arms and squeezed them to his chest. "I'll know if they're fake." He was trying to play cocky, but his tremulous hands gave him away.
Tim and Bear laid out their stars, and Reggie took them, holding them under the dim desk lamp as if checking for watermarks.
"They check out there, Mr. Ashcroft?" Bear asked.
"Okay if I look back here?" Tim asked. Reggie nodded, and Tim walked behind the front desk, making sure there were no hidden weapons.
One of the hatchetfish quivered on the counter, drawing Reggie's attention. He watched it, head cocked like a dog eyeballing a squirrel. A good thirty seconds passed.
Bear's blue
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