No Immunity

great mecca of Gattozzi? He had slowed for a couple of modest signs to towns miles off the road, but for over an hour there had been no mention of Gattozzi. If he hadn’t seen the highway sign when he first turned onto 93, he’d have wondered if Adcock had been shitting him. But Gattozzi or not, this was the only place open in the middle of the night, and he was damn well stopping here. If this was the gateway to Gattozzi, it didn’t bode well.
    He slowed, now able to see the light-blurred windows in a cafe, a couple of vehicles parked in front. To the right stood a motel. The whole prefab affair looked like a group giant cardboard boxes that had been dropped on the hard, bare ground one morning and opened for trade by dinnertime. Motel 4, or maybe 3 ½ .
    Tchernak saw the taillights and slammed on the brakes before he took in what was happening. Idiot flying out of the parking lot, that was what was happening. A bit too far away to clip the bumper of the gold Grand Cherokee Laredo, but it wasn’t like the guy slowed down to check on unimportant minutia like other vehicles. How desperate was he to get away? Probably some jerk who’d got chucked out of bed by a girlfriend who’d had enough. Or hadn’t.
    Tchernak flicked on his blinker before making the right turn into the sprawling parking area, even though his was the only vehicle moving now. He looked around at the buildings and the dust swirling in his headlights and suddenly felt the weight of the long day. The place was just a motel and cafe, not Gattozzi. His first case and not only could he not find the missing person, he couldn’t even locate the proper town to look in. What he had located was just another opportunity for bad coffee.
    But somebody in there would know where Gattozzi was. The weight eased off his shoulders and he aimed the Jeep toward the cafe. While he was asking directions, he could get a piece of pie, maybe apple. Probably be awful. For an instant the memory of the cherry-kumquat tart he’d made for dinner Thursday was so real, the sweet and sharp smell wafted by his nose. He’d gotten the out-of-season cherries from a hothouse outside of Olympia, and the kumquats... Was that only three days ago? shrugged off the question and focused on the cafe sign: Doll’s House. In a spot like this there was always the chance of home cooking. Apple was the safest.
    Unbidden, he found himself glancing at the motel an thinking of the asshole who’d almost taken off his fender. Fight with a girlfriend? Guy that pissed could have left her with a jaw broken in eight pieces. He half expected to see tiny, bloodied woman staggering out of one of the units. But it was none of his business. Still, he found himself turning not left to the cafe but right to swing past the motel doors. He hadn’t realized at first that there were two prefab rectangles, one behind the other, both with doors facing the road.
    Not a car in sight. No light coming from a window. Maybe he had been wrong about the fight, maybe the rubber-burner was the night cook at the end of shift, or some local who had dumped trash and fled, or—
    He almost missed the six-inch opening in the doorway of the last unit.
    It was none of his business, and he had a pressing case that needed to be solved.
    Or maybe it was his business. Long shot, but still... He pulled up by the motel room, got out, and eased the Jeep’s door shut. The wind slapped his jean legs against his shins, pulled his shirt out from his chest. “You okay in there?” he called through the dark doorway.
    The light didn’t go on, but he could hear something inside. “Excuse me?” He leaned closer to the doorway, scrunching his ear, but it was no use. On this desert the wind came too crisply, splattering sand and dirt, rattling all the corners of fixtures, smacking detritus left from who knew what against the tinny motel walls.
    ‘Look, I just want to help. I can call a doctor if you need one. If you’re okay, that’s great. Just tell me and I won’t bug you.”
    Still no words came back at him, but now he had factored in the wind and, leaning so close his head was almost the doorway, he heard an irregular sound. Water. Not dripping. Running. And the smell—he couldn’t place it, wasn’t sure this kind of stench was coming from inside the room or was being carried on the wind from some unseen farmyard. But the water? You don’t leave the tap open like that, not in the desert, of all places. “I’m just going to