Amy Maxwell's 6th Sense Read online

  Sure, my husband makes a decent living, even better than decent by most standards, but people tend to forget, we have four kids. Two who need braces, one who is going to college in less than two years, and all four that grow at an alarming rate, necessitating frequent trips to the store for clothes and shoes. Oh, and a kid who eats like he has a tapeworm, and costs me over $200 in the grocery store each week.

  I resist the urge to stomp over to the pair of lovebirds and smash their heads together. I remind myself to keep my cool, bide my time. Then I remember that I should be recording this interaction on my cell phone, and I dig it out of my pocket. When I pull it out, I discover that I don’t have my phone, but Allie’s instead. I must have left mine back in the room. Hers is much more complex than the one I am used to. I swipe the screen and enter what I assume to be her password, but I am foiled.

  Damn it! When did she change the password? Two weeks ago “Nathan” was the password. Then in a fit of brilliance I remember she dumped Nathan right before the trip. And I heard her babbling to her friend Kaitlyn about someone named Xavier. I quickly type in the word and voila, the screen is opened.

  While keeping an eye on the couple not fifty feet away, I fumble with the phone, trying to record. I end up taking a series of pictures instead.

  “Crap,” I mutter through gritted teeth. Glancing up, I see Victoria sidle up closer to my husband and wrap her arms around him for a hug. Stupid hussy! I suck my teeth, trying my hardest not to fling a rock at her head. Then, as they pull away, Roger hands her the bouquet that he has clutched in his hand. Squinting, I can see that they are yellow and pink roses, my favorite.

  What scum! Not only does he give another woman flowers, he gives her his wife’s favorite flowers? I quickly snap another couple of pictures, anxious to throw those on the table at our divorce hearing. No judge alive would let Roger get away with that one.

  Roger and Victoria start walking toward the hotel. But not the lobby where I am standing in front of. They are going around the back entrance to the building. And moving quickly.

  “Damn it.” I throw myself over the low stone wall that I have been hiding behind and land on the pavement below with a thud. I quickly crouch to the ground, half expecting Roger and Victoria to turn toward the noise, but they are too busy chatting it up. Probably talking about what they’re going to do in the hotel, I muse angrily, glancing at the phone. It is 5:21, plenty of time for Roger to satisfy his lady friend and still make it on time for dinner with his family. How convenient.

  As I duck into the alley between two of the resort’s buildings, I feel a sense of melancholy. How long has this been going on? Are there other times when Roger comes home for dinner that he’s been with her? I know she lives here, but for how long? Did she just move here? And then the most horrifying thought of all, What if there’s been other women?

  I feel incredibly stupid and duped as I follow behind them at a safe distance. I keep to the sides of the building so that I can duck behind the dumpster if they should happen to turn around. They reach the back of the building, and Victoria swipes a key card in the door. With a clacking noise, the door pops open and she holds it open for Roger, who steps inside. Damn it! I need to run to reach the door before it slams shut. Otherwise I’ve chased them this far for nothing.

  Sucking wind and trying not to land loud enough to create the sound of footsteps, I dash to the door, just as a sliver is still cracked. Not enough time to grab the handle and pull, I react quickly (and stupidly) by shoving my hand in the door to prevent it from closing all the way. Instead, it closes on my hand.

  Biting my tongue so I don’t scream in pain, I pull on the door handle with my free hand and release my now throbbing, damaged appendage. Propping the door open with my foot, I stare at my mangled hand. I think I have crushed the bones in all four fingers—they are very squished looking. My nails are pulsing right off their beds and already turning purple. I can’t bend any of the fingers and they are rapidly swelling to resemble tiny little sausages. The only salvageable digit seems to be my thumb, which did not join its fellow fingers in the melee. I’ll probably have to go to the hospital and get it X-rayed. After I find out where Roger and his buddy are headed to, of course.

  I peek in the doorway and find that it leads to a long hallway that ends at a vestibule—you can only turn to the left or right. And I don’t see Roger or the Super Tramp. Therefore, I have no clue whether they’ve gone left or right. If I hadn’t stopped to look down at the damage after closing my hand in the door, I might have seen which way they went. Now I’m going to have work by the process of elimination.

  “Damn you, hand,” I mutter, shaking my head as if my hand had any control over my stupidity. I putter down the dim hallway, glancing at the dark paneled walls. It’s creepy, almost like a haunted house—there are only a few recessed lights along the ceiling of the hallway. On the walls, I can make out a few framed pictures—I squint to discover that they are aerial photos of the hotel when it was being built. At least, I think it’s the hotel. I’ve never seen it from the overhead view, of course. Now, had I been thinking clearly (but, due to the intensity of my pain, alas, I was not), I would have studied the pictures to learn the layout of the hotel and grounds, just in case I needed that information in the future to track down my wayward husband.

  Instead, I find myself staring down at the plush carpet, praying for some clue as to where they went. When I reach the end of the hallway, God decides that he’s had enough fun at my expense today and has pity on me. I can make out the faint outline of shoe prints in the well light area where the hallway divides. And the shoe prints definitely indicate that two sets of feet moved toward the left. Excited at my rudimentary detective skills, I practically skip through the doorway on the left.

  Until, of course, I bump head first into a member of the wait staff. He is about six foot, seven inches tall, four-hundred and fifty-seven pounds of pure muscle. His formidable arms are crossed over his equally intimidating chest as he glowers at me from somewhere around the ceiling.

  “Can I help you with something?” His booming voice nearly reverberates on the walls. I swear I see one of the picture frames shaking. I feel a little trickle down my leg. Oh no! Not twice in one day!

  “Um, no I don’t think so. I was just trying to find my husband.” I stare up and offer him what I hope is a charming smile. I also bat my eyelashes ever so slightly, giving him the appearance of a damsel in distress. By his unwavering expression, I am pretty certain that I have not succeeded in charming him at all. In fact, I have probably angered him even further. From this angle I can see his nostrils are unusually large and appear to be flaring like a bull’s I wonder if I should slip him a twenty? Is a twenty even a sufficient amount of money to pay off a barbarian so he won’t crush your skull with his bare hands?

  “Well he’s not here,” Mr. Bull Nostrils tells me. “This area is reserved for hotel staff only.” He points a sausage-like finger at the sign near his left shoulder. It reads in very plain English, Employees Only.

  I crane my neck to try to see around his wide girth, but all I can make out is a kitchen. Actually I don’t see the kitchen. I just hear kitchen sounds like refrigerator doors opening, and pots and pans clanging.

  “But he came in this way,” I insist. “I saw him!”

  “I don’t think so. I think your imagination is running wild.” He cocks an eyebrow. “Perhaps too many Mai Tais on the beach.”

  “He did! I saw him!” I repeat, my voice raising several octaves. Isn’t it enough I’m following my husband on a secret rendezvous with his very young and very blonde lover? I have to be humiliated by some guy who could squish me like a bug? “And besides! I don’t drink Mai Tais!” I will not cry, I will not cry.

  “You saw your husband come in here?” Mr. Bull Nostrils asks, eyebrow still cocked.

  “Well, um, not exactly,” I stammer, pointing down at the floor. “You see, I followed his tracks—”

  The man cuts me off with
an unexpected high-pitched laugh. In fact, the laugh consumes him, causing him to chuckle so hard that he needs to clutch his sides and gasp for air. I stare at him in disbelief while he tries to pull himself together. It takes him a few seconds of waving his hands and taking deep breaths—along with an annoyed glower from me—to be able to say, “What are you, Perry Mason or something?”

  “No!” I yell defensively. Although, I did have a few run-ins with bad guys over the last few years. I even shot a gun. And damn it, I was proud of figuring out which way he went based on the footprints! How dare he mock me!

  “Well, I don’t know how you got in here, but you’re going to have to find your way out,” he tells me while spinning me around to face the long corridor with the door at the end. With a slight shove, I am on my way back down the hallway.

  I can’t figure out how there was no sign of Roger or Victoria. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe they didn’t go left. Maybe they actually went right and I was just mixed up!

  I whirl around to explain that to Mr. Bull Nostril, but he is still standing like a statue, with a disgruntled look on his face. I’m pretty sure that crossing him right now would be a giant mistake, considering nobody knows where I am and wouldn’t be aware of my whereabouts until I washed up on shore with a broken neck.

  I wave timidly and continue down the dark and bleak hallway toward the door with the red neon sign that reads exit over the top. Pushing on the metal bar in the middle, I find myself back in the alleyway with sunlight flooding my eyes. More specifically, it’s the setting sun that’s flooding my eyes. Which means it must be getting close to the time that the family is supposed to meet for dinner.

  I start heading back in the direction I originally came from, past the dumpster, toward the front of the hotel, when I realize, I can’t go back and eat dinner like nothing has happened!

  I lean against the wall of the hotel, wishing oddly enough that I smoked again. Maybe I could figure out what to do next if I had some nicotine or tar clogging my brain. I should go back to the room and put on a nice sundress and head to dinner. My stomach chooses that very moment to grumble loudly, agreeing with me. But my heart isn’t so easy to convince.

  How can I go and sit through dinner with a fake smile and pretend nothing is going on? But I can’t say anything to Roger without proof either! Well, I do have the blurry pictures on Allie’s phone as proof, but all it shows is Roger talking to Victoria outside the hotel. He will explain it away somehow in a manner that will make total sense. To everyone else but me. And everyone will look at me and say, “Oh, Amy! You're so paranoid!”

  My inner musings are interrupted by the murmuring of voices to my left, further down the alley past the door I just came out of. I can’t see anything because the ginormous dumpster blocks my view. Stepping on a milk crate next to the dumpster, I push my body up so that my head can peek over the top. About a hundred feet away I see my friend, Mr. Bull Nostrils, arms crossed over his body. He is impossible to miss because his white uniform practically glows in the now darkened alleyway. The person he is speaking with, however, is difficult to make out with his back turned to me. He is much shorter, wearing dark jeans and a lighter shirt. Squinting, I can see the outline of a baseball cap on his head.

  Roger! The waiter lied to me! Roger was there! That’s it! I am fuming now as I jump down off the milk crate and go storming back toward the men. I huff and puff and debate about which one I will yell at first. Oh, they think they’re so clever because they’re men and I’m just a wee lass that they can lie to? (I’m not sure when my subconscious became an old Irish wash-woman, but I like her). I’ll show them lads a thing or two.

  “Hey!” I call out when I am about ten feet away. I stop and plant my hands on my hips. Startled by the sound of my voice, the waiter looks up and quickly pulls something out of his pocket, squinting his eyes to see who is coming at him in the dark.

  “Lady, what are you doing here?” he asks nervously. “I told you your husband wasn’t here.” He doesn’t sound so sure of himself now.

  “Oh really?" I step closer to the men and grab Roger’s shoulder, whirling his body around. Only, it isn’t Roger. I instantly recognize him. It’s one of the men from the vending machine the other day. And he looks mad, even though he’s smiling at me. And pointing a gun at my chest.

  ~Sixteen~

  “Oh, um, hi,” I manage to stammer. “I must have mistaken you for someone else.” I attempt to smile and sound cheery. My lips are actually trembling, making this feat quite difficult. In fact, my teeth are rattling in my head and giving me a tremendous headache.

  “Lady, didn’t I tell you that your husband wasn’t here?” The waiter is shaking his head in disgust.

  “Um, yup, you did! I guess I’ll be going now!” I spin on my heel, attempting to extricate myself from this mess I have stumbled upon.

  “Not so fast,” the Roger Impostor says as he grabs me by the crook of my arm and pulls me back. The gun actually touches my chest this time. I gulp, frantically wishing I had told someone where I was going. Or better yet, that I hadn’t wandered into this alley to begin with.

  “I was just going to go to dinner with my family,” I chuckle nervously. “I’m pretty sure the steak is already dead—no need for weapons!”

  The Roger Impostor ignores me and my attempt at humor as he jerks his head toward the waiter. “Check her.”

  Grumbling, the waiter starts at my arms and pats downward, glancing away as his hands graze the side of my chest. When he reaches Allie’s phone, he sticks his hand into my pocket and pulls it out.

  “Ah, what have we got here?” The Roger Impostor remarks while grabbing the phone from the waiter with his free hand. He inspects the phone and says, “Oh, recording us, I see?” He sneers as he shoves the phone in front of my face. I can see the red audio recording button is flashing.

  “I didn’t…” I stammer as he violent presses the stop button and then deletes the video.

  “Oops, I guess it’s gone,’ he says in a sing-song voice. “Guess your little trick isn’t going to work.”

  “It’s not what you think,” I attempt to explain.

  The Roger Impostor snorts. “It’s never what we think. God, if I had a dollar for every time I heard that one—”

  “No, it really isn’t,” I interrupt. “You see, that’s my daughter’s phone. I didn’t know how to use her phone, and I think my husband is having an affair so I was trying to record him with the mistress and—”

  “What kind of person records her husband having an affair on her kid’s phone?” Bull Nostrils is visibly shocked by that idea.

  “Well, I wasn’t—”

  “It’s a likely story. Just to be on the safe side, I’m throwing the whole thing away,” the Roger Impostor says as he tosses the phone in the dumpster. Oh crap. Allie is gonna have a canary. That phone is more important to her than her family.

  Just then, the situation gets worse. Or better, depending on your point of view.

  “Amy!” Roger’s voice carries through the alley, causing Bull Nostrils to groan loudly.

  “Who the hell is that?” the Roger Impostor asks, loosening the grip on my arm, but shoving the gun closer to my trembling body.

  “My husband,” I mumble like I have a mouth full of marbles. I am afraid if I make any sudden moves, the gun will blow a hole through my chest. Not that I haven’t ever stared down the barrel of a gun before—I told you, I’m quite the expert on getting into these tricky spots—but for some reason, I’m thinking these guys are really serious.

  “Now he shows up?” Bull Nostrils asks incredulously. “Where’s he been?”

  I’ve been wondering the same thing, my friend.

  “Amy!” Roger calls out, this time, he sounds closer. I want to call out to him, tell him to turn around, run, and get help. But my lips are as paralyzed as the rest of my body.

  “Tell him you’re fine,” the Roger Impostor murmurs, pasting a fake smile on his face as I hear the real Roger rapidly a
pproaching. “Tell him we’re just talking.” I nod at him, but still can’t seem to talk. Fear usually has the opposite effect on my body—I can’t shut up half the time and end up digging myself deeper into a hole.

  As Roger steps closer he asks, “Amy, why aren’t you answering me? Why are you in a dark alley? I’ve been looking all over for you! Who are those men? Are you in some sort of trouble?” Roger seems to be plagued with my normal affliction of diarrhea of the mouth.

  I have heard that after many years of marriage, some couples are able to read each other’s minds. As Roger gets closer, I am trying to send him telepathic messages; Stop talking! Turn around! Get help!

  Roger, of course, is oblivious to my signals. I should have known we couldn’t read each other’s minds. If that was true, I would have known he was cheating on me long before this ill-fated vacation. Which is probably going to cost you your life. And Roger’s, too. Awesome. I’ve heard affairs can destroy families, but this is certainly taking it a step too far, even for you, Amy.

  “Tell your husband to scram,” the Roger Impostor urges again, this time digging his nails into the soft and thin flesh covering my so-called triceps.

  I knew I should have lifted weights more instead of doing strict cardio only. Beth warned me that an effective workout routine consisted of cardio and weights, but I never listened. Oh, who am I kidding? I didn’t do the cardio either. And I highly doubt lifting a few dumbbells a couple times a week would have helped me fight off these beasts. I need to be a WWE wrestler to stand a chance against these meatheads.

  “We’re gonna have to take care of him, too,” Bull Nostrils says through gritted teeth.

  I should pause here to establish that I don’t know either of these guys’ names. However, for storytelling purposes, I must stop referring to them as “Bull Nostrils” and “The Roger Impostor”. They look to me like a Mario and a Jerry. So from this point on, I will refer to the waiter as Mario and the other guy as Jerry. Continue on...