Rain Gods (Hackberry Holland 2)

urn off the shower and place both your hands against the wall.?

Again there was no response.

He gripped the edge of the curtain and ripped it back on the rod. The shower mist welled into his face.

?You shouldn?t go in a man?s room without a warrant,? a voice said behind him. ?No, no, don?t move. You don?t want to look at me, hoss.?

Clawson stood frozen, his weapon held out by his side, the mist from the shower dampening his clothes, the back of his neck burning. But in the instant before he had been warned not to turn around, he had seen what appeared to be a hooded shape against the blowing rain, a nickel-plated pistol barrel in the figure?s left hand.

?Drop your piece in the commode,? the voice said.

?The cowboy at the desk dimed me??

?You dimed yourself when you came here without backup. You?re guilty of the sins of pride and arrogance, my friend. But they don?t have to be your undoing. That means don?t listen to the kind of thoughts you?re having right now. This doesn?t have to end like you think.?

The grips of the semiautomatic were damp in Clawson?s grasp. Moisture had beaded on his face and was running into his eyes and collar. He could hear a sound in his head that was like the roaring of the sea, like a whoosh of flame from the gas tank of a burning automobile.

BY THE TIME Hackberry turned in to the motel parking lot, the sun had disappeared completely and the thunder had grown in volume, crackling across the sky like a tin roof being peeled joist by joist off a barn.

?I can?t believe this. An honest-to-God rain,? Pam said.

?Try Clawson again,? Hackberry said.

?Waste of time. I think he?s gotten himself into a pile of shit.?

He gave her a look.

?You got it,? she said.

He pulled in front of the motel office while she made the call. He could see a man dressed like a cowboy behind the front desk.

?No answer,? Pam said.

?Well, let?s see what life is like at Traveler?s Rest,? Hackberry said. He got out of the truck and buckled on his gun belt, the open door shielding him from view. Through the motel?s front window, he saw the clerk answer the phone and then go into the back. An electronic bell rang when he and Pam entered the office.

?Be right with you,? a voice in back said.

By leaning sideways, Hackberry could see the clerk standing in front of a mirror. He had just removed a Band-Aid from the corner of one eye. He rolled it up between his fingers and plunked it into a wastebasket, then peeled the paper off a fresh one and glued it against his skin, smoothing the adhesive down firmly with his thumb. He ran a comb through his hair, touched at his nostrils with one knuckle, and came back to the front desk with a smile on his face. His eyes dropped to the revolver on Hackberry?s hip. ?Help you?? he said.

Hackberry opened his badge holder. ?Has a federal agent by the name of Isaac Clawson been here??

?Today??

?In the last hour.?

?Federal agent? No, sir, not to my knowledge.?

?Can you tell me who?s staying in room two-oh-nine??

The clerk bent to his computer, his expression earnest. ?Looks like that?s a gentleman who paid cash. For five days, in advance. I?ll have to look up his registration card.?

?Can you describe what he looks like??

?I don?t think it was me who checked him in. I don?t place him offhand.? The clerk touched at his nose. His eyes drifted off Hackberry?s onto the parking lot and a palm tree beating in the wind. ?Y?all must have brought that weather with you. We can use it,? he said.

?Know a hooker by the name of Mona Drexel??

?No, sir, we don?t allow hookers in here.?