Yeah, I’m gonna fuck up a federal investigation and get myself arrested in the process. I’m not stupid. I’ve said that a thousand times before, but I mean it this time. I’m sure the task force Hurley’s on already has a car or two sitting on him.

So take it easy, and slow the fuck down.

I can dream, though, can’t I?

I park my car on the street again, a couple of blocks from the motel. Biddy only has the one suitcase, so I can manage the walk back.

Evening is setting in, the remaining light made dimmer by steam in the air. It’s like I have to cut my way through it. I walk the sidewalk on the other side of the office, an effort to lessen the possibility of prying eyes.

Looks like Biddy turned the lights off in the room before he left. I open the door, double-lock it behind me. Turn the overhead light on. I pick up his suitcase and open it on the bed to search the contents. Despite what he said, I want to make sure I won’t be transporting something I shouldn’t be. Looks good. Clean underwear, pants, shirts, and some fucking self-help book about finding peace. I zip up the suitcase after I clear it.

I see the crack stem on the nightstand and pick it up so I can flush it down the toilet.

I enter the bathroom and am startled by a very large older man in a suit standing against the bathroom wall across from the toilet. I recognize him. Wyatt from the club. I drop the stem on the bathroom floor and unholster my gun, but he’s already holding a small canister of police-grade Mace. It streams out and hits me on the left side of my face.

“Fuck!” is all I can get out.

I tuck my gun to shoot blindly. But before I can, and out of nowhere, he slaps it from my hand so hard it feels like my hand went with it.

I hear it land somewhere with an echo.

The tub?