The Key--Deleted Chapter

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The Key--Deleted Chapter

approximately 2580 words

Chapter Six
Wednesday Morning, 2AM

Justin Hisakawa squinted at his dog-eared copy of Unpacking Social Space in the dim, 2AM lighting of the Admiral Hotel’s lobby. He lounged back, behind the front desk, feet up and shoes off, and used his right hand to hold his book while he scratched an annoying itch on his nose with his right. The ubiquitous Muzak lilting through the lobby shifted to a 1001 Strings version of "The the Night the Devil Went Down to Georgia," and he rolled his eyes. That was the kind of abomination for music his family would love.

He turned his attention back to his book and puzzled over the author’s notion of linking urban spelunking to Focault’s concept of heterotopia. He’d bought the book because he identified with the idea of urban explorers being social deviants who uncovered disconnected parts of the urban landscape. But tonight Focault’s obscurantism was too much for him.

As if the cloying music weren’t enough distraction, his lack of sleep and eyestrain conspired to create a knob of pain centered deep in his skull. At this rate, he’d never make it through the morning shift at Molly’s diner. He must have been nuts to agree to help her out, but she was a good friend. Who else could she rely on? A stranger?

At least the thunderstorms had finally passed over downtown. He yawned and closed his book. Nothing important ever happened on the graveyard shift. He should be able to catch a nap and no one would know.

A wizened woman pushing a shopping cart appeared in the passenger drop-off area outside the lobby. Justin recognized her tattered overcoat, gloves with no fingers, and ruby-red Keds. He didn't know her last name, so he just thought of her as Shopping Cart Annie. Her scraggly gray hair streamed about her head as she peered through the glass doors. When she caught Justin's eye, she and her cart disappeared toward the smoker's corner at the end of the hotel.

Justin sighed. He'd expected Annie to show up, and had worried about her while the storm raged earlier. He'd salvaged a chicken Kiev dinner from the restaurant for her. He gave his book a forlorn look, stashed it under the counter next to where he’d hidden the meal. He really needed that nap, but poor Annie needed him more. He grabbed the meal and headed outside.

He shivered in the chill post-storm air and wished he'd stopped to put his shoes on. Damn, where did she go?

A feeble female voice called from the shadows. "That you, Mister Justin?"

"Annie? Honey, come on out here where I can see you." His face relaxed into a grin. "I've got a meal for you."

She crept from behind the shrubbery and into the light, pushing a shopping cart that overflowed with junk: blankets, soda cans, bottles, and assorted trash she mistook for treasure. She accepted the sack containing the meal, and her narrow, withered features broke into a brief smile. Moonlight glimmered in her sunken eyes while she murmured, "God Bless you, Mister Justin." Her hands trembled as she opened the bag to inspect the dinner. "You're an angel, you are." Her iron-gray hair flowed from under a beret adorned with plastic flowers and a cheap medallion shaped like a pagan image of the sun god.

"They were just going to throw it away." He frowned. "It looks like you stayed dry in the storm. Where are you going to sleep?" She couldn't stay here. The security patrol would chase her away. He'd lose his job if he let her in the lobby again.

"Now don't you worry your pretty head none, dearie. Old Annie, she’s got a crib under the BA overpass."

Justin frowned. The humongous downtown interchange a couple of blocks from the hotel probably provided plenty of places for her to hide out. It was too far from a street for the cops to bother her, but not too far for other denizens of the night who might rob her. “I could take you to the shelter, Annie. You’d be safe there.”

She shuddered and retreated back into the shadows, clutching the bag with her meal. "No! Not there. Last time Annie stayed at that Devil's lair, she got robbed by a dog of a soldier. French, he was. He fought for Napoleon at Waterloo, he said."

"I doubt he was that old, Annie."

"Shows what you know, what with all that book-learnin' of yours. He weren't old at all. He traveled in time, he did. Ol' Annie saw with her own eyes. He had a cursed medal, hangin' on a chain from his neck. Said he got it from one of Napoleon's generals. He cast a spell over it, and the light came and took him away."

Justin sighed. The poor woman was delusional. Harmless, but hopeless. That was probably why the cops hadn't shipped her off to the state psych hospital on Harvard Avenue. That, and laziness. "The shoes working out okay?"

A smile lit her features and she stuck out a foot. "Them's Annie's ruby-red slippers, they is. She clicks them together and maybe they'll take her over the rainbow one of these days. Bless you for them, Mister Justin." She tucked a strand of hair behind an ear. "How about you? How's that cute boyfriend of yours, Kyle?"

Justin flinched at the mention of Kyle the heartless. "We broke up, I'm afraid." No reason to tell her thier final fight was over the money Justin spent helping Annie. "It didn't work out between us."

"I'm so sorry hon." She didn't sound sorry, but Justin didn't say anything.

Headlights flashed across them as a car pulled into the passenger loading area.

"Shit. I gotta go, Annie. You need anything else tonight?"

"Annie's blessed, she is. She'll see you tomorrow, Take care of business, saint Justin."

"Right. Tomorrow and tomorrow.." And so forth. He scampered back inside the hotel and his position behind the front desk.

A car door slammed and wind gusted through the lobby. A short, muscular man with a hook nose, bald head, and a glowering expression strode across the terrazzo floor and stood before the desk.

Justin looked him in the eye and put on his friendly meet-the-customer face. "Good morning, sir. How can I help you?" The man twisted his mouth downward and glared at him. Justin let his dimples fade.

When the man spoke, his voice sounded like he'd been gargling Drano. "Need room." He wore a black leather biker's jacket, black denim jeans, and heavy engineer's boots. A ragged scar started at his left ear, meandered down his cheek, onto his neck, and disappeared under his t-shirt.

Justin thought about the panic button that would call the night security force. He was glad it was there, even though this man was probably just a gynecologist or some such who affected a tough guy image. "Of course, sir." Justin handed him a registration form. "Please fill this out. How will you be paying this evening?"

"Cash." He pulled a hefty leather wallet from the back of his jeans and placed two hundred-dollar bills on the counter.

Justin kept his face impassive. "One of those will be sufficient, sir. I'll need to see your identification, please."

The man scowled. "Why? I pay cash." He nudged both bills in Justin's direction.

What did the guy think he was doing? Offering a bribe? "Sir, I could lose my job if I don't see your ID. You can put whatever name you want on the registration form."

That earned him a snort, but the man reached into his jacket and handed him a passport.

The words The Satrapy of Gaugamela gleamed in gold script on the drab green cover. Justin gave a mental shrug: there were too many new countries popping up all over the place to keep track of them all. He glanced at the picture inside and handed it back. "Thank you, Mr. Mazaeus." Justin ran two keycards through the decoder. "You'll be in room 312. The elevator is to your left. Let me get your change."

"You keep." Mazaeus snatched up the keys and stalked away. He had no bags.

Justin glanced at the passenger drop-off outside. Empty. Mazaeus must have arrived by taxi or limo instead of his own vehicle. Justin fingered the bills, rang up the sale, made change, and pocketed the difference. He could use the extra cash after blowing last week's food budget on Annie's Keds.

When he filed the registration form, he saw that Mazaeus had filled it out using an angular script he didn't recognize. Not Russian--he'd studied Russian in college. He shrugged. No matter. He settled back with his book, but couldn't concentrate. He'd seen stranger things than Mazaeus working the night shift, but not by much. Besides, he didn't have the energy to speculate.

He stretched, padded over to the courtesy coffee bar, and poured himself a cup, dosing it with a generous heap of sugar and creamer. It was going to be a long night.

An uncertain time later, a fist pounding on the front desk bell startled him awake. He jerked his head up from the desk and twisted a crick out of his neck. His head throbbed, and it felt like someone had swabbed his mouth with cotton. Stale, coffee-soaked cotton. He blinked grainy eyes at the woman scowling at him from the other side of the counter. "I'm so sorry, ma'am. How can I help you?" He clambered to his feet on uncertain legs. God, he needed to get more sleep.

She flashed a badge at him. "Special Agent Charlotte Corbett, FBI." She contorted her pallid features into a brief smile. "I'd like to check your registry for tonight." She tugged at the strap of the hefty leather handbag that hung from one shoulder.

She'd tied her raven-black hair in a tight bun that seemed to pull her narrow features backwards. He wondered if she got that lean-and-hungry look by soaking her face in vinegar. "Uh, sure. It's been kind of slow." He fumbled with the file and pulled out a half dozen registration slips.

"The man I'm looking for is about five-six, bald, and speaks with an accent. Sound familiar?"

"You must mean Mr., uh, Mazaeus." Justin placed the card on the front desk and slid it toward her.

She looked like he'd tried to hand her Ebola-infested toilet paper. "What's this? It's not even filled out in English."

"I checked his passport, and he filled out the form. That's all we're required to do." What a tight-ass. This could only be trouble. Just what he needed: another pointless time-sink.

Her eyes narrowed as she scanned the document. "Cuneiform. It's him, all right. What room is he in?"

Justin frowned. "Can I see your badge again?"

She pulled it from her handbag and held it before his face. It sure looked official, but how would he know? "Maybe I should call my manager."

"Up to you. But if you hold me up, I'll have a dozen anti-terrorism agents up your butt by start of business tomorrow. You won't know what hit you. If you've got a couple of months free to spend answering their questions, go for it."

Justin's face heated and he clenched his jaws. It would be so satisfying to put her in her place. But he’d promised Molly he’d help with her café in the morning. She was depending on him. He had no time for FBI harrassment. "Would you like me to ring his room?"

She leaned across the counter and glared at him. "I. Want. His. Room. Number. Now."

Justin chewed the side of his mouth. "It's 312."

She relaxed. "There, that wasn't so hard, was it? Now give me the key." She held out her hand.

That was too much. She was too much like his mother right before she went ballistic and started hitting. "If you explicitly order to me to do so under your authority as an FBI agent, I'll open the room for you. I won't give you the key." This fascist pipsqueak could do whatever she wanted. He had his limits. Besides, she might have gotten that badge on the internet. Or Badges R Us. Who knew?

She rolled her eyes. "Who are you? Perry Mason? I order you on my authority as Special Agent of the FBI to let me in the room. There, does that make you happy? Now snap to it."

Justin grabbed the master keycard and stepped toward the elevator. When he pushed the "up" button, he realized he'd forgotten his shoes again. Screw it. He'd be back behind the counter where no one could see, and he may as well be comfortable. The doors slid open and they rode in silence to the third floor.

He paused outside 312 and tapped on the door. "Mr. Mazaeus?"

Corbett grabbed his arm. "What are you doing? I didn't say warn him. Stay put." She twisted the keycard from his hand and swiped it on the door. The green light flashed. She pulled a snub-nosed weapon from her purse and pushed inside.

Justin hesitated.. She may be an FBI agent, but she just pulled a friggin' gun. He was still pissed off at her officious manner, but the gun made him hesitate.

Brilliant blue light flared out the open door and filled the corridor. A sudden crack from inside the room made his ears pop. A high-pitched whine erupted and at once spiraled up and out of auditory range, making his ears ache.

He dared to peek into the room. Corbett and a naked Mazaeus clenched in a frozen tableau, their faces contorted with rage. A polychromatic tornado of light swirled around them.

Panic ate a cold hole in his stomach and sent electric jitters down his spine.

Then, in less than the time between two heartbeats, they were gone. Vanished. All that remained was a tiny, buzzing whirl of light where they’d fought. While he watched, it gave a little pop and disappeared.

What the hell just happened?

He stumbled into the room and felt the carpet where the two had stood. It felt like carpet. The bed was mussed, as if Mazaeus had been in it when Corbett stormed inside. He frowned, and picked up a dull metal object from sheets. A bullet. At least there was no blood.

Where did they go? He checked the closet and the bathroom. Nothing. Mazaeus’s clothes clumped in a pile on the floor, next to his boots. His passport was on the desk. A old-fashoined silver key with a gold inlay in the hasp lay on top of the passport. Justin picked it up and peered at it. Damn. The thing was heavy, like it was made of lead. He ran his fingers over the text engraved on the shaft. It looked like the same wierd lettering Mazaeus had scrawled in the hotel's register. Cuneiform, Corbett had called it. The gold inlay had more engraved letters, and a stylized sun.

He glanced at the passort. Passports, actually. The top one was what Mazeaus had shown him, from the Satrapy of Never-heard-of-it. Underneath it was a blue US passport for someone named Albert Hennigan, but the inside featured a picture of Mazaeus in a suit and tie. Why have two passports?

He pursed his lips. If Corbett really were an FBI agent, wouldn’t she have a partner? She didn't even announce herself when she stormed the room. Most likely her badge was fake. From the two passports, it looked like Manzaeus was undercover, hiding. Corbett found him, but if he were hiding, probably no one else would come to the hotel inquiring where he went.

Justin shuddered as he imagined reporting what he’d just seen to the cops. They’d likely suspect him of something, or, worse, ship him off to the state psych hospital on Harvard Avenue.

He pursed his lips, then gathered the US passport, the bullet and, after a moment's thought, the key. The room was paid for. Guests left stuff behind in their rooms all the time. Housekeeping would just gather the clothes and whatever and put it all in lost and found. No one at the hotel would ask any questions if he didn’t say anything. Most likely, no one else would ask about anything, either. If they did, they'd find the passport logged in when Mazeaus registered, not a suspicious second one. All he had to do was keep his mouth shut.

The mystery nagged at him, but what was done was done. It wasn’t like he could do anything for Mazaeus. Or Corbett either, for that matter.

He checked his watch. Four in the morning. He still had time for a nap before heading out to Molly’s, the key and bullet weighing heavilly in this pocket.

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