Prodigal Blues (8 page)

I called her back immediately and got the voicemail.

"You are
not
going to believe what just happened to me; suffice to say that it involves many witnesses, television news crews, and the State Police.
 
I'm not kidding, pinkie-swear.
 
I'm not in trouble, so don't worry.
 
Give everyone a hug and kiss from me—except Perry, who may be facing some criminal charges when I get home.
 
I'll call you later tonight with all the details.
 
I love you.
 
I miss you."
 
I tried to think of something lascivious to say but couldn't, so I just hung up, then sat on the edge of the bed and let everything finally register… and that's when it occurred to me that I hadn't asked Denise

(
told you it wasn't a stunt!
)

about who she'd been traveling with.
 
Aside from Denise herself, the driver of the butter dishes was whom the police would most need to speak with.

I washed my hands and face; the cold water felt great and the motel soap was vanilla-scented.
 
Tanya used vanilla soap.
 
It made me miss her all the more.

I was drying off when I heard a knock on the door—not the door
to
my room, the door
in
my room.

The groovy decorator who'd done this room must have had an even more far-out buddy who designed the building, because this was the first time in over a decade that I'd been in a motel room that actually had connecting doors between rooms.

"Yes?" I said to the door.

"I have your supper here, Mr. Sieber," said a rough, sandy voice.
 
"Muriel had us reheat it.
 
I have fresh pie and some of Edna's cookies for you, too."

I grabbed the latch, which was stuck.
 
While I fiddled with it, I asked the waitress,
 
"Why are you delivering it like this?"

She laughed.
 
"There are reporters all over the place.
 
Edna has got a passkey—"
 
A nasty series of coughs erupted from her chest.
 
"—sorry.
 
Edna has a passkey she used to let me in.
 
I came in through number ten and just used the connecting doors to get here.
 
You know—so no reporters would see."

The latch started to give, much to my stomach's joy.
 
"Pretty clever.
 
I wouldn't have thought of that."
 
And I wouldn't have.
 
"Listen, when you get back, do me a favor?"
 
The latch came free and I swung open the door.
 
"Tell Muriel that I forgot to mention—"

I never finished.
 
Whatever hit me felt like it had been dropped from somewhere near Jupiter and caught a ride on a bolt of lightning.
 
I remember feeling my entire body locking up as my insides burst into flame; I remember feeling my legs buckle; I remember something warm and thick running down the front of my face; I remember thinking the floor was very considerate, the way it rushed up to greet me like it had really missed my company….

…
^jesus
christi
^didnot
THINKhis
_nose
wasever
^going
TOSTOPbleeding
_whydid
you
^have
_TO
hithimwith
^so
muchjuiceHADtobesurehe
_wouldnot
MAKEany
^noise
didinotBUTwe
_agreed
ABOUTthe
^face
hehas
_tolook
ALL
^rightyouknow
…

I came awake in slow degrees.
 
The first thing that registered was the vibrations; I thought I was on the motel bed, "Magic Fingers" massaging away, but then it got bumpy and hard and something solid that was most definitely
not
magic slammed against my back.

…
_sorrywe
DIDNOTHAVE
^time
toCLEAN
_theroom
butYOUARE
^THEone
whowantedto
_GETout
before
^the
POLICEgot
_thereDONOT
^start
fightingWITH
^each
othernot
_NOW
WEaREalmost
^done
…

The second thing that registered was the pain in my face; it was dulled somewhat, but it still throbbed back into my skull; the continuous bumps and jostles didn't help any.

…
_ohgod
iamso
^SCARED
whatif
_HEIS
reallyhurt
^BADAND
wecannot
_getHIM
toWILL
^you
BE
_QUIETyouare

getting
^thomas
UPSET
_whatabout
me
….

The next thing to hit home was the taste of a metallic-snot
furball
lodged between my tongue and throat; I tried to lift myself awake and pull in a breath so I could hawk it up but my head weighed about fifty pounds, so I decided to blow my nose instead.

The radio was playing a Marshall Tucker Band song, "Take The Highway."
 
I always liked that song.

I reached for my handkerchief.
 
Something rattled and clinked and my arm just
stopped.
 
A sharp pain encircled my wrist; someone with an ice-cold iron hand was wrenching it away from me.

I tried pulling free but whoever had hold wasn't going along with things; that didn't stop me from trying again.

No good.
 

Time to rally.

And-a one, and-a two, and-a—

This time, as I jerked back with everything I had (which, under the circumstances, isn't saying much), the thought crossed my mind that it might maybe-kinda-sorta be a good idea if I opened my eyes so I could see just what the hell was going on—

Everything looked like it was being filtered through one of those gauzy camera lenses used in movies to make aging stars appear to not have crow's-feet and face-lifts.
 

I blinked several times, then—against my better instincts—shook my head.
 
The pain snarled forward and I bit my lower lip, wincing… but when I opened my eyes again, things were a lot clearer.

I almost wished they hadn't been.

I automatically clicked into janitor mode, examining the entirety of the mess at first glance, then breaking it down into bite-sized pieces of disorder.

Disorder first:
 
I was on the floor of a van and the van was moving; so much for the "Magic Fingers" scenario.

Disorder second:
 
The pain was getting intense in a hurry.

Disorder third:
 
My ankles were manacled together with one of those strap-and-chain numbers used on violent murderers being marched into a courtroom.
 

Disorder fourth:
 
There was dried blood all over the front of my shirt, which had been torn and was missing several buttons.

Disorder fifth:
 
I couldn't move my arms because each wrist was handcuffed to an iron ring soldered to the wheel wells on either side; I lay in an almost perfect crucifixion pose.

Disorder sixth (and for the moment, the most immediate):
 
I had to—in Cletus's words—make a pause for the cause.

I tilted back my head, and for my efforts got a forced-perspective view of the folding (and currently upright) seat I was chained behind.
 
I opened my mouth to say something and suddenly remembered that scene from
Last House On The Left
(one of Tanya's favorite horror movies for some reason) where the killers, just to degrade one of their female victims, force her to piss in her pants before murdering her.

I concentrated on keeping my bladder under control; I had to, otherwise I'd have no choice but to think about this really honestly seriously goddamn scary situation, and I wasn't sure I could handle it.

"Hello."

I looked up and saw a girl's face that was, from this angle, all hanging black hair, lower lip, and nostrils.
 
There was a strong smell of makeup about her.

"What… happened?"

"You hit your face against the phone table when you fell down.
 
The
Taser
was set a lot higher than I thought.
 
I am sorry.
 
Are you okay?"

"I have to… go to… the bathroom."

"Anything else?"

"My head… hurts."

"Okay, then."
 
She disappeared from view.
 
"He is awake and says he has to use the toilet.
 
I need to go, too."
 
I recognized her voice, even though there wasn't a motel-room door between us.
 
This close, it sounded as if she had something wrong with her throat; her sandy voice was even rougher that I remembered:
 
it sounded outright painful.

"Check the map, will you, Arnold?" said a hollow-sounding male voice.
 
"There should be another motel coming up."

Paper rustling.
 
"I think you are right."
 
This voice sounded very young, a boy of maybe eleven or twelve.
 
"Exit… Exit 24A."

"There is 23," said the first voice—I assumed the driver's.
 
"Check the computer, just to be safe."

"Do I
have
to?
 
I just checked it a little bit ago."

"Humor me."

"Please do not be mad."

A sigh.
 
"I am
not
, I promise.
 
Just make sure, will you?"

Someone began tapping
 
keys.

"May I see?" asked the driver.

"It is not in blue," said the younger voice.
 
"See?"

"Excellent," said the driver.
 
Then he called out:
 
"Can you hold it for five more minutes?"

It took a moment before I realized he was talking to me and not the girl.
 
"Uh… I think so."

Hair, Lip, and Nostrils came back over the seat.
 
"So… how much does it hurt?"

"Kind of a lot."

"Honest?"

"Honest."

"Okay, then."
 
She disappeared again.
 
Something with latches was opened, and when her hand came around the lower side of the seat to grab my arm I almost let go right then, it startled me so much.

"Do not wriggle around, please?
 
I do not want it to break off ."
 
Only her arms and hands were visible.
 
She felt along my arm, slapped it a few times to raise a vein, and started to administer a shot.
 
"This will make it better, I promise.
 
Demerol."

"Hang on a second," I said, but it was too late; she'd already sunk the plunger.

"You should be okay now."

It took about sixty seconds.
 
The last thing to consciously register was that "Take The Highway" had ended and "A New Life" was starting, which meant it wasn't the radio, they were listening to a tape of
The Marshall Tucker Band's Greatest Hits
, an album I'd been meaning to buy, and promised myself I
would
buy if I got out of this alive, then the Demerol sang a different, shinier song that was suddenly all I wanted to hear….