The Shand’s Jacksonville Medical Center was oddly slow tonight even with the reporters crowding the visitors’ lounge hoping to get some kind of scoop from the survivors of the Bag Man. Tony Mazzetti had been here on a Saturday night when there was a full moon and the place looked more like a zoo than a hospital.

Now, in one of the small cubicles off the emergency room, he stood next to Patty Levine, holding her small hand while a nurse came in to check on her. They wanted to admit her for observation, but Patty insisted on spending the night in her own home. He couldn’t blame her after what she’d been through.

Patty hadn’t said much, but she didn’t let go of his hand either, so he knew he was doing the right thing. He just followed wherever they wheeled her, and she seemed happy he was there. He still wondered what was happening with the search for William Dremmel, who he now knew was the Bag Man, and had given him the slip for longer than he cared to admit. Now some rookie road patrol guy would pull over the killer on a fucking traffic violation and be a hero. Shit.

Then his phone rang. He had ignored most calls tonight, because he knew it was just some stupid command staff member wanting an update. This time he saw it was Stallings on the line, so he answered.

Mazzetti said, “Whaddya got, Stall?”

“Tony, I have a reliable tip that he’s out on U.S. 1 at a hotel. Why don’t you meet me there and we’ll see if we can scoop this asshole up.”

“You really think he’s there?”

“One of my old runaways ran into him and gave him a motel that’s safe to stay in.”

Mazzetti’s heart skipped as he considered his chance to really make a splash. If he could catch this guy after being the lead on the case, every news station in town would want to talk to him. A smile broke across his face as he considered the possibilities.

Stallings said, “I’m heading to the J-Ville Motel.”

Mazzetti was about to say he’d be there, then he looked down at Patty and saw the fear in her eyes at the thought of his leaving. She squeezed his hand tighter, and that kept him from answering.

Over the phone Stallings said, “Tony, you gonna meet me?”

Then Mazzetti surprised himself. “No, Stall, Patty needs someone here.”

There was a brief silence, then Stallings said, “Goddamn, Tony, you might be human after all.”

For the first time Mazzetti smiled at something Stallings said.

Before he called in reinforcements, Stallings planned on checking out the small motel. He drove past it slowly twice but only saw an old Ford pickup and a semitractor with no trailer sitting in the lot of the J-Ville Inn. The motel had two wings jutting out from the office in the center.

Stallings drove past one last time and parked around the corner in the lot of a self-storage place. He pulled his shirt over his gun and badge, then approached from the road, walking along the covered walkway next to the first six rooms. He noticed a light on inside the farthest room marked with a number 6 as he crept toward the office. The rooms on either side of the office also had lights on. One had the pickup truck parked in front of it, and the other had the semitractor at a funny angle in front of it.

Stallings was in the glass door and standing quietly before the clerk looked up from an old TV with a half-blown speaker. Craig Ferguson’s Scottish accent seemed to rattle the torn speaker fragment even more.

The clerk had the dark scowl of a pissed-off redneck. Longish greasy hair combed straight back with loose strands spiraling out around his ear. His dark eyes studied Stallings as he made him for a cop immediately.

The clerk said, “What are you doin’ here?”

Stallings showed his badge just so there was no question who he was.

The clerk said, “I know, I could tell the second I looked up. What’s the po-po need here in this shithole?”

Stallings held up a photo of William Dremmel. “You seen this guy tonight?”

The man didn’t hesitate to shake his head. “Naw, been real slow here tonight.”

“Let me see your registrations.”

“You got a warrant?”

“No, but you’ll have one on you if you don’t show me your registrations right now.”

The man was surprised at the aggression. He was apparently used to dealing with the younger, more polite police officers of the Jacksonville Sheriff’s Office. Stallings stepped behind the half counter where the TV sat.

“Okay, okay, hang on.” The clerk handed him a book with the list of occupants for the night.

Stallings snatched it from the man’s hand, keeping his eyes on him as he set it on the counter and looked down to see two names, Bob Ura in room one and Dennis Bustle in room seven. Stallings flipped back a few pages to see how names had been entered the last few days. They had nine customers yesterday and six the day before. He looked up at the clerk, who still held a defiant look.

Stallings said, “You only have these two tonight?”

“Yep.”

“So you have ten rooms empty?”

“That’s right.”

“Why was there a light on in room 6 at the end?”

The man hesitated and eyed the phone at the same time as Stallings.