Night Road

by A. M. Jenkins

  In the hotel office, a tiny elderly man sat on a stool behind the desk, watching a small black-and-white TV. His hair was a white mop, his back bent over on itself like a shepherd’s crook. He didn’t say a word; but as the three hemes came to the desk, he slid down off his stool and hobbled over. The counter came to the middle of his chest.

  “One single, one double,” said Cole. “We’ll be staying at least four nights.” That was one of the unfair things about being heme; you had to pay an extra night every time you stayed somewhere, because you could never leave before checkout time in the morning.

  The man eyed them. “Twenty-five for a single, forty for a double, fifteen-dollar deposit.”

  “Deposit on what?”

  “Sheets and towels.”

  Cole and Sandor exchanged a glance.

  “We’ll take the sheets and towels,” Cole said, and pulled out his wallet.

  The little man counted the money carefully and put it in the register. He gave Cole two keys, then reached under the counter and pulled out a white stack of tidily folded linens. He silently pushed them across the counter. Then he hobbled to his stool and climbed back up.

  Cole checked the keys: rooms 211 and 213. “Second floor,” he told Sandor.

  Sandor sniffed the stack in his arms as they walked to the stairs. “They’re clean,” he whispered. “Thank God.”

  Room 211 turned out to be the double. The floor was bare grayish green tile. The beds were neatly covered with tan bedspreads. A small window was half filled by an air-conditioning unit, the top draped with a heavy, plastic-looking curtain.

  “We have a TV!” Sandor said. “My God, it must be as old as I am. Look, you have to turn a knob to change the channel!”

  “A TV, but no phone,” Cole told him; a broken wire dangled from the wall by the bed.

  “I have my cell. Pillows and blankets in the closet,” added Sandor, checking. “You know what this place reminds me of?”

  “The bad old days?” said Cole.

  “Yes. This is a reminder to be thankful for our blessings. Look, there’s a cupcake wrapper under the bed!”

  “This place is a dump,” Gordo muttered.

  Cole said nothing but checked his watch—still a few hours to sunrise; at least two before the sky started lightening.

  He entered 213 alone. No TV here, but there was a heavy rotary phone next to the bed. If you put two eleven and two thirteen together, he thought, you’d have one almost-decent hotel room.

  The floor wasn’t tile but dark carpet. The light switch by the door didn’t work, but the lamp by the bed did. When he turned it on, Cole could see that the old man—or whoever was responsible for cleaning—had vacuumed, at least partially, because the vacuum cleaner had left tracks around the bed. He didn’t look under the bed though; he didn’t want to know what the previous occupants had been eating or doing.

  Still, this place gave him an odd feeling, as if he’d been here before. He hadn’t, of course—but something about it seemed familiar.

  The carpet. It was old, brown, with a matted look.

  The place reminded him of Royal’s lair.

  And now he realized that he’d been so preoccupied with Gordo that he’d forgotten about the stray. He’d driven all the way to Baltimore without paying more than usual attention to the rearview mirror. Of course, he had been paying attention on the way from Ohio to West Virginia and hadn’t seen anything. But that was no excuse. It was likely Gordo had seen some omni back in Castile rather than the stray, but that was no excuse either.

  Cole had already dropped the ball once by losing his temper. He couldn’t afford to do any more dropping.

  Now he intended to grab a quick feed so he’d be fresh for tomorrow, but there was something he had to attend to first. Experience had taught him that windows in places like this sometimes required extra attention, if one wanted to avoid unpleasant surprises during the day.

  The Vickery Moe was no exception. The window was like the one in 211, an air conditioner in the bottom half. But this curtain was missing some hooks so that it drooped in spots. Cole would have to take care, not wait till the last minute to get it covered.

  He got his things out and set about the task, and was soon glad he’d started on it. The curtain was an odd rubbery material, and the tape wouldn’t stick well. It looked likely to fall off during the day, especially when the air conditioner kicked on. Cole ended up digging in the pocket of his suitcase for the wrinkled black garbage bag he kept for emergencies.

  He taped that directly to the wall around the window, securing it carefully along the top of the air conditioner. Finally, satisfied, he collected his keys and his wallet.

  He’d go hunting on foot tonight. He wanted to get a better idea of the area right around the hotel. He already knew that the cruising strip was less than half a mile away; it would take moments to get there in his car. But he wanted to get a mental picture of the immediate neighborhood.

  Because what if Gordo botched it, and they ended up with a screamer? Or, say, the timing was off, and the kid took a little too much? They’d have to discreetly remove his passed-out feed from room 211 and deposit it somewhere else.

  No, Cole wanted to know where the nearest isolated corner was and where the dark alley behind the hotel led. He wanted to know which businesses and dwellings were close and whether anyone was likely to be in them during the night.

  There was no room for slackness, no room for carelessness. Cole had his mind on the particulars now: He intended to be prepared.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  COLE headed down the alley behind the Vickery Moe. The ground under his feet was partly paved, partly dirt—a real mess when it rained, he could tell.

  A chain-link fence marked the back of the alley. Behind it were small houses, some with windows boarded up, all silent and dark.

  On Cole’s left were the rear entrances of the small businesses that lined the street beyond. The first few backed directly up to the alley; but as the fence ended on Cole’s right, opening into a vacant lot, the brick wall and doorways on his left also fell away; one of the businesses had a tiny parking area. A security light shone from a concrete loading dock the size of a small porch.

  If it hadn’t been for the security light, Cole might not have even noticed the car.

  It wasn’t near the business. It was parked under some trees at the edge of the vacant lot—not really in the alley, but not exactly in the lot either. It had seen better days, the rear window broken and taped over with what appeared to be black plastic garbage bags.

  Cole wouldn’t have thought much about it if he hadn’t just been taping a black plastic garbage bag to seal out light. If Royal hadn’t been on his mind only a moment ago.

  And if the security light hadn’t been bright enough to show that this plastic was mounted from the inside.

  So he stopped and took a closer look.

  He was right; the plastic was plastered solidly against the inside of the glass. Not only that, but none of the glass was broken at all—it was completely intact.

  Cole circled the car. It was a two-door, dark-colored Civic—probably black, although light played tricks with color at night—well over ten years old. It had been in a wreck at some point; the passenger side door had a rippled, limp look, as if it had been caved in and then hammered out. Both back side windows had been carefully covered from the inside as well.

  Cole put a hand on the hood.

  It was warm.

  Cole looked around to make sure he was alone. He occasionally carried a jimmying rod in his trunk, under the spare—but he didn’t like to. Eighteen-year-old guys got stopped often enough by cops just for being eighteen. What he did have at the moment was a crumpled wire hanger; it didn’t work quite as easily but could usually be made to do the job, especially with older cars like this.

  He went back to the Vickery Moe parking lot, to his own car, and got the hanger. Cole had had a lot of practice at this sort of thing; it took only a
moment, and he had the Civic’s door open.

  The interior light came on. He dropped the hanger and quickly slid into the driver’s seat. Then he leaned around to look in the back.

  More black garbage bags were heaped on the floorboard, along with a roll of duct tape. A dark-colored pile of bedding took up most of the backseat itself; a zipper told Cole that the bedding was a sleeping bag.

  He had no idea whether it was the one he’d seen in Royal’s apartment. Yes, it appeared to be brown—but as far as Cole was concerned, one sleeping bag looked pretty much like another.

  And he knew it was unlikely that the car belonged to Royal. Sunlight was difficult to seal out of any car, even with garbage bags and duct tape. Cole didn’t see how any heme could survive a day in this jerry-rigged vehicle.

  He leaned over and opened the glove compartment. There was a flashlight and some papers; he dug through the papers to find an insurance card.

  The carrier was Kimberly Lynn Brandywine.

  He was suddenly aware that he was very close to getting himself in a ton of trouble.

  He put back the card, closed the glove box, and got out of the car. He pushed the lock down and was about to shut the door when he hesitated.

  Why was the car parked out here, almost in a no-man’s-land? Wouldn’t an omni have left it closer to the loading dock, or on the street out front?

  He checked up and down the alley again. No one coming.

  He stooped and pulled the latch that opened the trunk. When he heard it pop, he shut the driver’s door quietly and walked quickly around.

  Another glance to make sure he was alone, and he lifted the trunk lid.

  A small light came on, dimly lighting the contents: A pack rat’s nest of clothing, towels, newspapers. A roll of black garbage bags. Empty water bottles. Scissors. A paint-spattered hammer, a screwdriver. Lightbulbs. Batteries.

  Nothing worrisome. Nothing scary. Nothing dangerous. Only things any omni might toss in. Cole had seen plenty of omni cars loaded with junk like this in the floorboard and backseat and trunk.

  But these were also things a heme would carry in case of emergency. Cole had many of the same items in his trunk, although not thrown all together like this.

  What to do? He couldn’t stand here indefinitely, poking through some omni’s car. Kimberly Brandywine might come back. And she might have people with her.

  On the other hand, if Royal had borrowed or stolen the car, he was obviously sleeping in it. And if it were his, he’d be back sometime in the next couple of hours, before the sun started to rise.

  He might have even already come back. Cole realized—a little late—that there were several small dark places around him, where one person could be hiding and watching unseen. The space between the Dumpster and the loading dock. The recessed doorways all along the alley.

  Cole shut the trunk as if he wasn’t even thinking about being watched and headed back down the alley. As soon as he was out of the parking lot, he stepped quickly aside, into the shadows. He would see anyone following before they saw him.

  He waited long moments.

  No one came.

  He had planned to feed now. But the thought that he and Sandor and Gordo might have been followed all this way gave him a creepy, spied-on feeling.

  Cole wanted to know whether or not this car was Royal’s. He wanted to know tonight.

  He moved into a recessed doorway under a rickety-looking fire escape, his back against the door: He could see the Civic from here, but no one would be able to see him. He’d grab a quick feed first thing tomorrow evening, when he went to select an omni to take to the Vickery Moe for the Siege of Gordo. For now he’d watch the car. If he just knew whether the stray were tailing them, he could start figuring out what to do about it.

  He heard traffic in the distance, the faraway slam of a door—but there was no movement in the parking lot or alley. The car sat under the trees, just another piece of the background. It had an almost abandoned look—except for the odd, carefully applied window coverings.

  Any heme who sheltered in that car would be living life on the edge in a way that the Colony hemes no longer had to. He would be desperate, cornered, afraid. And utterly, utterly alone.

  That might explain why Royal would follow them for hundreds of miles over several nights. But it wouldn’t explain why he’d never made any kind of contact. If he was lonely, why not approach them?

  The intimidating talk, the finger guard—maybe, Cole thought, it was all of a piece. He had seen plenty of omni wannabes posture in that same way, and it had always seemed to Cole that they were trying to make up for the impotence of their everyday lives. Maybe he’d let an emotional knee-jerk reaction keep him from recognizing the same thing in Royal.

  He checked his watch. Twenty minutes had passed. Still no sign of anyone.

  Light, Cole thought grimly, wouldn’t be the only problem for anyone who tried to get through a day in that car. It was June now, and summer heat would turn the Civic into an oven within a few hours. With windows rolled up and plastic in place, a heme would essentially be locking himself into an airless coffin.

  Not to mention that it would take a lot of work to follow someone from eastern Pennsylvania to Ohio to West Virginia to Maryland. It had seemed unlikely back in Ohio. It seemed almost impossible now.

  But Cole wanted to be sure. He shifted his weight again and leaned one shoulder against the doorway, waiting.

  Another half hour passed.

  An hour.

  Cole decided he’d give it till five A.M. The light would start growing soon after. After five o’clock there wouldn’t be enough time for anyone to get himself shut away in that little torture chamber.

  When the hour came, Cole knew the sun had started its clockwork climb to the horizon. Still, he waited a few more uneasy minutes. Just to be positive.

  At 5:10, he looked up. The piece of sky visible overhead was still black, but with a slightly faded look. It was hard to tell much, in cities.

  He grew still, paying attention to his body. Yes. He felt a slight discomfort, as if his skin were dry and slightly chapped. The light was changing.

  The hotel was two blocks away.

  He left his shadowy recess and walked quickly back down the alley. When he turned the corner onto the sidewalk next to the Vickery Moe, he finally had a clear view of the eastern sky.

  A portion of it was dulled by rain clouds, but the rest had a definite grayish tone.

  There was still time, he knew, and he didn’t like to run—it attracted attention—but he walked very, very quickly up the sidewalk to the hotel’s front door.

  He’d mention the car to Sandor sometime when Gordo wasn’t around. Still, he felt he could safely put the question of Royal aside for now. He was glad; tomorrow looked to be a long night.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  IN his room, Cole found that his skin—especially his arms and face—was slightly pink and tender, like an omni’s mild sunburn. It would take time to go away, he knew.

  He’d planned to take a shower before bed, but the thought of water hitting his skin made him wince. He changed into his usual shorts and T-shirt and went to bed, deciding not to read first. He wanted to be fresh tonight, be alert.

  Once in bed, though, he had trouble sleeping. His skin was tingling as it healed, and he kept thinking about Bess, and about the Old World heme, the one Johnny had trapped. Cole knew they both must have felt this same dry discomfort turn to tenderness—but then they’d had to endure its quick growth into pain.

  What courage—or despair—Bess must have had to climb that ladder into sunlight! Opening the hatch to expose herself to bright, bright sky. And—suffering and surely blinded by then—she’d had to scale the last remaining rungs. Drag herself onto the roof. Somehow cross it, all the way to the edge.

  On that day he, Cole, had barely made it out the front door before he’d turned back. Hadn’t been able to get down even one of the steps that would take him to her.

/>   But what he’d told Gordo that night in Castile was true. He hadn’t really thought it through logically before, but now he did, and he knew it was a fact: Nobody could have made it out there. Not even Johnny could retrieve another heme from full sun. Whatever drove Bess that day was something no one else had. Whatever it was, it had pushed her headlong, past human endurance, to its goal.

  Cole had been curled on his side, but now he rolled onto his back. Surely, he was thinking, by the time she was on the sidewalk, she was unconscious and out of pain. It made sense that she would be.

  He hoped so.

  But the Old World heme—what kind of animal terror took him over, trapped, aware, with no escape from light?

  Cole winced as he adjusted the covers over his chest. He had to admit now that—no matter what he had promised himself, no matter what he had told Johnny—he couldn’t do anything so cruel to Gordo. Whether he could do it to a stranger he didn’t know, but he could not do it to Gordo.

  No, he would have to make sure it didn’t come to that.

  He lay staring at the ceiling. A siren sounded in the distance, but it was very far away and soon faded. Muffled voices moved down the hall—two men, laughing and talking. Had to be omnis; it was late morning and light out.

  As they passed, Cole turned his head; his nose had caught their faint, salt-and-soap scent.

  That was odd. Usually his sense of smell wasn’t that acute—not enough to detect omnis through a closed door. Must be the airflow in this old building.

  His skin was beginning to feel better. According to the clock, it was full daytime. The only sound now was the window unit, which might look like an antique but was proving to be a workhorse, its icy breath one long unwavering blast so that the room was almost cold.

  Cole shut his eyes and made an effort to clear his mind. And after a little longer, he finally managed to fall asleep.

  Almost immediately he found himself in a patchwork of dreams—quick-flashing scenes of desire. He dreamed of combining, of omnis he had known, of soft, fragile, sweet-smelling skin under his hands and lips and tongue. The flashes gradually melted into a dream of sex—sex from long ago, and in his dream he had to peel, unfasten, burrow, just to get down to the girl’s bare skin.