The brightly lit drive in, with the carhops bustling back and forth, helped distract me. Half the slots were filled with cars full of teens, boom boxes thumping, and more arriving all the time. Flirtatious girls called out to cars full of boys. If the boys looked, the girls went into fits of giggles. Some things never change. I wondered how many of these girls would be married to these boys ten years from now. And how many of them would eventually attend Mandy's group or one like it?
By ten I had run out of fries, was tempted to order more, and convinced myself that it would be a stupid thing to do. I nursed my Coke awhile longer until the people-watching became tiresome. I thought about Drake, on his way back to Kauai by now, or perhaps already there. I'd lost track of the days. I missed having him here to talk things over with. Had the feeling that I'd have really bent his ear after this evening's meeting. Was that what best friends were all about? It had been so long since I'd had one.
The cars around me had thinned out. The movie over and the kids required to be home. Or perhaps they were simply cruising to the other end of town and back. A tiredness had settled over me and it seemed like a good time to settle into my room.
Ron's words of caution came back at me as I locked and chained the door. I pulled the pistol from my purse and stowed it under the pillow next to the one I intended to use. I switched on the TV for company, brushed my teeth and slipped out of my clothes. At home I normally sleep in nothing but panties, but here somehow, a hundred miles from home, alone in a motel, I felt vulnerable, naked. I dragged a t-shirt from my bag and tugged it on.
Late night television lulled me gently into a heavy-lidded stupor. Reaching for the remote control to switch off the glowing monitor was the last thing I remembered.
Until I became aware of movement in the room.
It took two or three seconds for me to realize where I was. A square of yellow-orange light ringed the pitch black window drapes. Strange wedges of light and shadow played on the ceiling opposite the transom. The back of the room, with the shadowy bathroom and small alcove with chrome bar that passed for a closet, were behind me. Again, I sensed more than heard movement. Nerves tingling, I felt like every hair on my body stood on end. My eyes were pasted to the door. Something wasn't right.
Movement again. The distinct swish of something brushing against nylon. My duffle, sitting on the dresser across from my feet, was being searched. My muscles froze. My brain went to mush, wanting to scream and run, wanting to blend into the blankets, wanting the person to disappear without my having to do anything.
Muffled footsteps walked across carpet. I couldn't sense where they went. My mind rushed to catch up. My purse was on the dresser, near the duffle. Surely the intruder had searched it first. I thought of the gun under the pillow beside me. Thank goodness it hadn't fallen into the prowler's hands—yet. Papers rustled very lightly. About twelve inches from my ear. The intruder was at the night stand beside me. I held my breath.
I caught a sharp intake of breath, his.
"So . . ." the voice whispered raggedly.
I stretched and rolled, hoping to do a reasonable imitation of a sleeping person changing position. My right hand reached for the hidden pistol.
Hands of steel gripped my throat. A knee pinned the blankets down at my side. My eyes bulged, my field of vision narrowing to a small tunnel. Think! I forced myself to remember everything Ron and Drake had taught me about the pistol. The safety was released with a flick of a thumb. It was a double action semi-automatic. I didn't have to cock it, the first shot would require an extra hard squeeze on the trigger, but then it would be ready for more shots.
I struggled to kick free. The dark shape hovered over me, the grip perhaps loosening a tiny bit. Not for long. The attacker renewed his hold, choking off the last of my air. My trapped legs flailing, I managed to get my index finger against the trigger. With only the vaguest sense of direction, I squeezed as hard as I could. The trigger offered massive resistance. My vision blurred. I pulled harder.
The shot deafened me, reverberated endlessly through the room, startled the dark figure into letting go of my throat. I gulped all the air I could grab, my ears ringing with a high steady whine. Finally able to kick free of the restraining blankets, I scrambled to a crouch on the bed, my breath coming in ragged short gasps. My head darted from side to side, as I tried to figure out where he'd gone—where the shot had gone.
The door flew open, slamming into the wall with a crash. The dark figure fled into the rectangle of yellow light outside. I scrambled to my feet, running after him. I threw myself against the doorframe, the pistol pointing in the direction he'd gone.
Nothing.
The sidewalk was empty, all the way to the end of the row. Cars sat outside a dozen or so of the rooms. All were silent. A few drapes parted slightly. Lights began popping on in the rooms, although so far none of the inhabitants had ventured out. The phone in my room rang, jarringly and insistently. I backed into the room, keeping the pistol aimed at the open doorway.
"What!" I said abruptly.
"Miss Parker? Are you all right?" The desk clerk's voice was a curious mixture of sleepy and scared.
"Call the police," I ordered. "My room was broken into."
"Was that a gunshot I heard?" he inquired nervously.
"Get Chief Bradley here. I'll tell him all about it." My voice conveyed a lot more authority than I felt.
I crouched on the bed nearest the back of the room, the one I'd not been sleeping in. Without releasing my grip on the pistol, I propped two pillows against the headboard and sat with my back against them. I faced the open door with gun in hand until I was sure it was Steve Bradley's silhouette I saw there.
Flicking the safety on, I set the gun carefully on the bed, the barrel pointing away from either Bradley or myself. I reached over and switched on the bedside lamp. My eyes squinted at the sudden intrusion but they quickly adjusted.
"I'll have to take this," Bradley said, reaching for the pistol.
"You'll find it's been fired once—by me," I told him.
I quickly outlined the sequence of events.
"I haven't touched anything since he left," I said.
"You sure it was a 'he'?"
Was I? I thought about the figure. Average height, slim build. Dressed in dark clothing, probably jeans and a dark sweater or sweatshirt.
"I can't imagine a woman having that kind of strength in her hands," I told him.
"Your neck's not broken," he reminded me. "A very strong man could have probably done that."
I reached up to touch my throat carefully. My fingers stopped just short. "Can you get fingerprints off skin?" I asked.
"It can be done," he said, "but I have a feeling this one was wearing gloves."
I tried to think again of the attack. Gloved hands or bare? I couldn't say for sure. All I'd been thinking at the time was how to fire the gun.
Bradley was following my thoughts. He clicked on a small flashlight, shining it over the walls and ceiling.
"Any idea where the bullet went?" he asked.
I crawled over to the mussed bed, showing him where I'd been and trying to approximate my position.
"The attacker was there," I told him, indicating the edge of the bed near the nightstand. "I rolled to my back like so," I said, rolling. "By that time, I thought I was going to die and I really wasn't thinking about where the shot would go."
"Well, at least you've had good training," he commented, still scanning the walls. "You fired a warning shot."
I did? Wisely, I didn't mention to Bradley that I would have killed the sonofabitch dead if I'd had the chance. He was just damn lucky I'd had no chance to aim.
"Hmm, look at this," Bradley said. He was picking at a dark spot on the wall which divided the small closet alcove from the main section of the room.
I stayed on the bed with no desire to nose into the new find. I felt suddenly drained of energy.
He continued to pick at the drywall, digging into the sm
all hole with narrow pliers he had unfolded from some tool on his belt.
"Look at this," he said again.
I was finding it tiresome. I would have rather seen him run out the door and down the sidewalk after the intruder.
"Looks like the bullet went into the wall and got stopped by the metal bracket on this hanging rack on the other side."
"How interesting," I said snidely. "I know I fired a bullet, I know it went that way, I'm glad to hear it didn't go through any critical walls into anyone else's room. Now can we ask some real questions? Like how did he get into the room. I had fastened the door chain. Who is it and where did he go?"
I left out the important one. Why? Why would someone come after me?
"Listen, missy, you're damn lucky you didn't kill someone here," he waved an index finger in my direction. "You could be facing a lot more than a sleepless night right now."
His adamancy crumbled me. My face puckered and my eyes stung. I blinked twice and swallowed hard.
"Look, I'm sorry," he relented. "We've got a fingerprint man on the way over. We'll check the room, although in a motel . . . well, you know there's been dozens of people in and out. Finding something won't guarantee we get our man, or, uh, person."
I breathed deeply, aware for the first time that my throat ached. "I know."
A tentative knock sounded at the doorjamb. The desk clerk's stringy brown hair showed first, even before his thin face peeked around the edge of the open door. He glanced at me on the bed, then at Bradley, who was still holding the chalky bullet.
"You need me for anything?" he asked nervously.
"Another officer will come around for your statement," Bradley told him. "It might be tomorrow. I can't drag too many officers out of bed this late."
For the first time, I glanced at the clock. Two a.m. No wonder I felt so wrung out. I'd only had about two hours sleep.
"For now, you can arrange another room for Miss Parker to finish the night in," Bradley was telling the clerk.
The man nodded. His eyes went for the first time to the doorjamb. His fingers lifted the dangling end of the broken chain.
"Looks like they cut this," he commented.
Bradley spoke up. "Yeah, I figured they had a key or a master, got the door open quietly, then snipped the chain with bolt cutters. Couldn'ta done that with deadbolts on the doors, you know," he added, giving the clerk a direct stare.
"Hey, man, it ain't my place," he defended. "I only work here." He backed away.
"We'll get some more answers on that later," Bradley said to me. "Look, you oughta get some sleep. Why don't you gather up your stuff."
Like I was really going to fall asleep. So many questions.
I went into the bathroom and tossed my few toilet articles into my zippered makeup bag. Suddenly I realized that I'd been walking around in nothing but panties and a large t-shirt. Edging my way back into the room, I picked up the jeans and bra I'd discarded earlier in the evening and slipped back into the bathroom to dress.
It took only a couple of minutes to throw all my other possessions into the duffle. I turned to Bradley.
"My gun please," I said, holding out my hand.
He had set it on the dresser. He glanced down at it, then back at me. A flicker of uncertainty darted across his mouth.
"I really should keep it as evidence," he began.
"And let this guy come back for me? Steve, be real here. I'm supposed to check into another room in the same motel, another room with the same lousy little chain at the door, and just let him come back? You know the minute your police cars leave here, I'm fair game again. You know I'm in no shape to drive back home." I felt my voice rise with each point, my vocal chords tightening painfully.
"Okay, okay," he pacified. "You go to your new room. You lock yourself in. Put something against the door. Don't open it before daylight for any reason."
His finger jabbed the dresser top as he talked. "You got that?"
I nodded without too much feeling.
"I want you to come to the station in the morning and let the clerk take your statement. Then I think you'd be wise to leave this town."
"Is that an order?"
"You acted in self defense. I have no evidence, yet, that this was nothing more than a random burglary attempt. I can't make you leave. But, lady, you're crazy if you don't." He wagged his head slowly.
I gritted my teeth, working at a response, when a tap sounded at the door.
"We can put you in 102," the clerk interrupted. "It's right next to the office. I'll be right on the other side of the wall."
Not a terribly comforting thought, but it would have to do.
"Leave your car parked outside this room," Steve Bradley suggested. "We don't need to advertise where you're spending the rest of the night."
That made sense anyway. I picked up the pistol and the packed duffle, then scanned the room to be sure I hadn't forgotten anything. Bradley nodded a goodbye as I followed the clerk out the door. My eyes darted around the parking area, quiet now, and the darkened windows of the other rooms. The other guests had apparently decided that sleep was more important than the brief intrusion that had interrupted it. We cut across the parking lot to the opposite leg of the L- shaped building and the clerk unlocked the door to the room adjoining the motel office.
"Any chance I could get a cup of tea?" I asked as he handed me the key. All I could think of now was comfort food.
"Well," he hedged, "the coffee and rolls won't be set out until seven."
"Look, I was nearly strangled a little while ago. Couldn't you just microwave a cup of water and toss a tea bag into it?"
He seemed to sense that it really wasn't an unreasonable request, given that he'd gotten off incredibly easy already. After all, he didn't have any dead bodies to deal with and the press hadn't shown up. Yet.
"I'll bring your tea in a minute," he offered with an almost sympathetic hint in his voice.
I switched on the light in the room, dumped my duffle on the dresser, and kept the pistol in hand until I'd thoroughly checked the premises. It was identical to the room I'd just vacated, right down to the dark blue commercial grade carpeting.
"Here you are, ma'am." He'd placed a Styrofoam cup of steaming water on a small tray. Beside it lay a paper-wrapped tea bag. "There's extra hot water in this big cup," he said, indicating a larger lidded cup.
"Thanks, that's very nice of you," I told him.
"Now you lock yourself in," he said, "and don't worry. I'll be right next door." He did seem concerned.
I set the tea tray on the dresser and locked and chained the door. As an additional precaution, I pulled one of the straight-backed chairs from the small round table by the window and wedged it beneath the doorknob. I found myself looking around for things to do. Debated about unpacking, decided that was useless. I'd only be here, let's see, another three or four hours.
I dunked the teabag in the steaming water, absentmindedly dipping it a dozen times or so until I had concocted a black brew that rivaled coffee. Decided that would definitely keep me awake for a day or two, so I proceeded to perform a little pouring back and forth ritual between the stiff black brew and the spare cup of hot water, like a scientist with an important experiment. In reality, I was working hard at avoiding the thoughts that lurked at the periphery of my brain.
Who just tried to choke the shit out of me? I rubbed gently at my neck as I carried the now-drinkable tea to the nightstand and settled myself into the puffed pillows against the headboard. My mind rambled over the day. Who had I managed to frighten? Because I had to believe that was at the bottom of this. Someone was running scared.
Chapter 22
The hot tea soothed my aching throat and eased my nerves into a semblance of calm. I thought back over the places I'd been today. Lunch with Laura Armijo. We'd talked about Richard Martinez and Laura had given me a list of women who'd miscarried. I'd stopped off at Mary McDonald's. I could hardly remember the specifics of the conversation. The
clinic? The battered women's group? I thought of the little place where I'd eaten dinner. The proprietress, Sal, had been pretty chatty. And there was that lone man sitting at the other end of the room. Maybe he'd overheard. Maybe he worked for someone whose nerves I'd touched. Maybe I was becoming extremely paranoid.
I took a deep breath and got up to use the bathroom. It was after four a.m. and I didn't feel the least bit sleepy. My mind was still racing over the possibilities and checking off my routine of the day didn't seem to make it slow down. I soaked a washcloth in hot water and held it to my face, willing the tension to leave my skin and soak into the fabric. The puzzle was coming no closer to resolution.
I hung the washcloth on a chrome bar and slipped out of my jeans. Crawling between the sheets, I switched on the television, leaving the volume low. I finished the last of the tea, switched off the lamp, and begged for sleep to overtake me. My eyes stayed wide open. An old movie ended and another started. I tried to follow the story, in hopes that my thoughts could be put on hold for awhile. I woke up sometime around six, with maybe an hour's worth of sleep to my credit.
My head felt light and empty. I couldn't remember exactly what had kept me awake all night. The attack had lost its terror, feeling unreal in daylight. None of the tangle of thoughts that occupied me in the darkness ever coalesced into a firm decision. I pulled myself from under the covers and headed for the shower.
My Jeep waited across the nearly empty parking lot. I carried all my possessions out in one trip, leaving the room key on the dresser. A substantial breakfast sounded good before I had to face giving a statement at the police station. I drove back to Sal's, where I'd eaten dinner last night.
Sal herself was on duty, again the lone waitress.
"Hey, you're back," she greeted. "Good to see you again."
Small Towns Can Be Murder Page 14