The room key, of course. Here, honey, a little souvenir of the evening. Let me just tuck it in your purse. Keller picked it up and brushed it off, tried it in the lock, opened the door. Then he went back for his suitcase and wheeled it to his room, just like any legitimate tourist.

12

He had done what he could to prepare himself for the prospect of sleeping on the fun couple’s sheets, but it turned out he didn’t have to. The room was furnished with twin double beds, and they’d only used one of them — and used it thoroughly, from the evidence. Keller covered that bed with its spread and turned down the other one. He treated himself to a shower, then slipped between the sheets and closed his eyes. He’d hung the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the door, but had he also remembered to lock the door so it couldn’t be opened from outside? He was trying to remember, and thinking he ought to go check, and before he knew it he was asleep.

He was awake before the maid started her rounds. He had another shower, and shaved, and put on clean clothes. He had one more change of underwear in his bag, and a clean pair of socks, and after that he’d have to start recycling the dirty ones, because he couldn’t afford to wash his clothes or buy new ones.

Two and a half million dollars in investments and he couldn’t afford underwear.

Nobody was going to dust the room for prints, but he wiped it down anyway, out of habit. Back in the Sentra, he ate the last hamburger and drank some bottled water and pretended he’d just had a hearty breakfast. He threw out the cold french fries, the cement milkshake.

He started the car, checked the gas gauge. He would be needing gas soon, and he supposed he could spare a twenty.

At first glance, he wasn’t entirely certain the gas station was open, or even still in business. The basic setup was fairly standard, a pint-size convenience store with a couple of pumps out in front, an air hose and a pay phone off to one side. The only vehicle in sight was a tow truck parked around back.

Was anybody home? Keller pulled up to the pump, where a home-made sign instructed all customers, cash or credit, to pay inside before pumping gas. Something felt off to Keller, and he thought about driving on to the next station, but he’d already passed up a couple of opportunities, and pretty soon he’d be running on faith and fumes.

He patted his hair down, put on his blazer and made sure it concealed the gun in the small of his back. Why couldn’t the happy fornicators at the Travelodge have left something useful, along with a set of spectacularly soiled sheets? A baseball cap, say, or a bottle of hair dye, or a few hundred dollars and a collection of live credit cards.

Keller had a twenty in hand when he cleared the threshold. Behind the counter sat a stocky man with a broad forehead and a nose that had been broken at least once. Iron-gray hair cut short enough for boot camp showed around the edges of a baseball cap on which an embroidered Homer Simpson held up a mug of beer. The man was reading a magazine, and Keller would have bet anything it wasn’t Soap Opera Digest. Nor did he seem to find his magazine as gripping as the girl had found hers, because he looked up from it before Keller could open his mouth or put the money on the counter.

“Help you?”

“Twenty dollars’ worth of regular,” Keller said, and handed him the bill.

“Hang on a second,” the man said, catching Keller just as he was turning around. He turned back, and the man was taking a good look at the twenty. Jesus, was there anything wrong with it?

“Been some funny twenties around lately,” the man said. “This here looks to be okay.”

Keller would have said he’d just made it himself, but couldn’t count on the man recognizing it for a joke. “It came straight out of an ATM,” he said instead.

“Is that a fact.”

Suspicious old bastard. Keller said, “Well, if everything’s okay,” and started for the door again, but the voice stopped him in his tracks.

“No, hold it right there, son. And turn around slow, you hear?”

Keller turned, and was not surprised to see the gun in the man’s hand. It was an automatic, and looked like a cannon to Keller.

“I’m not too good with names,” the man said, “but it seems like you’ve got a few of them, and who’s to say any of ’em’s the right one? Keep your hands where I can see ’em, you understand?”

“You’re making a mistake,” Keller said.

“Your damn picture’s all over the place, son. And if I’m not much on names I’m pretty good on faces. Bet there’s a pretty decent reward on you.”

“By God,” Keller said. “You think I’m the son of a bitch who shot that man in Iowa.”

“Shot that high-stepping coon,” the man said. “Well, if you had to gun somebody down, I got no problem with the choice you made. But that don’t mean God gave you the right to do it.”

“I know I look like him,” Keller said, “and you’re not the first person to notice the resemblance, but I’m not him and I can prove it.”

“You just save your story for the law, why don’t you?” And the hand that wasn’t holding the gun reached for the phone.

“I’m not him, I swear it,” Keller said.

“What did I just say? You got an explanation, there’s men with badges’ll be happy to listen to everything you got to say.”

“The law’s after me,” Keller said, “but for something else.”

“How’s that?”

“Alimony and child support. Long story short, she’s a cheating bitch and the kid’s not mine, and we even proved that with DNA tests and the courts still say I gotta support him.”

“You must have had some lawyer.”

“Look, let me prove it, okay? I’m just going to get something from my pocket, okay?”

And without waiting for permission he drew the gun and put two bullets in the guy’s chest before he could get off a shot.

13

The impact had knocked the man backward, and he’d tipped his chair over and gone to the floor with it, losing his Homer Simpson cap on the way down. Keller went around the counter and checked him, but it was just a formality. Both bullets had entered the left side of his chest, and at least one of them had found his heart, and that was that.

Keller’s ears were ringing from the gunshots, and his hand ached a little from the revolver’s recoil. He straightened up, glanced through the window. There was a car parked at one of the pumps, and that was disconcerting for the second or two it took him to realize that it was his car, right where he’d parked it.

The dead man was still holding the gun, his finger on the trigger, and Keller had heard stories of men firing guns long after their own death, their trigger fingers curling at the onset of rigor mortis. He wasn’t sure it ever happened, and it might even have been a plot element in a comic book he’d read as a child, but in any event he wanted the gun. It was a SIG Sauer automatic with a fully loaded fifteen-shot clip, and his own revolver was down to two bullets, and had just been used in a homicide. The SIG wasn’t as huge as it had looked, there was nothing like having a gun pointed at you to make it increase dramatically in size, though it was in fact a little larger and heavier than the revolver. He tried it where he’d been carrying the revolver, and it rode there just fine, and he figured that closed the deal.

He wiped his prints from the revolver and put it in the dead man’s hand, shaping the still-warm hand to the butt and slipping the forefinger inside the trigger guard. No one was terribly likely to buy the idea that the old guy had shot himself twice in the heart, but it seemed as good a place as any to stow the revolver, and at the very least it would give somebody something to think about.

He looked for a cash register and didn’t see one. There was an old wooden Garcia y Vega cigar box on the counter, and that turned out to be where the fellow kept cash and credit card slips. The cash was all fives and singles, with a couple of tens in the mix. No wonder he’d looked long and hard at the twenty, Keller thought. It was probably the first one he’d seen all month.