Chapter Twenty
(Tuesday night—Owen)
Owen woke to a faint scratching at his door. At first he thought it was Shadow. The hotel’s alarm clock showed just past two o’clock in the morning. Lightning flashed beyond the window, and rain battered its panes in sheets.
Shadow wouldn’t be in the hall. He was at Martina’s. So what was making that noise?
Still half-asleep, he looked at the gun on the nightstand beside the bed. It seemed to him that he’d fired it earlier, but for some reason the gun had been under water. He frowned groggily, trying to remember why he’d carried it into the Gulf.
As he sat up, the muscles in his lower back twinged. He’d been running in the surf, hadn’t he? Wavelike, the full memory of his experience at the beach crashed over him. He shivered in the air conditioning, suddenly wide awake.
After Aaron had disappeared, Owen had slogged back to the shore and swung himself up onto the pier. Climbing the chain-link fence had hurt his feet, but…it was hard to find good running shoes. By the time he wore out a pair, they were off the market and he had to try out a bunch of new ones. He wanted them back.
After he retrieved them, he picked his way out to the end of the pier and searched the waves, unsure of what he hoped to find. Surf rumbled, and the tops of breakers phosphoresced where they weren’t darkened by seaweed. Oil rigs and passing ships twinkled in the distance. Back toward the jetty he saw the lights of the motorhomes and all-night fishermen. Corpus Christi, invisibly insistent behind him, reflected from the glowing clouds.
There was nothing here that he hadn’t seen a thousand times before. But tonight all this perceived illumination was nothing more than a dismal and useless denial of darkness.
If what he’d seen tonight could happen, could exist, and the rest of his world could appear unchanged, then the boundaries between real and unreal were not where he’d always supposed them to be. Anything could happen, or fail to happen, and he didn’t know the rules.
In the end, with no conclusions or comforting thoughts coming to mind, he’d returned to his hotel, showered, and fallen into bed. He had considered getting drunk, and had stopped to buy whiskey, but once he got to the hotel he’d found drinking alone had no appeal.
The scratching at the door resumed, slightly louder than before. Owen picked up the gun. He didn’t know why he thought he might need it. It just made him feel better, and that was enough.
He put it in his left hand, the hand that would be hidden behind the door if he opened it. He flipped the safety off, glad he’d had the presence of mind to put it back on while standing in the surf, and checked the chamber. There was a round in it, ready to go. He figured it would be good for one shot, anyway.
It might not fire twice. But it was a good gun, and unlikely to blow up in his hand even if it didn’t work.
Oh well. Apparently anything could happen. For all he knew, his hand might grow back after being blown off. Maybe the new one would be better somehow, or it could turn out to be a lobster claw. If so, he’d cash in on network TV. Why worry?
He walked quietly to the door, wearing the clean T-shirt and boxers he’d put on after showering off sand and salt. Whoever (whatever?) was out there apparently didn’t want to attract attention from other guests. He flipped on the light and stood for a moment, listening. The scratching had stopped. Was anybody still there?
He put his eye to the security peephole in the door. At first he saw no one. Then he heard a muttered curse, and a blonde head rose into view. He saw a slightly beaky nose, a strained expression, and a brown eye staring directly into his own.
He almost dropped the gun in his haste to get the door open. She stood there, her smile flickering, her expression unsure. “Owen?” Shawna asked. “Can I come in? I shouldn’t be seen here.”
He struggled, got his voice under control. “Sure.” He stood, just taking her in. She looked good. She could use some sleep, maybe, and her hair was stringier than usual, but otherwise she seemed fine.
She noticed the gun and nodded thoughtfully. “Owen?” She made a pushing motion at the door. “Let me in?”
“Oh. Yeah.” He backed off.
“You know,” she said as she walked by, “I saw a movie once where a guy was locked up in his room and somebody came to kill him. Got him right through the peephole when he looked out. You probably ought to leave the light off anytime you feel like you need a gun to answer the door, don’t you think? Anyway, that’s what I got out of it.”
“Shawna. What the hell happened?” To Junior, to Leon, earlier tonight…anything.
She shook her head. “A lot of things happened. I’m here to tell you about it, but can I borrow your shower first? I haven’t been clean in three days, and I haven’t had much sleep tonight. A shower would make it easier to think.”
He noticed a small suitcase in her hand. “Planning to stick around?”
“That’s part of what we need to talk about.” She walked to the bathroom. “Be out in a few minutes, okay?”
It would have to be, wouldn’t it? “Want a drink?”
“God, yes. As soon as I get out.” She closed the door behind her.
Owen realized he was still holding the hallway door open. He closed it. As he heard the shower start, he opened the bottle of Lagavulin he’d purchased earlier in the evening and found two plastic cups. He poured for them both, and was putting the drinks on the table when he decided there was a better way.
He walked into the bathroom and set the cups on the back of the toilet. Nice, he thought, looking at them. Romantic. He shook his head. Well, what the hell, it was a flat spot they’d be able to reach.
“Shawna?” he called.
“What?” she responded, sounding tense. She shut off the water.
“I’m turning the lights out.” He took off his shirt. “Don’t panic.”
He heard her laugh, and restart the shower.
In the dark, in the warm water, he found her. He took the soap from her hands and ran it over her body, lightly, massaging her gently. Her breath caught, and she turned to face him. As he kissed her, he tasted the salt of her tears.