Ex-Purgatory, Peter Clines [top ten books of all time .txt] 📗

“I need to know what hotel she’s staying at.”

Silence stretched out between them. When Nick spoke again, his voice was lower and more muffled. “George,” he said, “I can’t give that sort of thing out.”

“I just—”

“I can get fired for giving out that kind of information,” stressed Nick.

“It’s important,” George said. “I swear. It’s nothing creepy or stalker-y, it’s just …”

“Just what?”

“Do you trust me?”

“What?”

“Yes or no. Do you trust me?”

“Yeah, of course,” said Nick. “I’d trust you with my sister. Or money, even.”

“Then just believe me,” George said. “It’s important, okay?”

Another silence lived out its brief life. “No,” said Nick. “Sorry, this is one of those lines I can’t cross, y’know?”

“Nick, please—”

“No,” he interrupted. “The conversation’s over, okay? Done. Finished.” There was more tapping of keys. “I’ve got to get back to work. I’ll talk to you later.”

Nick hung up.

George slumped in the driver’s seat. It had been a stupid request. Nick had told him horror stories of people doing similar things. He’d just become one of those people.

Except those people couldn’t pick up dumpsters. They didn’t get attacked by walking corpses. And if they were, he was pretty sure the monsters’ teeth didn’t break on their skin.

He had to find Karen Quilt.

He reached for the ignition. His fingers were three inches from the key when the car started. The engine purred. The dash lit up. The radio flared to life. It was between songs. “That,” said the deejay, “was totally awesome. Good to see you in action again, man.”

He froze. Had he turned the key? It was a muscle-memory thing he did a lot of the time without thinking. There were so many things going on in his mind he might’ve started the car and then just blanked it out until he went to turn it again. Maybe a wiring issue? He could’ve turned the ignition earlier and it didn’t engage until he moved and made something in the car shift. It was a lame explanation, but of all the things going on, his car starting without a hitch didn’t rate that high. Heck, a wiring problem might even explain why it kept stalling in the mornings.

The deejay launched into a diatribe about divorcées and saints. George shut the radio off. How did it keep getting back to religious stations, anyway? More bad wiring?

He brushed it from his mind. He needed to head home and scour some articles online. Maybe he could find a hint about where Karen Quilt was staying. He’d been assuming it was a hotel, but maybe she had a condo somewhere in Hollywood or Santa Monica or somewhere. Common sense told him there were enough celebrity-stalking websites out there that someone had to have a general sense of where she was.

His phone beeped. Nick had sent him a text.

Four Seasons on Doheny—for fuck’s sake, don’t make me regret this

George smiled and backed his car out.

The Four Seasons in Beverly Hills stood tall, flanked by a handful of massive palm trees. It bristled with balconies but still had the color and faint lines of Spanish architecture. The entrance was discreetly blocked off from the rest of the world with a series of hedges and smaller trees.

George drove past the entrance. Through the gap in the high shrubs he saw several valets and very few parking spaces. He went a little farther down and turned onto a side street. It took him another few minutes to find parking, and two more to find a sign that told him how long his car would be safe there.

He walked back to the hotel. He paused to tuck his shirt in and brush himself off before he stepped through the pillars of greenery and onto the grounds. There were a few life-sized iron statues of people scattered around the entrance. He kept glimpsing them in his peripheral vision as he crossed the driveway. Their stillness was a bit unnerving. They flickered in his eyes and for a moment he saw them covered with years of green tarnish.

The men at the valet station didn’t give him a second glance. George was sure he wasn’t the first person to dodge valet parking. He returned the doorman’s tight smile and stepped inside. The lobby looked expensive in an elegant way. It was the kind of expense that didn’t feel the need to flaunt it by being oversized.

He saw the counter off to the side and tried to decide if he needed to speak with the regular clerk or the concierge. His experience in fancy hotels was limited to a pair of parties with Nick, neither of them at this hotel. He chose the main desk on the hope lower-ranking staff members would be more helpful than higher ones. A slim man and woman in matching shirts and blazers stood behind the high counter.

“Good afternoon, sir,” said the man as he approached. “Welcome to the Four Seasons. How can I help you?”

“Hi,” George said. “I’m trying to get in touch with one of your guests.”

The man’s hands slid to a keyboard. “Of course. What room number?”

“I’m afraid I don’t have it.”

“Name?”

He drummed his fingers on his thigh. “Karen. Karen Quilt.”

The man looked up from his computer screen. He locked eyes with George for a moment, then his gaze slipped to something just over George’s shoulder. There was a large mirror behind the desk, and in it George saw a man by the elevators straighten up. He was a large man, as tall as George but wider in the chest. He wore a black tee with his dark suit.

“Is Miss Quilt expecting you, sir?” asked the clerk.

“I’m not sure,” he said. It felt like an honest answer. He looked at the phone by the man’s hand. “Could you tell her … George is here.”

“George …?”

“George Bailey.”

The man’s face twitched. Not in a good way. His eyes flitted back to the large man wearing the T-shirt with his suit.

George was ready for it. He’d been dealing with it his whole life. “No,” he said, “really.