Midnight Rambler: A Novel of Suspense

The room was a newer version of Cecil's, the fabrics and carpet more alive. I lay on the bed with Buster curled up beside me. It was comforting being in bed during a storm, and before I knew it, I was sound asleep.

A clap of thunder awoke me. The digital clock on the night table said nine o'clock. I grabbed my phone and called the Disney main number. There was still no answer in Tram's room. I weighed leaving a message but wasn't sure how to tell him about the photographs without scaring the hell out of him. I hung up in frustration.

I powered up the TV. It had nine channels, just like the good old days. I found CNN, the clipped format exactly what my brain needed. At the top of the broadcast was a story about Skell's impending release from Starke. Leonard Snook stood on the Broward County courthouse steps, looking resplendent in a blue suit and glowing yellow tie. He was talking while triumphantly waving several sheets of paper in his hand. If I hadn't known better, I would have thought he'd just sold his first car.

Dressed in black, Lorna Sue Mutter stood beside him. She was content to bask in Snook's oratory and looked at him in a way that only confirmed my earlier suspicions about them sleeping together. I raised the volume with the remote.

“Today, my client, Simon Skell, was exonerated of the charge of murder in the first degree,” Snook said into the reporters' bouquet of microphones. “Justice has been served.”

“Will your client be suing the police for false imprisonment?” a reporter asked.

“No comment,” Snook said.

“How about Detective Jack Carpenter? Will your client sue him?”

“No, he will not,” Snook said.

Of course he wasn't suing me. I didn't have any money.

“When will Simon Skell be released from prison?” another reporter asked.

“The orders for my client's release have been sent to the warden at Starke,” Snook replied. “Hopefully, he will act swiftly.”

“Will Skell be released today?”

Snook frowned. The warden at Starke was a hard-ass named Einbinder. Einbinder knew all about Skell, courtesy of yours truly. My guess was Einbinder would delay Skell's release and give the police extra time to find evidence against him.

“That's out of my hands,” Snook said.

A reporter shoved a mike into Lorna Sue's face.

“Have you spoken to your husband recently?” he asked.

Lorna Sue beamed beatifically. “Why yes, I spoke with Simon earlier. He asked me to personally thank everyone who's been praying for him. He looks forward to being a free man very soon.”

My sandal hit the screen. Luckily it stayed intact, and I saw something that I hadn't seen before. Standing behind Lorna Sue was a man wearing stylish tinted glasses and a diamond stud earring. His name was Chase Winters, and he was a Hollywood producer of some repute. I knew Chase because I had nearly sold him my life story when I was desperate for cash. I'd thought he was a straight shooter until he told me over lunch that he needed to take “artistic license” with the facts of the case. When I asked what that meant, Winters explained that he wanted to turn all of the Midnight Rambler's victims into strippers because it would help sell the movie overseas. Instead of punching his lights out, I walked away from the deal. Seeing him with Lorna Sue, I assumed he'd found someone more willing to bend the truth to his liking.

I killed the TV. Then I called Disney's main number and asked for Tram Dockery's room. To my relief, Tram picked up.

“This is Jack,” I said.

“Hey, Jack,” Tram said brightly. “How's it going?”

“Not so good. You and I need to talk.”

The Dockerys were staying at Disney's Wilderness Lodge. The lodge was situated on several heavily wooded acres, the roads unmarked and poorly lit. I pulled in twenty minutes later and let Buster sniff trees before entering the main building.

Wilderness Lodge was Jessie's favorite hotel growing up, and our family had stayed there many times on vacation. Modeled after the Old Faithful Inn at Yellowstone National Park, the main building was the world's largest man-made log structure, with each massive log fitted in place without the use of glue or nails. A woman in cowboy attire greeted me at the front desk.

“Howdy,” she said.

“House phones,” I said.

She pointed to a stand by the elevators, then handed me a brochure.

“Have a nice evening,” she said.

I called Tram's room and asked him to meet me in the lobby. He sounded worried and said he'd be right down.

I made myself comfortable on a sprawling leather couch and leafed through the brochure the receptionist had given me. It was called the Hidden Mickey Hunt and was a special promotion for guests staying at the Lodge. Eight hidden images of Mickey Mouse were carved into the balconies of different rooms, while another eight were hidden around the property in the landscaping. Every guest who found all sixteen won a special prize. I thought of Shannon Dockery and wondered how many she'd found so far.

“Hey,” a voice said.