Caligatha by Matt Spire

Author:Matt Spire [Spire, Matt]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780692506097
Amazon: B012BXQQTW
Barnesnoble: B012BXQQTW
Goodreads: 25979296
Publisher: Deadprism
Published: 2015-10-17T16:00:00+00:00

***

He can't control his panic any longer. As soon as Lydia turns away, he retches into a bush.

God damn it.

He's missed both of Fern's calls, and she hasn't left voicemails. She doesn't answer when he calls back.

Returning to Blue Coral, he's certain of the inevitable. Reuben must have eventually come to his apartment, then to the hotel.

Stupid, stupid. Why did he hide her there?

He calls the front desk, but there's no answer. He calls Maggie and demands to know if anything is happening at Blue Coral.

“Have you lost your fucking mind? Have you been high all day?”

He realizes he hadn't checked the time. It's already past nine.

“I'm sorry,” he tells her. “I know. I'm sorry.”

He hangs up and calls Ian, the night receptionist.

“Ian!” he yells as soon as he picks up. “Where are you?”

But Jericho cuts him off, tells him to check on Fern's room.

A minute later, switching between images in his mind of the blood-red pools of wine and glass and Lydia lying in the waiting room alone, he bursts open the front door.

Empty.

He rushes down the hall towards Fern's room.

Ian is twisting himself into sitting up, his sweater half off, the framed painting on the wall above him crooked.

Jericho steps over him, yanks the door. Locked. He fumbles for his card key.

“They're okay,” Ian says. Jericho turns, realizes a stream of blood is running from Ian's nostril to his chin.

“What happened?” Jericho yells, turning back to swipe his card key. He pushes the door, but it's obstructed.

“He's gone.”

“Fern!” He pounds the door, then puts his weight on it, pushing it open enough to reveal and jostle out of place an oak armoire.

Shoving the armoire over, he steps into the room, catching his balance. Lightheaded, his entire body uncooperating, like a flesh dandelion about to split into a thousand pieces.

The muted television flickers, the suitcase is open and its contents scattered across one of the beds.

Cold air flows through the sliding glass door to the porch.

“Who the hell was that?” Ian demands.

Jericho ignores him. “Where did he go?” he manages, nearly retching again.

Wiping the blood from his nose, Ian points further down the hallway, to an employee entrance into Tombolo's.

Reuben knows the hotel; he knows the outdoor seating at Tombolo's is in the inner courtyard, giving access to the porches of the first floor's rooms.

“The desk is trashed,” Ian says. “He probably has the cleaner's key.”

“Disable it,” Jericho tells him, “and call the police.”

Ian breathes sharply, swallowing his questions, and begins to the front desk. Jericho feels a lump in his throat so hard he can't swallow.

His face is wet–what is it, rain? Sweat? Drool?

Morphine.

Everything is out of control.

Stepping down the hall, he tries calling Fern. He swipes his card at the door to Tombalo's kitchen, Fern's phone ringing on the other end.

The kitchen is empty, all clean and shimmering metal. He peers through the prep stations. No one scrubbing the lines. The mopped floor is dry.

He runs into the empty dining area. Even the bartender's called it a night.

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