On Tenterhooks

by Greever Williams

  I’m in a Mexican beach town surrounded by tourists, seagulls and mariachi bands. I doubt clarity is on the menu.

  Eventually, he dozed off and was startled awake with a banging at the door.

  “Yo, guys!” he heard Abby’s voice through the heavy wooden door. “Are you two asleep or something? Come on! We’re starving!”

  He heard Abby’s tinkling laughter trailing down the hall behind her.

  “Whoa,” said Martin, slowly rising from his bed. “Guess we overslept, eh?”

  Steve looked at his watch. An hour and twenty minutes had passed since they’d arrived at the Carmelita.

  “Yeah. I wasn’t planning on sleeping, so I didn’t set an alarm.”

  “Okay,” said Martin. “Give me two minutes, and I’ll be ready to go.”

  He yawned and stretched at the foot of the bed, then grabbed his shaving kit from his duffel bag, walked to the bathroom and closed the door.

  Steve sat up on the edge of the bed and looked out the window. Nothing had changed, except the sun sat lower in the sky. He still heard the band and the tourists. He still smelled the ocean. Nothing new and still no definitive direction.

  Hearing Martin open the bathroom door, he stood and stretched.

  “Let’s eat,” said Martin. “I’m half-starved myself.”

  “Same here.”

  Walking out into the empty hallway, they locked the door behind them and knocked on the door to the girls’ room. No answer.

  “Lobby,” they said, simultaneously.

  When they reached the lobby, they found Veronica waiting on a bench, listening to a lone guitar player, who sat next to the front desk strumming a Spanish guitar. He looked up from his playing and nodded in greeting to Steve and Martin. The chords of the guitarist’s song were familiar, but Steve couldn’t place them.

  “Hey, sorry we’re late,” he said, noticing that Veronica’s cheeks and neck were blotched with angry red patches. Her brow was glistening with beads of sweat.

  “You okay?” Steve asked.

  “Yeah, fine. Just tired I guess.”

  “Where’s Abby?” Steve asked.

  “She didn’t want to wait for you guys. She went to check out the beach, before dinner,” said Veronica, rising slowly from the bench.

  “Wow,” said Martin, clutching his stomach. “All of the sudden dinner doesn’t sound like such a good idea.”

  “You okay?” Steve asked Martin. He had to raise his voice over the mounting volume of the song.

  “Yeah, I think so. Just got a bad stomach cramp,” he mumbled as he sat down on the bench. “Just let me rest here a second.”

  Veronica leaned on the wall above Martin. She closed her eyes and took several deliberate, slow breaths.

  “Something’s not right,” Steve said.

  The guitarist began to sing in English, with a thick accent.

  “Together we better, forever we strong.”

  “The song! He’s here. Veronica! Where did she go?”

  “United as one, we can no go wrong.”

  Recognition hit Veronica like a baseball bat to the face. “Oh, shit. I sent her around the back way to avoid all the tourists.”

  “We walk hand an hand up to death an beyond,”

  Martin stood. “Let’s go!”

  “Show me!” Steve shouted.

  “We’re better together, es where we belong!”

  They sprinted through the front door and headed to the left. Around the corner of the hotel was a small, narrow alleyway that ran from the back of the building all the way to the beach street. The setting afternoon sun filled the small area with dark shadows and menace.

  Halfway down the alley, leaning against the wall of the hotel, they spotted two figures. Steve recognized Abby’s long curly blond hair. She stood against the alley wall. Another, taller figure stood in front of her, blocking her escape. Even at this distance, in this light, the narrow build and pale complexion were obvious.

  Chapter 33

  Abby could smell his hot breath in her face. It reeked like dead apples left to rot in the scorching summer sun. Her eyes and her chest burned with a fierce, unrelenting pain.

  Preacher had her pinned against a wall, his hand cupping her right breast. She felt his burning palm through the fabric of her shirt. The fire in her mind was too intense. She couldn’t fight him. Her eyes were wide with agony.

  Steve watched as they rolled back into her head. The helpless girl let out a long and low wail of pain as her body convulsed around Preacher’s grip.

  Steve shouted, and Preacher turned and looked at them, smiling serenely.

  “Her bosom is ripe to receive the milk of the True Lord!”

  Veronica screamed. Steve grabbed the only thing he could find, a metal trash can, and charged. Preacher let go of Abby and took a step back. Abby slid down the wall, sobbing. The acrid smell of her own burning flesh filled the air. She collapsed onto the street and vomited.

  “Martin, get her out of here!” Steve yelled. He raised the empty can above his head as he crossed the alley, intent on smashing it over Preacher’s head. Preacher continued to smile as Steve closed on him. He held out his right arm and clutched his Bible to his chest with his other.

  As Steve started to lunge at him, the air around Preacher rippled. Steve watched, stunned as the man’s arms stretched to absurd lengths and groped for him.

  Martin and Veronica pulled Abby up and moved her back the way they came. Steve stopped short, as Preacher seemed to tower above him. When he threw the can, Preacher deflected it easily, as if dispatching a falling feather. Still smiling, he took a step toward Steve. Steve then felt a deep, guttural vibration in his stomach. It reminded him of a dog’s throaty growl, amplified through a concert sound system. It terrified him, and he backed away without taking his eyes off Preacher’s now-towering face.

  As Preacher advanced slowly, Steve stumbled and lost his balance, falling backward. His elbows popped as he hit the asphalt hard. Preacher continued to move forward, with his broad smile and deep growls. Too terrified to stand, Steve backed up, half crab-walking, half sliding across the slick ground of the alleyway. He pushed himself to move faster, but Preacher continued to get closer, his arms flittering above Steve’s head, like downed power lines that flicked back and forth riding on surges of death. A strong pair of hands grabbed Steve under his arms and pulled him to his feet. Steve turned to look as Veronica yanked him backwards out of the alleyway, back into the sunlight.

  Martin had his arm around Abby, holding her up. Her eyes were closed and her shoulders slumped. Scorch marks marred her shirt, and Steve saw blood on her chest. His adrenaline kept him moving, but he was shaking with fear. Veronica and Martin mirrored the look of terror on his face. When Steve turned back, he saw that Preacher was back to normal size, but still advancing on them in his deliberately slow pace, the massive smile across on his face. Steve turned and pushed them all down the street.

  “Go! Go! Move!”

  They crossed the parking lot and headed toward the crowd of tourists dominating the sidewalks along the beach road. They needed crowd and distance, immediately. As they moved quickly in a tight knot down the jammed sidewalk, people stepped back to let them through, but it was still slow going. Steve looked back frequently as he led the group past storefronts and open-air restaurants, intent on putting distance between them and Preacher as quickly as possible. He saw no signs of pursuit, but he continued to push them forward as fast as he could. He wanted to scream at them so that they’d move faster. He was desperate to move the curious tourists out of his path and sprint. The adrenaline and fear that were pounding on him from the inside would sustain his run for miles. He knew Veronica could keep up with him and probably leave him in the dust if she really wanted to. The panic on her face was slowly ebbing, but even without her adrenaline rush, he knew she was far the better athlete.

  Running was not an option, though, because Abby and Martin would never make it. Abby moved with them but relied
heavily on Martin to guide her. Steve saw that she wouldn’t be able to stand much longer. He needed a place to hide out and determine what Preacher had done to her.

  Coming up on their left amongst the tourist trap tiendas and the tiny fresh markets, Steve saw what he was looking for. The name above the door, “La Pluma y La Espada”, meant nothing to him, but the familiar neon beer logos in the window told him that this was a bar. It was likely to have a dark corner or two where they could rest and regroup.

  “In here!”

  He beckoned the others to the door and held it for them as he hurried them through. Veronica went in first without a sound. Martin walked sideways to move through the doorway without letting go of Abby. As they passed, Steve saw that Abby was pale and still looked dazed, but she was conscious. Looking back over his shoulder once more, he scanned the crowded street. There was no sign of Preacher. Once inside, he pushed the door shut, unwilling to wait for it to close on its own.

  When his eyes adjusted to the dim light of the cool room, he saw it was nearly deserted. He had expected a crowd of thirsty tourists to hide in. A bored bartender leaned on the dingy counter. He wore a grayish, stained apron and had a bar rag thrown over his shoulder. He looked at them as they entered, but quickly went back to watching the soap opera with Spanish overdubbing on the TV mounted in the corner. The bar reeked of cigar smoke, stale alcohol and sweat, but it was dark and quiet, full of shadows they so desperately needed.

  Two grizzled locals occupied a small table near the front door. Several empty pilsners and an overflowing ashtray sat on their table. Steve moved away from the door, beckoning the others to follow-him. Martin helped Abby toward the booths that filled a sidewall.

  “Steve, all of you, over here!”

  The voice, a man’s deep voice, came from a table in the shadows at the back of the bar. Steve stared hard into the corner. He couldn’t see much of the stranger, only enough to be certain that it wasn’t Preacher. The shadows hid the man’s face, as he lingered outside the small circle of light provided by the thin metal table lamp hanging overhead.

  Veronica focused on taking some long deep breaths and shaking off the vestiges of her panic attack as Martin did his best to assess Abby’s condition. Steve wanted to help Martin, but he also wanted to keep an eye on the door and the stranger in the corner.

  “Who are you?” Steve called. No answer. He scanned the entire room. The locals in the other corner ignored him. Steve couldn’t tell if their disinterest were genuine or feigned. The bartender looked at him again, nodded in greeting and went back to watching the soap opera. With his back to the door, Steve felt very vulnerable. He backed up and put an arm around Veronica, who watched Martin’s cursory examination of Abby.

  “Who are you?” Steve called again to the stranger.

  In the dim light, he saw the orange flare of a cigarette. With slow, purposeful movement, the figure in the corner blew a cloud of smoke and crushed the cigarette out on the table’s top. He then pushed the chair back from the table and stood, stretching. He was tall, nearly a foot taller than Steve. His sunglasses, leather jacket and boots were all black. Above his jeans, his grimy T-shirt had the grayish sheen of too many washings. He was well muscled — that much was evident, even with the jacket on. His reddish-blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail at the base of his neck, and he was clean-shaven except for a close-cropped soul patch. Each ear bore two silver hoop earrings. He strode toward them with a walk that bordered on arrogance. As he reached Steve, he held out an empty hand.

  “Call me Biker,” he said simply, in a deep tone.

  Seeing no clear alternative, Steve accepted the hand and felt the strong grip. He felt his adrenaline rising even further and was ready to fight back if it came to it.

  “Okay, fine, Biker. Who the hell are you, and how do you who I am?”

  “Introductions a little later bud,” Biker replied coolly. He pulled the shades off and surveyed the group.

  “You,” said Martin, staring up at Biker.

  “Wait,” said Steve, “I know you. You’re the construction worker.”

  “Did he see you come in here?” Biker asked, peering at Abby.

  “What? Who?” Steve asked.

  “You know exactly who I’m talking about, bro.”

  Steve took a step back from him, shielding the others. “How do you know that?” he asked, now certain he had made a mistake leading his friends into such an unoccupied space.

  “Later. First things first. Take that booth in the corner and wait for me. I’ll take care of Preacher.”

  Without waiting for an answer, Biker opened the door and walked through the doorway, heading back the way they had just come. Steve watched him leave and walked to the door peering after him. He watched Biker until he disappeared into the throng.

  “What the hell was that?” Veronica scowled at Steve.

  “I don’t know. I’ve seen that guy before—back in Charlotte. He was working on some road construction, when I was on my way to work the other day.”

  “I can’t be sure,” said Martin, “but I’d swear that’s the biker guy who came into my pharmacy the other day.”

  “I think he’s following us just like that Preacher,” said Veronica. “That guy was my cabbie the other night, the night I saw Preacher at my office.”

  “Abby, let’s sit down and get something to drink,” said Martin.

  He patted her gently on the shoulder. Abby raised her head and stared at him. She blinked, nodding slowly. Martin helped her to her feet, and they walked to a corner booth, where he guided her onto the bench beside him. Steve followed. Veronica started to protest, but when she realized that she was alone by the door, she joined them. Steve summoned the bartender and asked for glasses and four bottles of water.

  They waited in silence until the bartender delivered their water and returned to the bar. Steve and Veronica stood near the end of the table, both keeping a close eye on the door, while Martin kept his eye on Abby. Steve sighed. He took his glasses off and looked at the group.

  “Something about this is all wrong,” Steve said to Veronica. “That preacher wasn’t normal. He was like a giant, and I could feel him. I could smell him and his . . . his power.”

  “We saw it, too, Steve,” Veronica whispered. “The way he had Abby pressed up against that wall, he was burning her I think.”

  Steve leaned over to Martin.

  “Is she okay?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know what’s wrong with her. She doesn’t seem to be too bad off physically, but I don’t know what he did to her.”

  Abby was leaning back against the booth, eyes closed. She hid her chest with folded arms.

  “Abby?” said Martin. “Abby, sweetie, are you okay?”

  She opened her eyes and blinked. When she turned to face Martin, tear trails glistened on her dirty cheeks. Steve could tell by her movements that she was in pain.

  “I think so. My head hurts . . . and my — my—“

  She looked down at her crossed arms and began crying, but forced herself to stifle the sniffles.

  “I’ll be right back,” Steve said. He turned and walked to the bar.

  “Señor,” he called to the barkeep.

  “¿Si, señor?” the barkeep asked.

  For the second time that day, Steve silently cursed himself for not paying more attention in Spanish class.

  “Uh, yo necesito un, um, first aid kit?” he stumbled.

  “¿Que, señor?”

  Steve sighed.

  “Necesito. . .un medicina, un medico?”

  “¿Necesita doctora, señor?” the bartender asked.

  “No, no doctora,” Steve said. He had no interest in returning to the street outside. “Un momento, por favor,” he said to the bartender. He turned back toward their booth.

  “Veronica,” he called. “How do you say bandages in Spanish?”

  Before Veronica could answer, the bartender interrupted.

  “Ah, venda!” he exclaim
ed.

  “Yes! ¡Si!” said Steve. “Necesito una venda!”

  “¡Muy bien!” the bartender replied and bent down under the bar. He stood up with a triumphant grin on his face and a white box in his hands.

  “Venda!” he repeated, as he placed the box on the counter. Steve saw the familiar red cross and nodded in satisfaction. He picked up the box with a simple, “Gracias.”

  “De nada,” replied the bartender.

  “¿Tu tienes un baño?” Steve asked.