Authors: Lance Zarimba
Vacation Therapy (19 page)
We went to room 415. The key opened John's door. Slipping past the top of the stairs, we approached Tom's room. The key opened 413. The key opened all of the doors we tried.
"What the heck is going on?” I asked.
"Do you think we were given a passkey? By mistake?” Sergio turned the key over and examined it carefully.
"Gary might've had one, but I doubt our keys should be able to open all the other doors.” We re-entered our room and stood next to the door. “Could all of the locks have the same key?” I looked at the one in my hand and then to the door's lock.
"You mean,” Sergio swallowed hard, “we could get into any room on the resort?” A smile crossed his face. “Like Tom's?"
I nodded. “Yeah, but think about it."
"What?” he asked, wrinkling his brow.
"If we can get into anyone else's room..."
We stood there, staring at each other, the rest of my sentence hanging in the air unsaid. At the same time, we reached over and set the dead bolt firmly into our door.
While Sergio showered, I picked up the notebook and continued flipping through it. What was I missing? As I re-read the room lists, I paused on Duane's room, number 418. That was right next door.
Had someone searched Duane's room? My room key poked into my leg and urged me into action before reason could talk me out of it. I set the book down and snuck across the room, pausing by the bathroom door. The thunk of a dropped shampoo bottle echoed in the shower as I unlocked the deadbolt and slipped out the door.
I looked around the hallway; no one was in sight. I causally strolled to my left and stood in front of 418. My ears strained to hear if anyone was coming up the stairs or moving around inside. The room's door looked exactly like ours. The doorknob was even on the same side, unlike most hotels that staggered their rooms’ entries. Scanning up and down the hall, I slipped the key into the slot and pushed the door open. What was I doing? I couldn't do this. This was something Sergio would be doing if he weren't in the shower.
My eyes adjusted to the dark and the light from the hallway helped reveal Duane's room. It was an exact duplicate of ours. Two double beds stood to the right, while the wall length dresser lined up to the left. Closet to the immediate left and bathroom opposite.
Could Duane have entered the wrong room? This room was a carbon copy of ours. If he was being followed and he ran into our room by mistake, his key would have opened the door; he had probably thought he was in his own room.
So, whoever killed him might have thought the same. My mind jumped again. Maybe whatever the killer was looking for hadn't been found yet. It could still be in here.
Hurrying across the room, I closed the drapes before the door clicked shut. I turned on the lamp on the dresser. Where to begin? I should be a pro by now. This wasn't the first room I'd rifled through on this trip. I hoped this wasn't becoming a habit. Scanning the room, I thought the closet looked like the obvious place to start. At least, that's where Gary had kept his smelly secrets.
Opening the white wooden doors, I saw a row of black leather vests, chaps, and blue Levis carefully lined up on hangers. Each hanger was an inch apart. Nothing touched on the rack. “A little compulsive, Duane?” I asked.
Not anymore
, Sergio's voice responded in my mind.
Duane's suitcase lay open on the floor, empty, as was the shelf above the hanging clothes.
The bathroom door stood open. Tentatively, I flipped on the light switch. Neatly piled towels and a shaving kit were lined up on the vanity. Nothing looked out of place. Stepping in front of the stool, I removed the tank's lid. Only water and the toilet tank's insides stared back at me. Maybe I had seen too many movies or read too many books, or maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all.
His dresser held underwear, T-shirts, and socks. No books or magazines. What was wrong with this guy? Didn't he read? What was he going to be doing all week? Closing the last drawer, I heard the shower stop next door. Sergio must be done, so I had better hurry. I glanced around the room; only the beds were left.
The one by the bathroom didn't have anything underneath it. Crawling over to the other bed, I tensed and pulled up the dust ruffle. Nothing.
Sitting on the floor, I scanned the room one more time. There was something different in this room, but I couldn't quite place it. Then the bed next to the bathroom drew my attention, but what was it? I scanned the bedspread from the foot of the bed to the pillow. Then my eyes darted back a few feet from the pillow. A small depression dimpled the smooth covering. Two depressions. It looked like someone had sat on the edge of the bed, but the dents appeared to be too far apart. Unless the person had a really big butt. And Duane didn't. He was big, like a body builder, one of those who concentrated on his arms, and ignored his legs. That's it. Feet. Someone had stood on the bed.
Looking up, I saw what the difference was in this room. Our room had a vaulted ceiling, and this one had a drop-tiled ceiling. One tile had a slight sag in it, and it was directly above the bed's indentations. I hurried over to that spot and stared at the tile. A faint smudge ran along one side, and it looked like a fingerprint. Another one, fainter than the first, was directly across from it.
Stepping up onto the bed, I strained to push the tile up. There was something heavy on it. The bed sagged underneath my feet. Bouncing, I bumped the tile up and over. Next, I punched the tile's sag, and a leather briefcase slipped into sight.
I pulled on the handle, and the heavy case dropped from the ceiling and almost pulled me off the bed. Laying it on its side, I reached over and flipped the latches open. I raised the lid and saw a pile of manila folders resting neatly inside. Each tab had a precisely printed name in big block letters. Flipping through, I recognized a few of the names: David Campbell, John Dahl, and David Ferron. Searching further, it looked like there was a file for each man staying and working at the resort.
My fingers flipped through the tabs. A few more familiar names flew by; Tom, Logan, Cha-Cha. I paused on the next one.
Sergio Wyzlic? I slipped his folder out. What was going on? I swallowed hard as I glanced at the next file. “Taylor” was neatly printed in black letters. This was getting way too strange. Had I stepped into an old
Mission: Impossible
episode?
Why did Duane have files on everyone staying at the resort? Why did he have a file on me? And better yet, what was in it?
My palms started to sweat and my heart raced inside my ribcage.
Running through the files again, I pulled out the familiar names, and even found one on Mike and Geoff. I wanted to take all of the files, but I didn't think I should take the briefcase. What if someone knew it should be in here and found it missing? I didn't want him searching and finding it in our room. I figured it was better to take a few files and return to get more later on than get caught with the whole bundle.
I placed the pile of pulled files at the foot of the bed and quickly jumped up to replace the briefcase into its hiding place. After bouncing the tile back into place, I remembered to wipe the smudges off the tile. Only the slight sag could be seen. But before grabbing the files, I puffed up the mattress and smoothed out the bedspread, removing all evidence that I or someone had stood on the bed. I wasn't going to make it easy for someone else to find it.
I picked up the files and headed for the door. As I neared it, I saw a shadow move by the crack under the threshold. I backed away from the door, and strained to hear what was going on outside. I heard a key slide into the lock. My back pressed against the closet door. My arms hugged the files against my chest, trying to stop the rise and fall of my lungs.
Before the key could turn, Skinny David's voice echoed down the hallway. “I can't believe that they are so low on lime juice. This is a resort after all. Isn't it?"
The key slipped out of the lock, and I heard footsteps dash down the hallway away from the stairway. The shadow followed the footsteps.
Skinny David's voice grew louder. “Good thing we took extra traveler's checks on this trip. The brochure said that everything was included in the price, but they didn't say it would be so primitive...” and his voice trailed off.
My heart pounded in my chest. Nearing the door, I pressed my ear against the wood. The next door slammed, and David's voice finally disappeared. I counted to ten and bolted back to my room.
"Where the hell have you been?” Sergio demanded when I stepped back into the room. His eyes focused on what I carried. “And what do you have there?"
"Wait until you see this.” I hurried over and sat on the bed. Flipping through the pile, I pulled out his folder, turned it around, and flashed him his name.
He read Sergio Wyzlic and snatched it from my hands. “Where did you get this?” he asked, sitting down on the bed next to me.
"I searched Duane's room and found a briefcase full of files. It looks like he had files on everyone at the resort. Let me tell you, it was pretty creepy, but I really flipped out when I saw your name on a file.” I motioned to the one in his hands.
Tentatively, he opened the manila folder. The top sheet contained a Xeroxed copy of his South Dakota driver's license.
"How did they get that?” he asked.
"When's your birthday? And what year were you born?” I asked, trying to peer over his shoulder to see how old he really was.
Sergio quickly flipped the sheet over. “Let's see what else is in here."
Copies of his cosmetology license, birth certificate, credit card bills, and bank statement came next. The last sheet had “Arrest Record” written in fine black print. “What's this?” I pulled the sheet out.
"Nothing,” Sergio said, grabbing it out of my hands. He quickly crumpled it into a ball and shoved it between his legs.
"You were arrested?” My eyebrows wrinkled. “For what?"
"It was all a mistake.” He shifted on the bed, trying hard to protect the crumpled paper.
"You're kidding, right? You were never arrested."
"That's right. The sheet is wrong. The case was thrown out of court. Dismissed."
"Dismissed?” I was confused. “So, you were arrested? Really?"
"I don't want to talk about it.” He closed his file and set it down on the other side of him. He folded his arms across his chest and hugged himself tightly.
With his defensive posturing, I had to approach this carefully. “Maybe it would help us understand what Duane had on everyone, that is, if we knew whether the information was true or not."
Suddenly, a new idea struck. “Could he have been blackmailing people?” I lifted the pile of folders off my lap and shook them. “Maybe there's something in these files that someone would kill to keep under wraps?"
Sergio's skinny legs gently tremored up and down, and he avoided making eye contact.
"How bad could it be?” I nudged him in the shoulder. “You didn't kill anyone, did you?"
He stopped tapping his leg, and his body tensed visibly.
"Come on, you can trust me.” I placed my hand on his folder.
He flinched, but didn't pull away. He took a deep breath and exhaled. “When I was in cosmo school...” He swallowed hard. “I can't."
"I've done a lot of stupid things in my life. Things I'm not proud of, but I've learned from them, and they made me who I am today. For better or for worse."
He struggled with himself for a while and then finally started. “It's so stupid really. These two guys jumped me after class one night.” His tone resounded with disgust. “I think they wanted to show me how tough they were.” He stared straight ahead and ignored my eye contact.
Great. I was going to make him cry. That's just what I needed.
Trying to help, I offered, “They wouldn't have arrested you for that. It wasn't your fault. Those guys were jerks. You didn't provoke them, did you?"
"You don't understand,” he said, turning to face me. “I hurt one. Really bad."
"What?” I looked at his bony frame. How could Sergio hurt anyone? Let alone badly. He didn't seem like the threatening type to me. This story just wasn't making any sense. “What happened?” I pressed.
"I was getting into my car and these two guys jumped me. They pulled me out of my car and threw me to the ground. I thought they were going to steal my car or take my wallet, but they started throwing all of my stuff around.” He took a deep breath.
"One guy was pulling out all of my things, rollers, curling irons, and throwing them around the parking lot and calling me all kinds of names. The other one came after me. Luckily, my curling rods were scattered across the lot and as he grabbed for me, he slipped."
I thought he was going to burst into tears, when he suddenly erupted into laughter. I waited for him to explain.
"While he was on the ground, Suzy Q beat him up."
"Who beat him up?” I asked, not following his story.
"Not who, what. Suzy Q was my mannequin head that I practiced on. The other guy pulled her out of my car and dropkicked her to my feet. The next thing I knew, I had her by the hair, covered in blood, and was chasing the other guy down the street.” He shook his head. “That was until the policeman arrested me for assault and battery with a head."
"So, what happened?"
"The case was thrown out of court. The guys dropped their charges once they found out they would have to testify about what happened.” He smiled. “I doubt their fragile egos would have been able to handle that."
"You were lucky they didn't hurt you."
"I think I would've rather they had. It would've been easier to live with than knowing how much violence can be bottled up inside of me."
"You were only defending yourself. Surely, they could see..."
"I think that was part of why they dropped the charges.” Sergio pointed to his chest. “Afraid of how it would look if someone like me had beaten one of them senseless."
Gently, taking the folder from his lap, I looked over its contents again. “Wow! That's what you owe on your credit card,” I said, pointing to the grand total. “And I thought my student loan total looked overwhelming."