by Josh Lanyon
“Did you like being a cop?” I asked, tearing the paper wrapper off my straw.
J.X.’s brows rose in surprise. “Yeah, at first I did. I liked thinking I was making the world a better place, a safer place.”
“But?”
His mouth twisted. “It changes you. You get jaded. You see the worst of people. And not just the public, unfortunately.”
“But you liked working with Izzie Jones?”
“Oh yeah. Izzie was the best partner you could ask for.” He smiled reminiscently.
“Public servant. That’s a tricky concept.”
“It is. Yes. Unfortunately, not everyone attracted to law enforcement gets it.” He was still smiling, though his gaze was curious. “What brought this on? You’ve never asked about my LEO background before.”
“Not even when we first met?”
He shook his head, and now the curve of his mouth was definitely wry. “Definitely not then. You did not want to talk that weekend.”
I winced inwardly. “I know why I latched onto you at that conference, but what the hell were you thinking?”
His attention seemed to be entirely on scooping the ice cream out of the fizzy soda. He said, “That I wanted you. More than I’d ever wanted anything or anyone in my life.”
I didn’t know what to say. He looked up, laughed at my expression, but it was a short laugh.
“You were still a cop. Your book wasn’t out yet. You weren’t even out yet.” He met my gaze and I said, “I was paying that much attention.”
J.X. nodded, conceding a point to me. He said, “The first time I saw you, you were sitting on a panel. You and Mindy Newburgh and a couple of upcoming bad boys. The debate was whether cozies or noir fiction was the more unrealistic. You were a little bit smashed, but you were skewering those hardboiled guys, and even though I was on their side, I kept laughing at every damn thing you said. So afterwards I followed you to the bar and I picked you up.”
“Excuse me. I think I picked you up,” I said.
“Exactly. And over the course of that weekend, I fell in love with you.”
“More fool you,” I said quietly.
“Hey.” He nudged my foot with his own. “It all worked out in the end.”
I smiled. “Indeed it did. Thanks largely to our no returns and no exchanges policy.”
J.X. just shook his head.
After the ice cream sodas, we continued into Wooster and picked up my china at Dolls and Doodads. The helium-voiced Cindy Spann turned out to be a very tall, very thin woman in pink overalls. She helped J.X. carry the boxes of my remaining china to the car, thanked us—without any hint of irony—for our business and directed us back to the main highway.
After the revelations of the truck stop diner, I was out of chit chat. J.X. seemed to be in a reflective mood, so the next few miles passed in silence until he turned on the radio. Nine hours is a long drive. It’s a long time to be stuck in a confined space with another person. J.X. and I had never spent nine hours in a car before. But I didn’t mind the silence. It felt comfortable. I thought that perhaps that was one of the first tests of a relationship: the realization that you were still happy to be with someone even when you didn’t have anything to say to him.
We took breaks. We stopped for more cold drinks and to stretch our legs, but after the six hour mark, my back began to make its displeasure known. It started with that too-familiar burning sensation between my shoulder blades. I shifted around and it eased up, but before long the burn was back and my right leg was starting to tingle.
When I tried to get more comfortable, it felt like all the links of my spine were being pried apart, and I sucked in a loud breath.
“You okay?” J.X. asked.
“Yep.” I put my seat back as flat as I could get it.
“Should we stop somewhere? We can get a motel for the night.”
“I just want to get home.”
I listened to the echo of my words with surprise. Home. Yes, somehow the house on Cherry Lane felt like home now. At least compared to the burnt and barren middle of I-5.
“Tell me if you need to stop.”
I closed my eyes. Nodded.
I felt the car lunge ahead as J.X. pressed down on the gas. He drove fast, but he drove well. I was never nervous with him behind the wheel, which was saying a lot because following the accident in Nitchfield I had trouble getting in any car I wasn’t driving.
We hadn’t had a lot of sleep the night before and I managed to doze off a couple of times, but the second time I woke up, my back was spasming.
I got out, “Can we stop?”
“Yep. Hang on, honey.” J.X. took the next exit. Overhead, gray twilight and a handful of faint stars swung past as he pulled onto a side road. I gritted my teeth as the car bounced over what felt like a series of potholes and patches in the asphalt. Through the side window I could see faded yellow and black cubes topped by ragged red pennants spelling out the word M.O.T.E.L. And right below, a giant red arrow with white letters reading ENTRANCE aimed skyward.
At last the car came to a stop. J.X. turned off the ignition, got out and came round, opening my door.
I said tersely, “Just…give me a minute.”
He hesitated, but then walked away. I put my hands over my face and did some deep breathing. When I was sure I could get up without screaming, I grabbed the door frame and inched onto my hip, trying to lever myself out of the car without triggering another spasm.
I made it to my feet and hung on the open door. We appeared to be in the courtyard of an abandoned motel.
To my right was a closed—permanently—gas station. To my left was a crumbled white fence around an empty swimming pool. It reminded me of a dead blue whale. In the center of the courtyard was a square of dead roses and broken blue-and-orange tiles surrounding a large and very dry fountain topped by a dilapidated statue of the Virgin Mary.
My astonished gaze traveled to the buildings themselves, a two-story orange and brown L-shaped bastardized cross between 1960s Googie and the early Spanish missions.
This peculiar oasis was the only sign of civilization—I use the term facetiously—as far as the eye could see. Beyond a gnarled and crooked line of dead cypress, there was only wilderness and freeway.
A tumbleweed rolled past, then seemed to change direction as though having second thoughts.
J.X. walked over to meet me. He looked worried and I tried to smile.
The effect must have been alarming because his jaw took on a steely line. “What do you need, Kit? What will help?”
“A hot bath, a bottle of aspirin and a sharp razor blade ought to do it.” At his expression, I added, “Kidding. I’m a kidder.”
“You want me to get a room here?”
“Here?” I gazed in horror at the dark windows and peeling doors. “You mean it’s open?”
“Yeah, it’s open. Look.”
I looked and a neon sign had just blinked on with the words Dew Drop Inn.
“Macabre,” I said. “Very macabre.”
“See? The lights are on in the front office. They’re open for business.”
“What business would that be? Highway robbery and murder?”
He opened his mouth and I said, “You notice there are no cars here, right? Other than ours? No cars. No lights. No humans.”
“They’ve got a satellite dish.”
“The better to radio the mother ship. No, I think not. Saddle up, amigo. My back is healed. It’s a miracle.” I pointed at the statue of the Blessed Mother.
It was like I was talking to myself. Per usual. J.X. was saying soothingly, “Let me get you settled and then I’ll head back down the highway. I saw a drugstore a few miles back.”
“Me settled and this motel are two things that don’t go together. It’s like vodka and Veronal. Or Neanderthals and Neiman Marcus. It’s never going to end well. We saw Vacancy, remember? We both know what happens if we spend the night here.”
J.X. gave a twisted smile, but he said, “Kit,
there’s no way you can take another two hours in the car. And no way I can take another two hours of watching you try to handle that much pain.”
I won’t deny that my stomach heaved at the thought. But I swallowed that unmanly reaction and said, “I just need to walk around a little.”
“Walk around? You can’t let go of the car door. I’m going to have to carry you to the room.”
“Thank you, Rhett, but I’m just resting before I take my afternoon constitutional.”
J.X. shook his head. “Come on. I’m sure it’s not as bad as it looks.”
“I’m sure it’s worse. At least out here there’s fresh air. Not counting the carbon monoxide drifting from the freeway. Seriously, I don’t want to spend the night here. I can feel things crawling on me already.”
No lie. I slapped at a mosquito.
“We don’t have to spend the night. You can take a hot shower and stretch out for a bit while I get you some painkillers. And then we’ll start home. How’s that?”
I stared at the Dew Drop Inn sign. The first D was shorting out. Ew. That pretty much summed it up. But J.X. was right. I had to lie flat for a while. Not to mention, the very smell of the car interior was making me nauseous.
I said reluctantly, “I just want to wake up in my own bed tomorrow—not roasting on a spit in some half ape-creature’s lair.”
J.X. laughed. “Deal.”
He gave my hand clutching the car door a quick, reassuring squeeze and went in to the front office to book a room.
I took a few hobbling steps around the courtyard, taking pains not to fall over any broken tiles. In the deepening gloom, the Virgin Mary’s painted eyes seemed to follow me. She looked like she was trying to warn me without giving herself away to her captors.
J.X. came back with a room key—literally a metal key attached to an orange plastic tag. “We’re all set,” he said with what I felt was supreme obliviousness. “What do you need from the car?”
“Extreme and illegal speeds as it carries us from this place of doom. Other than that, nothing. We’re not unpacking. We’re not staying.”
“Honey, I know. But…maybe you’d like to change your shirt or something?”
He had placed a supporting arm around my waist. I drew back to stare at him. “Change my shirt? What the hell is wrong with my shirt?”
Even in the failing light, I could see his confusion. “Nothing. I don’t know. I just thought maybe you’d be more comfortable—”
“If you’re hitting on me now, then I’ve got to tell you your timing has reached an all-time low. And if you’re not hitting on me, remind me what division you worked for again? Fashion police?”
“No, of course not. I just don’t know how—I just want you to be comfortable.”
“Then hurry back and rescue me,” I said tartly. “And if someone tries to tell you I checked out while you were gone, it’s a damned lie. Unless by checked out they mean died, which will probably be true. In that case, you’ll no doubt find me cocooned in the banquet hall with all the other victims. Sorry, guests.”
I’m not sure if he was laughing or sobbing, but by the time we reached the room he seemed decidedly out of breath. He unlocked the door, turned the light on—a bulb immediately blew in the lamp by the bed.
“Oh God. J.X…”
“Here. Let’s try this.” J.X. flipped another switch and a light in the alcove next to the bathroom offered feeble gray illumination. I stared at our reflection in the mirror over the sink counter. My hair was standing up in tufts and my eyes looked like two black circles in my white face. Even J.X. looked a little worn around the edges.
While I hung onto the door frame for support, he went over to the single full-sized bed and yanked back the blue-and-green bedspread and the blankets. “You don’t want to lie down on that. The sheets will be cleaner.”
“Ha! You think people come here for sex?”
He went into the bathroom and I heard the protest of rarely used plumbing, followed by a burst of water.
J.X. reappeared. “Good water pressure anyway, and it’s nice and hot.”
I sighed and carefully, painfully began to pull up my T-shirt. He joined me, helping me wriggle out of the soft cotton.
“What kind of painkillers do you want? Is there anything you can’t take?”
“No. Grab one of everything. I have a high tolerance. And if you want to get me a couple of those little ready-made cocktails, I won’t object.”
“Pills and booze? I sure as hell will object.”
“Fine. Whatever. Just hurry back.” I unbuttoned my jeans. I was surprised when he turned my face to his and kissed me. I was even more surprised that I felt that kiss. Felt it and was even comforted by the quick, warm press of his mouth to mine.
“I’ll make it fast. Try and rest, okay?”
“Okay. But if you do love me, hurry the hell back. I am seriously freaked out about this place. Don’t be misled by my brave front.”
He managed not to snicker in my face.
I locked the door behind him and shuffled into the bathroom. One glimpse of the grungy green tiles and a ghastly chartreuse shower curtain that surely came from the Martha Stewart for Psycho Collection was all I needed. I kept my eyelids in squint position as I rinsed a couple of dead spiders down the tub drain and then painfully stepped in. The bottom of the tub was slick, though probably not from soap, and I had to keep one hand on the shower head to steady myself—a position which hurt like hell.
I swore for a couple of minutes, then I cried for a couple of minutes, and then the heat finally began to help. At last I turned the water off, shoved back the curtain and gingerly dried off using a nubby gray towel.
It hurt less putting my clothes on than it had taking them off, so that was a good sign. I hobbled over to the bed and eased myself down, lying crossways across its mushy mattress. The sheets smelled musty, though there was a faint and fond memory of bleach in the worn threads.
I closed my eyes. Not because I thought I could fall asleep. It was just easier not looking at my surroundings. To distract myself I tried to think of a single word that best described my feelings.
Poorly was too quaint. It sounded almost cozy. Ah’m feeling poorly, could y’all make me a cup of cocoa?
Miserable somehow seemed to carry an element of personal responsibility; like if I was miserable, I’d probably played a part in achieving that end.
Wretched. Ah. There we go. Wretched pretty much summed it up. Although, in fairness, the wet heat had helped and stretching out was a definite improvement.
I was just starting to drift off when the motel door burst open.
Literally burst open.
It flew off its flimsy hinges, tore the chain from the frame and fell flat like a hard welcome mat.
Beck Ladas stepped into the room.
Chapter Twelve
Pain will set you free.
I don’t mean agonizing-you-think-you’re-dying pain. I mean the level of pain where it hurts so much you just don’t care what anyone—including yourself—says or thinks or does. This was the place where Ladas found me. The place where pain-fueled anger and outrage outstripped fear and commonsense.
I shot up off the bed, shouting, “What the fuck do you want with me?”
But maybe this was how most people greeted Ladas, because he didn’t noticeably pause—at least beyond trying to pinpoint me in the gloom of the room. He certainly didn’t speak. He spotted me, charged in, and I grabbed the lamp from the bedside table and tried to hurl it at him.
It was bolted down, so that went nowhere fast.
Ladas grabbed for me, but his foot slipped on the cheap, shiny material of the spilled bedspread, and he went down on one knee. I rebounded off the other side of the bed and ran for the doorway. I was aware that Ladas jumped up after me and I heard his foot crunch through the plywood face of the fallen door. This was followed by what sounded like the crash of a sled hitting the wall of the building, so maybe Ladas was trying to get th
rough the entrance while still wearing the door.
I didn’t know, I didn’t care. That initial burst of fury had faded in the face of the terrified realization that this guy was seriously nuts. I had no doubt, as I sprinted across the dusty courtyard, bare feet slapping bits of stone and broken tile, that I was running for my life.
I headed for the reception area and the front desk. People. Phones. Plus if any room in this complex had a decent lock on a decent door, it would be there. I passed the fountain and Ladas bellowed, “You fucking rabbit!”
So it could talk. It was, in theory, a sentient being.
Lights were going on around us. A couple of doors opened and then just as hastily slammed shut.
Just another night at Motel 666.
Something boomed behind me like a bolt of thunder touching down—or a house coming in for a landing. I couldn’t help it. I looked over my shoulder and I saw Ladas had hurled my motel room door at me.
Happily he missed. Instead, the door hit the fountain, taking a piece out of the bowl, and crashed to the ground.
“I don’t know what you want!” It’s not so much that I was trying to communicate with him, as thinking aloud.
I could have saved my breath though because he wasn’t into dialog. He put his head down and came after me like a linebacker hoping to make the tackle of his career.
I turned to run and, out of the corner of my eye, caught sight of a pair of swift approaching headlights. High beams swept over the courtyard, exposing the flattened door and Ladas, still coming after me, eyes shining with a crazy glitter.
That glitter was actually the glare of the headlights blinding him for a crucial couple of seconds.
My BMW screeched to a stop and there was a thud as Ladas did not do the same. I had never heard a sweeter sound in my life. I skidded to a standstill, turning in time to see him mid-bounce off the side of the car. He disappeared from view.
The driver’s door flew open and J.X. jumped out.
“Kit!” He was a white form in the dusk, but even from this distance I could see the dangerous line of his body: pugnacious jaw, broad shoulders squared, hands in fists. Ready for action. Where the normal person would have been in retreat, he was preparing to charge.
