by Liam Jackson
"That's just awful! I mean ...just awful! I just don't know what the world is coming to these days! But I really don't see how I can help you."
Janet pressed on. "Well, for starters, I was wondering if you can tell me anything about your clientele."
"My clientele! Hummppph!" the older woman exclaimed, grimacing. "You know, back in the day, we had regular customers. Traveling salesmen, or construction workers staying for weeks, even months on end, working on one long-term project or another. That was before all the chain motels started springing up like weeds.
"Arnie, that's my late husband, worked day and night to make a go of it. We did pretty well, too. Arnie passed away ten years ago this March; liver cancer. Left me with a mile-high stack of bills and the motel.
"Then the construction work started drying up and the chain motels started offering special rates and amenities like continental breakfasts and such. Pretty soon the only steady customers I had left were the occasional truck driver, a hooker or two, and maybe a single mother trying to live off welfare checks and child support payments that never came.
"It's pretty sad, really, just lost souls trying to make it without any family or a roof to call their own. I just don't have the heart to throw them out when they can't pay."
Janet smiled. "That's very kind of you."
Doris smirked. "Charity might be a virtue, girl, but it sure doesn't pay the bills. So, now... what you see is what you get, and I'll tell you, it ain't much. Nothing like it used to be."
Janet was content to let Doris carry the conversation. The first rule of investigative reporting was to let the source talk, and talk, then talk some more. When it became apparent that Doris was finished, Janet decided it was time to invoke the second rule; express lots of sympathy, real or otherwise.
"I guess it must be pretty hard for you, dealing with these kinds of people, but like my mother used to say, 'but for the Grace of God, there go I.'"
Doris raised her chin suddenly. "Your momma said that, did she?"
Surprised at the obvious edge in Doris's voice and fearing that she had somehow touched a nerve, Janet changed the subject. "I was wondering if you've noticed anything unusual or suspicious around here lately."
Doris looked at her with a blank expression for a second, then exploded into gales of laughter. "Odd? Un—unusual?" she sputtered.
Doris laughed again, as if this was the funniest thing that she had heard in a long, long time.
"Dear, you've just described every person that's come through the Blue Bird in the last ten years."
Then, with a sudden sober and thoughtful expression, she added, "But, come to think of it.... I do have one guest that rings some warning bells, the young fella in one-twelve."
"Yes? What's so unusual about him?" Janet prompted.
"Well, for one thing, he's always breaking things in his room, furniture, glasses, just about anything you can imagine. And he's always talking to himself. He just showed up about ten, maybe eleven days ago. Got off a Roadway bus, walked in, and paid cash in advance for a month. Been nothing but a pain ever since. Wakes up the other guests at all hours of the night, yelling and carrying on. And I know he's in there by himself. I clean the room every day, whether he wants it or not. But—"
"But what, Doris? Think hard, now, because this may be important."
Janet was perched on the edge of the couch now. Her instincts were fairly screaming that she was about to receive a crucial piece of information.
The older woman thought for a moment, gently nodding to herself.
"Yes, yes ... come to think of it, he wasn't in his room the day before yesterday. I don't recall seeing him yesterday either. The bed hadn't been slept in and I would know. But, he was back in his room today, drunk as a skunk, as usual."
Doris sipped her coffee, then continued. "He's the kind of person that sleeps from one end of the bed to the other. Once, I even found his pillows and blanket in the bathtub, like he had spent the whole night in there."
Janet's pulse was racing, and it was all she could do to keep from shouting, What the hell are we waiting on? Take me to this guy! Instead, she forced herself to slow down and act nonplussed. "I see. Can you tell me his name? Or rather the name he used to check in?"
Doris walked to the front desk and flipped open the register. Scanning the lines of the second page, she suddenly pointed at a line with her finger and said, "Yes, here it is. M.E. Pierce."
Janet scribbled the name into her pocket notebook. Finally she was getting somewhere. One thing, though, continued to puzzle her. "What about his car? What's he driving?"
"Oh, no car. When he checked in, he mentioned he had been riding a bus for nearly three days. I thought that peculiar and started to ask him about his trip, but he didn't seem the sort of man who enjoyed polite conversation," Doris said with a wink.
"But if this guy is tearing up the place, why haven't you given him the boot yet?"
Doris snorted. "And all this time, I thought you were pretty sharp, girl! Didn't you hear what I said about the day he showed up?"
"Didn't you say that he just walked in, ten or eleven days ago?"
Doris grinned. "Yep, I said that. I also said he paid for a month in advance, cash up front! I don't see many cash customers these days. Oh, I do have another reservation that paid in advance. He was supposed to arrive last night. Hard to believe I'm actually having this many new guests all of the sudden, especially in this weather!"
Janet thought that was all mildly interesting, but she spent the next half hour asking questions about the Pierce character: What does he look like? Any visitors? Other notable habits or peculiarities? Visible scars, marks, or tattoos? Does he look like he belongs to Serial Killers 'R' Us? However, Doris had very little to add.
Janet did learn that this Mr. Pierce, if that really was his name, looked to be in his mid-thirties, had dark hair that fell to the top of his shoulders and "the darkest blue eyes I've ever seen on a man," according to Doris. Janet also got the impression that while Doris Freeman wasn't exactly afraid of her mystery guest, she sure as hell slept with one eye open while he was a guest.
After another fifteen minutes or so, the conversation wound down and after much good-natured pleading, Janet relented and accepted Doris's offer of a room for the night. Despite her dislike for the premises (the place just gave her a case of the heebie-jeebies), it was getting late and Janet didn't much feel like trying to find a decent motel at this time of the evening.
Besides, by staying over, she just might catch a glimpse of the mystery man. In the morning, she would pay a visit to the Knoxville Police Department and begin the long, perhaps futile search for background information. If the Knoxville police proved uncooperative, she could always fall back on Ronald Kelly. A flash of cleavage and Kelly would follow her into hell and back.
As Janet made ready to leave, she insisted on paying and wrote out a check that would cover the cost of a two-day room rental, just in case. She might get lucky while searching for information on Pierce and having a room down the walk from his might prove beneficial. Doris told her that the money wasn't necessary, that she just enjoyed Janet's company. But she gratefully accepted the check nonetheless.
Doris watched Janet step out into the cold evening air then began straightening the living room. Glancing down at the forgotten matchbook, still lying where the reporter had left it, Doris read the cover. blue bird motor court. serving the traveling public since 1976.
Frowning, she picked it up and tore a match from the book. Striking it against the rough strip along the front, she watched intently as fire sprang to life. She laid the rest of the matches into an ashtray, and then used the flame to set fire to the cover of the matchbook. Then, almost as an afterthought, she laid Janet's check on top of the fire and watched it slowly turn to ash. "Cleaning up messes, that's what I do best."
CHAPTER 17
Illinois State Line
Paul Young awoke to a loud persistent pounding. Groggy from his first
real sleep in weeks, he struggled to orient himself. Rising to a sitting position, he thought he heard a familiar voice, but instantly dismissed the notion. There wasn't any way she could have found him. Was there?
Paul fumbled in the dark until he located the small bedside lamp and turned it on. Squinting against the light he glanced at his watch and saw that it was a little after three a.m. The pounding at the door subsided for a second, then started again with renewed intensity.
"Paul! It's me, Rita! Open the door, sweetheart." Rita! Paul scrambled out of bed, entangling both feet in the sheets and fell heavily to the floor. Kicking himself free, he rushed to the door and threw back the lock. "Baby!" he cried as he opened the door. He was met by a terrific blow to the chest that nearly stopped his heart and sent him flying backward into the room.
Lying against the far wall in a crumpled heap, Paul fought to regain his breath. Each attempt resulted in the popping of bones in his fractured sternum and sent a jagged bolt of agony through his entire body. He watched with blurred vision as the tall slender figure of a man sauntered into the room.
Paul tried to focus on the man's face, but it was impossible. He coughed, nearly fainted from the effort, and felt a frothy gurgle deep inside his wounded chest. It occurred to him that his injuries were far more serious than a few cracked ribs. He would need a lot of luck to survive another five minutes.
The man walked to within a few feet of Paul and knelt. He seemed content to watch Paul for a moment, as if expecting... something. Finally, he spoke, his voice little more than a quiet whisper.
"Well met, bastard. I've so looked forward to our meeting. It's been a long time since I last visited with one of your kind." Looking Paul over with frank appraisal, he added, "Your lungs fill with fluid. A sliver of bone has punctured a major artery in your chest. In short, you are dying. I give you ten minutes at most. I must say, this is all a bit anticlimactic. On my life, I have no idea why my associates are so intent on having you dead."
Paul stared uncomprehendingly. He heard and understood the words, but none of their meanings.
The stranger smiled and continued. "I mean, history being what it is, I understand a certain animosity has endured over eons. I, of all people, certainly understand the machinations of such hostility. But surely, your kind poses no threat to Legion. Or... do you? Ah, well. It's not for me to question. A deal is a deal, after all."
Still dazed, and more confused than ever, Paul rubbed his eyes, trying desperately to clear his vision. Slowly, his eyes began to focus.
"Who—who are you? Where's my wife?"
Another cough racked his body, sending blood-flecked spittle dribbling down his chin. The room spun violently and Paul fought to remain conscious, trying to commit the man's features to memory. Despite the heavy clothing, Paul could tell the man was fit and athletic. He was clean-shaven with movie star looks. Soft brown eyes perfectly matched the color of his collar-length hair.
The man seemed to consider the question at length before answering. When he did, his demeanor was solemn.
"Who am I? A fair question, bastard. Or should I call you Paul? I knew of another Paul once. We no longer speak. As for my name, well... there was a time not so long ago that I was prohibited from speaking my own True name. Do you know what that's like, Paul? For eons and more, hearing your True name shouted across the Heavens with awe and reverence, only to awaken one day to find that the very word is pronounced anathema, its utterance forbidden for all time... upon pain of death?"
The man stared into the space just above Paul's head, seemingly lost in memories of another place, another time. Misery hung about his shoulders like a shroud and when he looked again at Paul, there was a terrible sadness in his eyes.
"Alas, time does heal certain wounds and right certain wrongs. I find it oddly fitting that I tell you my True name before I kill you. I am called Axthiel."
The man watched Paul's face for some sign of recognition, but didn't seem surprised by its absence. When Paul said nothing, the man whispered, "Do you know what my name means, Paul?
"No, of course you don't. In the old tongue it means, Splendor of God.' Ironic, isn't it? That one such as I should be judged and found wanting, while a pitiful bastard-child from a long-dead age finds grace. Can you truly grasp the irony of that, Paul?
"And speaking of irony, you have no idea of why you're about to die, do you? I'll not bore you with a history lesson. Instead, I offer two points for your consideration. That is, of course, if you'll consider quickly."
Paul glared. "Rita... where is... where...," he said, wheezing.
"Ah, yes, your mate. A pity, that. It really wasn't her time, you know, but when I went looking for you yesterday, I found her instead. And she was decidedly uncooperative. I could have made her passing easier, were I so inclined. Of course, I wasn't. The foolish woman not only insulted me, she attacked one of my lapdogs with a pair of sewing shears. Humph. Imagine that, if you will."
"Oh, God... Rita! No, no!" Despite the gravity of his injuries, Paul struggled to a kneeling position and reached for the man, determined to choke the life from him. The effort was futile.
Tsking, Axthiel touched Paul in the center of his chest
with the tip of a single finger and drove him back against the wall.
"You're angry over the loss of your mate? Touching, bastard-child. And I am not totally without compassion. Very well. I will kill you cleanly, as compensation. Just be grateful that I arrived first, ahead of Legion. Even now, they search for you. Do you know what they would do to you, Paul? Do you?"
His strength exhausted, Paul prayed that this was all just another nightmare. Axthiel stood and regarded him silently for a brief moment.
"Farewell, Paul. I might say that I wish circumstances were somehow different, however I abhor a hypocrite and that would be entirely too uncharacteristic of me. If your kind has a soul, I send you to a better place. If not, then... too bad."
Axthiel brought forth his hand, the fingers extended like a spear made of living flesh. Paul watched helplessly, frozen by shock and disbelief.
As Axthiel stood poised, prepared to deliver a killing blow, the door of the room exploded from its hinges and a brilliant flash of white light filled the room. Nearly blinded, Paul could make out a massive silhouette as it entered through the damaged doorway. The figure was easily a head taller than Axthiel and far broader across the shoulders. A second, smaller person immediately followed the first into the room. Someone roared an ancient challenge in a language that Paul thought both alien and familiar.
Axthiel angrily answered in the same long-forgotten tongue and rose to meet his adversaries. The three collided in the center of the room, amidst a shower of sparks and flame. Axthiel easily brushed aside the smaller of his enemies and grasped the throat of the hulking giant with his bare hands. His opponent caught his wrists and with muscles bulging, forced Axthiel down to the floor.
Axthiel twisted in the grasp, and broke free. He pointed a slender finger at the giant, and uttered a single word. A gout of green fire lanced forward, engulfing the man.
Paul's vision was clearing slowly, by degrees, and he watched as Axthiel's smaller opponent, a lithe female dressed all in black denim, suddenly reentered the fray. She struck Axthiel sharply across the face with an elbow, then reversed the strike and struck him a second time. Blood, the color of glowing, molten rock, seeped from a deep gash along Axthiel's cheekbone. He stepped back out of her range and snapped out a high thrusting kick that took the woman just beneath the chin. The impact resulted in a wet crunch and the woman fell unmoving to the floor.
Shouting in triumph, Axthiel stomped down upon her unprotected head with the heel of his boot, again and again. Unable to look away and horrified by the magnitude of the brutality, Paul puked.
A sudden series of explosions ripped through the room, spraying Paul with chunks of debris. Axthiel staggered back, holding his face between bloodied hands, then turned and fled toward the shattered remains of the d
oor. Pausing inside the splintered frame, he turned and screamed out a final challenge.
With a forward thrust of his right hand, Axthiel sent a spear of crackling pale blue light into the room, aimed not at his remaining adversary, but at Paul.
With speed that defied sight, the giant leapt the width of the room and intercepted the shaft of energy with his chest. The blast sent him cartwheeling across the room, smashing into the wall above the vanity.
He rose instantly, clasping both hands to his chest in obvious pain. Then, in a thunderous voice that ruptured both of Paul's eardrums, the giant spoke a word of power. At his command, elemental energy ripped through the room. Walls groaned, then disintegrated, pulverized into marble-sized shards of wood and glass. Paul's motorcycle was lifted from its place in the parking lot by the force of the blast and flung through the air like a child's toy. Axthiel disappeared from view, but whether he had taken the brunt of the final explosion, Paul couldn't be sure.
All about the room, exposed electrical wires snapped and popped. Water gushed from mangled plumbing lines and showered the room like some macabre fountain. For the second time tonight, Paul could hear the distant sound of police sirens.
After a moment, Paul was dimly aware that someone stood over him. Ever so gently, the giant picked Paul up with the ease of a father cradling a newborn. "Peace, be still," whispered the giant. And Paul drifted away.
CHAPTER 18
Illinois State Line
It was snowing again. Deputy Petey Scanlon hated snow.
He sat in his car and watched as the last of the fire trucks and state police units pulled out of the motel parking lot. Dawn broke slowly across a slate-gray Illinois sky. There would be no hint of sunshine today. Especially not for the poor schmuck who had been in room twenty-six of the Best Value Motel, thought Petey. The room, or what was left of it, resembled a war zone, like something out of a shelled-out neighborhood in Baghdad. The explosion erased the entire front wall, a section of the roof, and nearly half of the rear wall. Miraculously, the bathroom was still intact.
