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"No. But I won't smack you, and we'll call it even."
We went for the surveillance video first. That's what we needed most--that and Alston's journal, which Adam had already stuffed in his pack. We found the recording device where Kimerion said it would be. There was no easy way to remove it, so one of us had to watch the video while the other disposed of the bodies.
Adam volunteered for disposal duty, and seemed surprised when I agreed. But I was thinking that the torture of Walter Alston might be on those tapes. For Adam, burying his mutilated corpse would be bad; seeing how that mutilation took place would be worse.
A noble gesture on my part, but all for nothing. The tape only recorded activity outside the house.
Kimerion had been right about Alston's killers. A guy and a girl. They took their time getting to the fence, goofing around and laughing, before climbing over and disappearing.
I snapped still photos of our sadists. They looked in their mid-tolate twenties. He had straight, short brown hair. She had longer, straight brown hair. There was a similarity in their very regular, nondescript features that made me wonder if they were related. Or maybe just siblings in mediocrity. At least when it came to appearances.
When I was done with the photos, I hurried downstairs to help Adam. Disposing of the body was hard for him. He's done it before, but not often, and never with a corpse as mutilated as this one. I knew he was thinking of how Alston got that way, of what he'd gone through. However nasty Walter Alston had been in life, he didn't deserve to die like that. No one did.
By the time we snuck out the rear door, each of Adam's years seemed etched on his face. On the way to the car, he stayed behind me, so quiet I had to keep looking back to make sure he was there.
I still had the keys so I drove. He didn't say a word for at least a mile.
"Straight to a motel and crash?" I finally asked. "Or straight to a motel with a bar across the road, where we can knock a few back before crashing?"
He picked option two.
ten
We checked into the motel and walked across the road to the bar.
When we got there, I stood in front of the door and sighed.
"We don't have to go in if you don't want to," Adam said.
"No, I could use a drink, too."
"At least it's not a dive."
"I'd prefer a dive."
Piano music tinkled as we opened the front door. Otherwise, it was so quiet, I thought the place was empty, until we walked into the lounge and saw couples at most tables, sipping Cosmos and single malts, speaking so softly the piano drowned them out. While I didn't see a dress code posted, there wasn't a single woman in slacks, much less jeans.
We found a table in the corner, so recently vacated the empty glasses still sat there. The cocktail waitress stopped in her tracks, gaped at us, then cast a panicked look at the bartender. He set down his dish towe
l and made a move, as if to come out and show us the door. Then he took a better look at Adam, whose short sleeves showed off biceps bigger than the bartender's scrawny neck. The guy picked up his towel again and pretended not to see us.
"Do I have any blood spattered on me?" I whispered to Adam.
"Not that I can see."
"Bit of brain? Strings of gore?"
"You're clean. I think we just don't quite suit the ambiance."
I glanced around at the women in cocktail dresses. "I am wearing silk. I could strip down to it if that would help."
A low laugh as Adam relaxed into his seat. The server made a move to walk right past us, but a twenty folded between Adam's fingers helped her vision. She came over and cleaned the table, stacking glasses on her tray. Then she took our order. Premium tequila. Two glasses. Salt and lime. Just leave the bottle. I handed her a couple hundreds to prove we could cover it.
Adam didn't bother waiting for me to line up a shot. Just took one, straight. Another followed. Then he leaned forward, elbows on the table, eyes shut.
"It was bad," I said after a moment. "Really bad."
"It was."
