Glitch, page 8
Flipping that paper over, he immediately read the rest of the caption beneath the girl's picture.
'Aspiring model Sandra Verhoeven vanished while participating in The Art Institute's regional fashion show at the Salt Palace convention center in Salt Lake City on Tuesday. After questioning those at the fashion show, including her family, the police believe she was abducted,' it read. 'The 15-year-old is 5 ft. 6 in., weighing 109 pounds, with long dark hair and hazel eyes. If you have any information on Sandra's whereabouts, contact Salt Lake City police at (801) 799-3720.'
This revelation validated the girl's story, but one part of that news alert hit Ike like a spike right through the head.
"15!" Ike shouted. "Ahhh, fuck me!" Ike then, briefly shutting his eyes, as he shook his head in disbelief.
Folding the newspaper in half, he immediately slammed it down on the machine with his right hand. Then, picking up the shopping bag, Ike hurried down the street.
As he headed back to Jon's shop, he felt odd and conflicted over what could have happened last night.
Ike doesn't need the trouble sleeping with an underage girl can bring. But he wouldn't have hesitated if Sandra had given him the signal to put his man meat in her.
In retrospect, it's a relief to Ike that no fucky sucky happened between them. He felt that even if she were street-legal, taking advantage of someone in apparent distress would make him a scumbag.
***
With the sunlight as bright as ever, and the pain in her shoulders, legs, and butt too much to ignore, Sandra realized she would not get another ounce of sleep.
Throwing off those bedclothes, the girl spread her limbs out as far as they would go. And in doing so, those minor pains didn't hurt as much.
This achiness reminded Sandra of when she went to summer camp and made the mistake of playing flag football with the older kids. Unfortunately, some of them ignored the rules, and they tackled her multiple times.
Though she wasn't happy about them breaking the rules, it was hours later when Sandra felt like a truck had run over her.
Luckily, the camp counselors had plenty of Bengay to ease her pain. But today, feeling like a compact car had done it to her, Sandra wished she had that ointment.
Letting out a loud sigh, the girl slowly sat up. Not seeing a clock anywhere in the room, Sandra could only guess what time it was. She thought it could be afternoon as she scrutinized the light penetrating the window, but she wasn't sure. Despite sleeping late, Sandra was more curious about where Ike could be.
Right at that moment, the girl heard a knocking at the door. The sudden sound made her jump, not just because it was unexpected.
Not knowing who it could be, Sandra stayed motionless on the bed. But then the knocking repeated.
Glancing over at the other bed, the girl thought maybe it was Ike, and he had taken off without the room key. Seeing no key on those green bed covers, Sandra looked back at the door.
She worried about who that might be, but the girl finally got an answer to her unspoken question.
"Hello! It's housekeeping," a female voice announced through the door.
Instantly relieved that it wasn't some scary stranger on the other side of that door, Sandra was about to speak up when she heard a different sound. It was the maid using her passkey to open the door.
The girl froze, not knowing what to do. But as the door opened, she sprang to life.
Completely ignoring her minor pains, the girl leaped off the bed and ran to the entrance.
Throwing her entire 109 pounds against the door, Sandra slammed the woman into the doorjamb.
"Ow, Goddamn it!" The maid shouted.
"Oh, so sorry! I am very sorry! We don't need any cleaning in here today. Sorry!" The girl shouted back.
"You don't hafta slam the door in my face," the woman said as irritation spiked her voice. "Next time, just say yes or no like a normal person."
"I will! I will! I'm so sorry about that!"
Unfortunately, Sandra's many apologies weren't enough, as the maid said, "are you going to open the door so I can get my leg out?"
Looking down, the girl saw something unnerving to her. She saw the woman's bare leg along the lower part of the doorway, from her knee to her black orthopedic shoe.
Immediately taking her weight off the door, the girl said, "oh gawd! Are you hurt bad?"
As the woman withdrew her leg, her face immediately appeared in that door gap. But staying right behind the door, Sandra ensured the woman couldn't see her.
"You could have broken my leg!"
"I know, I know! I'm sorry! I'm very sorry!"
"But it looks like you only bruised it."
But then the woman noticed she couldn't see whom she was talking to, and she quickly added, "Hey, where are you?"
"I'm here."
"Well, like I said, next time, answer like a normal person."
"I will. I will. I'm so sorry about that, it's just that I was doing something, and you surprised me," Sandra lied.
That middle-aged woman finally retreated, allowing the girl to close the door.
Staying put, Sandra glanced over at the window. She then put her right ear against the door and listened for the sound of the woman going on her way. And sure enough, she heard the squeaky wheels of some pushcart as the cleaning lady slowly left.
With a gentle sigh, Sandra avoided what she felt would be an embarrassing situation. Having this stranger see her and presume that she is a slut because she is lounged about in some guy's underclothes.
She also didn't like Ike seeing her wearing so little, but he hasn't acted creepy or perverted toward her. Sandra wondered if Ike was gay, just a nice guy, or perhaps both. If he's in the third category, Sandra felt that's rare, especially knowing her experience with guys.
Returning to the bed, Sandra plopped down with her legs stretched wide. Looking over at the TV, she quickly realizes this is a great time to check for any news about her kidnapping. Reaching over, the girl took the TV remote from the nightstand.
Lying out on her belly, her long legs and feet dangling in the air, she turned on the TV and flipped through the channels. Her search didn't take long either. Catching a snippet of someone mentioning her hometown, she flipped back to what turned out to be a local news broadcast from there.
On the TV screen was an attractive, thirty-ish female newsreader. And while she wasn't talking about her abduction, Sandra watched, anyway. And yet, Sandra couldn't help noticing that the most striking thing about this woman was her abundant blond hair that seemed to flow in all directions.
This woman reminded her of the older models she has crossed paths with within her profession; women who are not young anymore but are attempting to seem that way. However, Sandra can see that this woman didn't check all the boxes for her appearance. Noticing this woman's dark brown eyebrows meant only one thing to Sandra: this woman's big blond hair was a dye job, or worse, a wig.
Despite her less-than-authentic appearance, this woman's job was reading the news. And at this moment, she was doing a recap on the big news story from the day before: A daylight jewelry heist that went bad.
She explained how the robbers all wore identical dark suits. And that two of them died in a shootout with the store owners, who were armed with unregistered, fully automatic AK-47s. The newsreader then said that one of the store's owners, a 64-year-old woman, later died at a local hospital after a fatal heart attack.
Sandra then thought they might not even mention her kidnapping because, with the TV news, a big shootout, with blood and bodies everywhere, would probably trump a mere abduction.
The newsreader said, "for the most recent developments on the story, here's Herschel Savage."
The image on the TV then switched to a scene outside a police station. Standing on the sidewalk, in sight of that station's main entrance, was a beefy, middle-aged man with a graying crew cut.
Speaking directly into the camera, he says with a slight New York accent, "law enforcement sources have confirmed that a third wounded suspect in this brazen hold-up is in custody after being found in a parking garage a short distance from the robbery site. What they haven't said is how many outstanding suspects there are. And according to the surviving store owner, the thieves that got away took an estimated half a million in merchandise. But our sources tell us that local and state investigators are on the case. Back to you, Jenna."
The female newsreader said, "In a stunning development in the ongoing disappearance of Sandra Verhoeven, here's Marc Davis."
That was enough to spark the girl's interest, causing her to scramble from her partially prone position.
As Sandra planted her butt firmly on the foot of the bed, a handsome man came on screen. He had a smooth, shaved head and a sprinkle of gray in his otherwise dark goatee.
With a hint of an English accent, he said, "a source close to the investigation has told this reporter exclusively that recently discovered evidence shows that this man, Roscoe Lee Howard, was directly involved in the disappearance of the aspiring model..."
A mugshot of her kidnapper abruptly flashed across the screen. And though the image of that man filled the TV for just an instant, it caused Sandra's eyes to swell and gave her a sudden pain in the chest. A sudden rush of heat instantly followed, rolling over her entire body. Grabbing her chest, Sandra gulped air as if she couldn't breathe. And yet, she continued to look at the TV as the reporter went on.
"Having a lengthy criminal history of assaulting young women and girls, the 58-year-old Howard had an outstanding warrant in Michigan after failing to register as a sex offender when paroled eight months ago.
All the facts, in this case, aren't known, but our source says investigators believe he may have stalked the girl for weeks before the abduction. And they haven't yet determined how Howard got the girl out of the convention center undetected."
The girl's panic attack gradually subsided as a thin layer of sweat covered her body. And though she wasn't looking directly at the TV screen anymore, she continued to listen, as that reporter added.
"As we reported yesterday, police found Howard along Route 6, over 100 miles south of the city, killed by a single gunshot wound. And our confidential source says investigators are looking at the possibility that Howard had at least one accomplice still holding the girl."
The man on the TV went on, "As for Sandra's mother, the only statement given to reporters was by her boyfriend, Karl Honecker, who said, and I quote, " 'we all have one wish. That Sandra returns home safe and unharmed.' "
"What!" Sandra uttered as she looked back at the TV. What attracted her attention was not the reporter's statement from Karl but his declaration that Karl was her mother's boyfriend.
In that instant, Sandra's next thought leaped out of her mouth.
"Karl is not Mom's boyfriend!" she shouted at the TV.
Picking up the remote, the girl rapidly uttered, "idiots!" as she switched the TV off.
The reasoning behind her reaction was simple; Karl is one of the few openly gay persons she has ever known.
Unfortunately, her home state isn't known as a gay-friendly territory. Indeed, when Karl started working with her to break into the fashion world, he suggested they all move to a ZIP code that wasn't so anti-gay. But eventually, he learned the road rules in Utah: If you're gay, stay undercover, in every sense of the word.
And while Karl has slipped up occasionally, usually when he gets excited about all things fashion, He regularly gives off the appearance of an asexual person.
But then an idea came to Sandra. Karl might have put on a show for the people with the cameras and microphones, making them think he and mom are lovers.
Rejecting that idea with a huff, Sandra uttered, "Yeah, right."
Stretching out on the bed, the girl put the remote control back on the nightstand. Sandra looked down at her once sexy outfit, which sat in a pile near the far wall.
Remembering how she smelled like a dirty trashcan right after her kidnapping, the girl needed no TV reporter to help her figure out the little mystery of how her kidnapper snuck her out of the Salt Palace.
Rolling onto her back, Sandra looked up at the ceiling. And as she did, she couldn't understand what had just happened to her a moment ago. She couldn't figure out how seeing a picture of her kidnapper could have unnerved her.
It's one thing for her to be that way when he pointed a big gun at her head, but he's dead now, so a stupid picture shouldn't frighten her.
The girl's hair fell partially over her face as she sat up. Pushing her hair back with her right hand, Sandra looked down at the door to the minibar.
Although there wasn't any vodka in it, she was ready to drink almost anything as long as it smoothed out her frazzled nerves.
***
Rolling into the parking lot, Ike sprang from the Lincoln. But instead of going upstairs to the room, he went straight to the manager's office. Upon entering, he found no one behind the counter.
"Willie! Hey, Willie, are you here?" He shouted. Hearing what sounded like bumbling and stumbling from an area he couldn't see, Ike got his desired reaction. The manager appeared from an open doorway just left of the front counter.
"Yup! Yup! I'm here," said Willie, holding an electric razor in his right hand.
"Oh, hi, Ike. Did everything work out at Jon's?"
"Yeah, fine."
"Did he pump up the bill on ya?"
"I don't know. The guy only charged me 150. "
"Good, 'cause I told him not to. Jon usually charges extra dependin' on the car his customer is rollin'."
In that instant, Willie noticed for the first time that Ike's garb made him look like an undertaker, or at the very least a session musician to some boogie blues band from the mid-20th century. The manager quickly added, "... and the outfit the fella might be wearing."
"Willie, I need to see your computer. You know, the internet."
"Well then, come on, come on. I'll show you where it is."
The manager then gestured at the gap at the far right end of the front counter. Moving through that gap, Ike then followed Willie through that open doorway.
Out of sight of the customers, the back of the manager's office looks like a display of somebody's life.
The first room was just an aisle with a dark wooden desk, and a tall, white particleboard cabinet had eaten up most of the space.
Used pens, invoices, and a heap of bills shared the desktop with an old calendar from 1981 and a hula girl figurine from The Royal Hawaiian Hotel.
Dusty LPs and 8-track tapes by The Who, Deep Purple, Rod Stewart, Led Zeppelin, and Pink Floyd filled the cabinet's open shelves. And sitting along with them were manila envelopes, empty booze bottles, and a collection of pint-size Frusen Glädjé and Häagen-Dazs plastic ice cream cups.
Entering the next room, Ike saw it was a little better in the space department.
Two pictures on the wall next to the entrance showed the motel when it was new. And right below them was an ugly green paisley sofa. Across from Ike was a new flat-panel TV with a DVD player and a short stack of discs underneath.
Behind the TV was a window where he could see the chain-link fence marking the next-door property. The partially opened bathroom door was to his left, while another piece of new electronics was over to his right: a PC-based computer workstation.
Willie messed with the wireless mouse and wide-screen monitor to get the system up.
"It's all ready for ya," Willie said, pulling out the chair from the computer desk.
"I didn't take you to be a technophile."
"Me? Oh, I had some spare change when I returned from Reno last year, so I indulged a little. Now for you, I'll charge half the usual Internet fee."
"All right," Ike said, surprised that he even knew what technophile meant, which means Willie was modest over his technical know-how.
But glancing down at that computer workstation prompted Ike to say, "Willie, have you ever heard of Wi-Fi?"
"You mean that thing they have at Starbucks. Yeah, I heard of it," He replied with a nod.
"Wouldn't it be easier for your guests to access the Internet if you had it here?"
With a good laugh and showing off his bright, white teeth, Willie responded, "Are you kidding. This isn't New York or LA, it's the Utah Desert, and few people here have computers or the internet, but I've seen what happens at Starbucks. All those people sittin' around with their noses stuck in their laptops doin' God knows what. No wonder the coffee's so god-dang high there; they obviously gotta pay for that Wi-Fi. If you need anything, I'll be over here finishing up my face, all right," He gestured at the bathroom with his right thumb.
As Willie headed to the bathroom, Ike sat down and went right to it.
Bringing up the first available search engine, Ike was about to enter the girl's full name. And it was only then he realized he didn't remember how to spell the girl's last name.
But this was nothing new for Ike since he has always been atrocious with remembering people's names. And as far as his spelling goes, he was lucky to graduate grade school. But, thanks to the spell checker and autocorrect on modern computers, it's no longer an issue for him.
Remembering what the newspaper said about the girl's kidnapping, Ike entered 'aspiring model kidnapped from Salt Palace convention center' in the search engine window.
Thanks to that little trick, Ike got more than a handful of hits, mostly from news sites.
Skimming through these, he found the same info, including some new bits about the man he killed, particularly his name and criminal history. But he didn't like the speculation about some unknown accomplice, a mystery man who killed Howard and took off with the girl.
He then found a tabloid website with speculation galore, but it was about the girl's profession.
As Ike read the article, it recounted horror stories in the fashion industry. From tales of shady organizations that pretended to help would-be models break into the industry, only to cheat them out of their money, to sleazy characters who regularly sexually harassed and even assaulted young models like Sandra.
