In the hot mid-afternoon sun I stop to rest in the shade of a cottonwood tree. As my eyes begin to droop, I’m still talking. “You smell like those lilac bushes still.”
I rest my face in her fur.
“It could be good, living alone. Maybe I’ll even stop blacking out.”
It would be warm all the time in Texas.
“Just you and me. Would you like that, Lila?”
She pants in my ear, hot doggy breath.
“Yeah, Lila’s a good name for you. What do you think?”
She could sleep at the foot of my bed.
“Just you and me.”
-11-
I reach the highway around dinnertime. Not that I’ve eaten any dinner, my stomach reminds me.
Trucks roar by going 70, 80 miles an hour, blasting right through this middle of nowhere place. Lila whines; she doesn’t like being so close to the road. I stay on the shoulder, out of the breakdown lane. None of these big trailer trucks are going to stop for me; too much work to slow down. I’m tired of walking but I don’t have much of a choice – that’s the thing about following the highways, they’re boring. A long stretch of flat road. No houses or trees. Out here some of the farmland is close enough if I get desperate for food
Hitchhiking isn’t legal most places. I didn’t know that when I started out but it seems to be a pick up line with truckers. “Hey, kid, you know you could get arrested for hitching? Come on, get in.”
After a while I learned that I didn’t even need to stick a thumb out like they do in the movies. Nah, scuffling along the side of the road looking homeless makes people feel kind. “You need a ride somewhere? It’s awful cold out there.” It makes other people predatory. “You need a warm place for the night, kid?”
The setting sun to my right burns over the landscape, turning ugly browning fields into golden valleys and the gray clouds to red and orange streaks in the sky. It doesn’t last long, though. Within twenty minutes all is the same dim color, and now headlights wash over me and Lila, making our shadows shorten and lengthen over and over.
Not so long after the sun dies, a dirty white van flashes its red brake lights after passing us and rolls over into the breakdown lane.
I walk on past. The passenger side window is rolled down.
“Hey! You need a lift?”
The driver looks to be in his thirties, clean-shaven and dark hair. His smile consists of even white teeth.
“Sure,” I say. I open the door.
“That your dog?” he asks, squinting down at Lila.
“No,” I say. “She’s just a stray.”
“All right. Hop on in.”
I look down at Lila. “I told you you couldn’t come,” I say to her as a good-bye, then climb into the van.
It’s too dark to see her in the rearview mirror as we drive away.
“So, where ya headed?” the man asks. He fiddles with the radio, tunes in to a classic rock station.
“Texas.”
“Yeah? That’s cool, I’m headed there myself.”
I keep my face carefully blank.
Already I miss Lila’s fur, her closeness. Even though I couldn’t see her as we drove away, I imagine her eyes watching after me, wondering why I’m leaving her.
“I’m Paul. What’s your name?”
“Dan.”
His teeth flash in the dark. “Nice to meet ya.”
I have only the briefest moment to wish he would stop talking before he starts talking again.
“So what’s in Texas?”
I shrug.
“Family?”
black pulse blocking out oncoming headlights
“No.”
“Friends?”
shut up I know what you’re really asking for
My hands shake as I hang on to the door handle. I have to swallow back the bile in my throat.
“Ah, well. I understand. Can’t trust people out on the road, right?” More teeth. All I see are his teeth.
For a time he is blessedly silent, if you can count singing along with Aerosmith quiet. He taps his fingers on the wheel, “I know... nobody knows… where it comes and where it goes…” Nervous loudness, trying to fill up the empty spaces.
I breathe and try to calm down.
fight or flight you oughta run run run
I can’t kick it down. I shove my hands in my pockets to hide my fists, clenching, nails biting my palms. My jaw clenched tight.
The van cruises through the night, a smoother ride than most trucks that deafen you with the sound of their own motors. The fields fall back; we pass by isolated gas stations and through dark, silent towns.
Up ahead, the word “VACANCY” glows red in the night.
“Hey, I’m gonna stop in here,” says Paul. “You’re welcome to share my room if you want.”
no no no no no
I say nothing. There’s not much else around, nowhere to go unless I keep on walking and hitch another ride.
He pulls in, parks in front of the brightly lit office.
“Just wait here. And crouch down a bit. Sometimes they like to charge by the number of people in the room. I’m just going to pay for a single then we can sneak you in.”
I nod and he jumps out.
The familiar roiling starts up in my stomach.
you know why he wants you to hide
I watch him inside, chatting with the night clerk of the motel, laughing easily. Everything about him looks safe and friendly. Everything about him makes my body scream
RUN
As he thanks the clerk and turns to come back out I reach for the door handle. I’ll tell him I can’t stay. I’ll walk off into the night without a word. My legs have rested; maybe I could run.
The door handle doesn’t work.
The blackness pulses, heavy and strong, pressing into my eyeballs
RUN RUN RUN
“Oh, yeah, that door doesn’t quite work.” Paul hops in, restarts the van. “I’m gonna park closer to our room. That way he won’t see you.” He jerks his head to indicate the night clerk, and gives me a wink with his flash of teeth. “Remember?”
hands clammy, cold sweat dropping down my sides
Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. I can do this.
He parks in front of room 7, climbs out, and comes around to let me out.
When I move to slide out he doesn’t get out of the way. He’s close enough for me to smell his aftershave and the sour smell beneath it, nervous under a cool demeanor. No, not nervous. He leaves me trapped there between the door and the van as he reaches behind my seat for a suitcase.
Not nervous.
Excited.
He slings his arm around me like we’re best buddies after our three hours on the road. Pulls me toward the door marked “7.”
The taste of bile in my mouth becomes a flood.
“Hey, it’s okay.” He’s noticed how badly I’m shaking. He pushes me through the door and sits me down on the bed. His suitcase at my feet and he’s peering into my face. “When was the last time you ate anything?”
I’m panting now. “Yesterday.”
the door’s still open run RUN
blackness swimming in
“Okay. Why don’t you lie down? Come on, it’s okay, just lie down.”
can’t see anymore, just his voice sounds so nice but under it I can hear it that greedy sound of anticipation, of GLEE
He gently makes me lie down. “It’s gonna be okay. You stay here and I’ll go grab some food, okay?”
His hands are gone. I’m safe.
I hear clicking sounds then his hands are back, gripping my wrist.
Click, clank click.
A cold bracelet biting into my wrist.
fuck no NO NO NONONONO
“You stay right here and when I come back we’ll have some fun…”
Even that cold shock gone now in the rush of darkness –
-12-
My first thought is, I’m still handcuffed to the bed.<
br />
My second thought is, I’m not hungry anymore.
It’s hard not to open my eyes with all the sunlight streaming in. Gauzy white curtains cover the windows, allowing only a vague picture of the parking lot.
The van is still parked out front.
It looks to be noon or later from the direct shadows beneath the cars.
My uncuffed arm is in front of my face. It’s cold. No sleeve. I don’t have on a shirt anymore. My right arm is cold too, colder, dangling from the handcuff that is attached to the bedpost and serving as a pillow.
My feet are cold but my waist isn’t. A sharp breath and I see it. The arm encircling my waist. A hairy arm, wearing a cheap watch.
With that breath I am suddenly aware of the warmth at my back.
Am I wearing pants? I move one of my legs and see that I am not.
I can’t breathe. Where’s the blood? Why am I naked?
The world tilts as I roll off the edge of the bed and stand as far away from the mattress as I can with my arm still attached to the bedpost.
And heave a sigh of relief.
There’s the blood.
* * *
I shouldn’t be so relieved. This is a big problem. BIG problem. I’m handcuffed to a crime scene.
First things first. Get my hand back.
I try pulling it out, but the cuff is tight. These are no kinky handcuffs. Stainless steel. Maybe even police issue.
There must be a key here somewhere. I lean over the body of Paul, a piece of it, anyway, and feel in his pockets with my fingers. Nothing. Roll him over and try the other pocket. Nothing.
His suitcase is on the floor at the foot of the bed, open. He took the cuffs from that suitcase; it would stand to reason that the key would be in there. But I can’t reach it. My fingers barely reach the end of the mattress.
I stretch and stretch. The cuffs are rubbing the skin of my wrist raw.
Then I see the ring of keys on the nightstand on the other side of the bed.
I scramble right over Paul, sliding through the blood, and snatch them up. A handcuff key would be small, silver – there it is!
Freedom!
I shouldn’t be so relieved, but I am. Backed up against the tacky motel wallpaper, my eyes darting from the splatter on the walls, the leg up on the radiator with the sock and shoe still on, the open suitcase –
Lights glints off of the sharp, shiny objects in there.
One step closer, curiosity, the instruments neatly tucked into pockets on the lid, a box of gloves, a large plastic sheet. A lump forms in my throat.
Paul wasn’t just any pervert.
My mind refuses to focus. I’m frantically searching for my clothes, my shoes, then forget about it, rushing into the bathroom running the shower with an itch to be clean, to scrub this all away. The bathroom is clean. No sign of blood here, the toilet paper folded just so, the little packets of soap and bottles of 2-in-1 shampoo/conditioner still neatly placed by the faucets, towels white and fluffy.
I stay under the hot stream of water so long the bathroom is enveloped by a thick fog. I look myself over: a few new bruises, and the chafing on my wrist, but everything else intact. Paul never got a chance to use his torture devices on me.
Once I’m done and toweled off I feel more together. Take a deep breath. Everything will be okay. Paul himself told me that.
Open the door and again look upon the chaos.
First, I need clothes.
I spy my shirt, pants and underwear half under the bed. Paul must have cut them off of me, although they look torn to shreds rather than cut. They were almost shreds anyway. There’s another bag, which Paul must have gotten out of his truck… after… I paw through it, find some jeans, which are too big, and a belt to keep them on. A white t-shirt that’s big, too, and a gray hooded sweatshirt with sleeves I roll up.
I don’t touch his underwear. I’ll find some someplace else.
My shoes and socks are on the other side of the bed, near the window. I lean against a bare spot of wall to pull them on. I want a coat, but it looks warm enough out for now.
Next, see if Paul the Serial Rapist Killer had any money.
His wallet’s on the nightstand next to where his keys were. I’m lucky he was what he was: lots of cash, no credit cards. His driver’s license was issued in Washington State and says his name was Gary Lafayette. I take the cash and leave the wallet.
I consider taking his keys and driving off in the van, but since I’ve never driven a vehicle before I think this would be a bad idea. Not to mention the likelihood of getting pulled over. If Paul/Gary hasn’t already been put on the police wanted list, the night clerk might have the license plate number or description handy when the motel people discover that one of their rooms got a blood bath.
On my way to the door to leave, a black Polaroid camera half hidden under the bed catches my eyes.
I pull it out, and with it find a stack of photographs.
The first few I look at are obviously from some other scene, boys cuffed to the bed looking at the cameras with scared eyes and gagged mouths, or unconscious. I barely recognize myself among these, ribs countable and arms like thin sticks, eyes open and glazed over and bugging out.
With trembling hands I slide this photo out of the way and look at the next.
It’s blurry and I can barely tell what I’m looking at. But it’s not a boy. Maybe the perv’s dog or something. I nearly collapse in relief but remember the blood puddles on the rug and keep myself up with shaking legs. I tuck the photos in the front pocket of the sweatshirt and leave the room.
It’s important to keep out of sight. I hide behind the van, peeking through the windows to the office. Then I walk back to the end of the motel, around room 8 which is likely unoccupied judging from the lack of cars in the parking lot. I crouch lower than the windows along this back wall and creep around the L-shaped building, praying no one will come out of the back doors.
And I’m back on the road.
-13-
I let the trucks zoom by; I ignore the ones that stop. The memory of Paul’s teeth keeps me from even looking at them.
At a gas station I stop and buy a soda and a sandwich that I eat sitting on the ground against the wall, cooling off in the shade. I purchase a bottle of water for the road and head off again.
I want to be as far away as possible by the time room 7 is discovered.
A green sign looms on the horizon. As I get closer, the white letters spell out
Moberly 20 miles
Jefferson City 80 miles
These flat fields I see are all I’ll be seeing for the next few days.
I sigh and keep walking.
It’s getting close to dark when I smell something familiar. The breeze is at my back, and the scent drifts up to me, makes me feel warm and secure even though all day I’ve been jittery from the adrenaline rush earlier. Warm fuzzy feelings, but sad, too, once I realize what that smell reminds me of.
Once the vehicles on the highway have all turned on their headlights and I’m getting déjà-vu flashes from last night, I head down the little embankment on the side of the road, into a field. Wheat, the stalks rustling softly in the breeze. I’ll make a little nest out here, sleep under the stars. It’s cold now, and the gray sweatshirt isn’t nearly as warm as my old jacket. So I yank up handfuls of the wheat and lay it over myself until it’s less of a nest than a burrow, and my body heat is starting to warm it up.
Away from the road and the sound of my sneakers pounding the pavement, I hear it.
An animal approaching, taking quick trotting steps. Panting. With that smell.
I lift my head, craning around to see if it’s real. It’s too dark. “Lila?” I whisper. Then, louder, because I don’t even know why I’m whispering when there’s not a soul around to hear me, “Lila!”
The steps roll into a loping run and I hear an excited yip. Then she’s here, knocking off my wheat blanket and whuffing her hot breath into my fac
e and neck and licking me, licking me, and it’s the happiest moment I can remember.
* * *
Lila makes a warm blanket, though I envy her fur. I can only hope Moberly will have something akin to a Salvation Army or a church thrift store, although if worse comes to worse I might be able to find some clothes drying on a clothesline outside, or I could break in and steal something, but I’d rather not when I’ve got a big wad of money in my pocket. I’d like to be able to get something real heavy, a real winter coat that’s a little too big, and a hat too. And gloves. And I can’t forget underwear.
I guess because I blacked out for so long I’m not tired now. Lila’s face is my scarf, we’re wrapped up together and I’m watching the stars. I can’t imagine how she found me after Pervy Paul drove off with me, or why she would want to keep following me when I don’t have any food for her and I ditched her at the first opportunity. I’m just glad she did. She’s dead asleep now. Her paws are hot and I massage them, imagining all those miles she traveled on those feet to catch up with me.
When I was a kid I didn’t have many friends. Our town in Montana was small, and there were maybe 50 kids in my grade, most of them coming in from ranches sprawled out all over the place. My father wasn’t a rancher and neither were my uncles. We all lived close together on the outskirts of the Canadian forest, and the only other kid near my age was Kayla, who was a year younger than me. My mom was able to find work, seasonal labor, because she’d grown up on a ranch and she’d help drive cattle and with branding and stuff like that. Sometimes I helped her. My dad never helped. He worked at the local bar in town, serving drinks or bouncing or even cooking, whenever the manager wasn’t too pissed at something or other he’d done. He got into a lot of fights, my dad. If he wasn’t so darn angry maybe I could have bought a friend home, if I’d had one. But we mostly kept to ourselves, and Kayla was the closest to a friend I had.
Maybe if I’d had a friend, it wouldn’t have been so easy to run away and leave everything behind. Maybe I wouldn’t have all these weird feelings boiling up inside me all because some stray dog decided it was better to be with me than to be alone.
-14-
I smell like wheat and wet dog. It’s killing my appetite though, which is a good thing, since it’s almost noon and there hasn’t been anyplace to get any food.