Hitchhikers (4 page)

I walk on past. The passenger side window is
rolled down.

“Hey! You need a lift?”

The driver looks to be in his thirties,
clean-shaven and dark hair. His smile consists of even white
teeth.

“Sure,” I say. I open the door.

“That your dog?” he asks, squinting down at
Lila.

“No,” I say. “She’s just a stray.”

“All right. Hop on in.”

I look down at Lila. “I told you you couldn’t
come,” I say to her as a good-bye, then climb into the van.

It’s too dark to see her in the rearview
mirror as we drive away.

“So, where ya headed?” the man asks. He
fiddles with the radio, tunes in to a classic rock station.

“Texas.”

“Yeah? That’s cool, I’m headed there
myself.”

I keep my face carefully blank.

Already I miss Lila’s fur, her closeness.
Even though I couldn’t see her as we drove away, I imagine her eyes
watching after me, wondering why I’m leaving her.

“I’m Paul. What’s your name?”

“Dan.”

His teeth flash in the dark. “Nice to meet
ya.”

I have only the briefest moment to wish he
would stop talking before he starts talking again.

“So what’s in Texas?”

I shrug.

“Family?”

black pulse blocking out oncoming
headlights

“No.”

“Friends?”

shut up I know what you’re really asking
for

My hands shake as I hang on to the door
handle. I have to swallow back the bile in my throat.

“Ah, well. I understand. Can’t trust people
out on the road, right?” More teeth. All I see are his teeth.

For a time he is blessedly silent, if you can
count singing along with Aerosmith quiet. He taps his fingers on
the wheel, “I know... nobody knows… where it comes and where it
goes…” Nervous loudness, trying to fill up the empty spaces.

I breathe and try to calm down.

fight or flight you oughta run run run

I can’t kick it down. I shove my hands in my
pockets to hide my fists, clenching, nails biting my palms. My jaw
clenched tight.

The van cruises through the night, a smoother
ride than most trucks that deafen you with the sound of their own
motors. The fields fall back; we pass by isolated gas stations and
through dark, silent towns.

Up ahead, the word “VACANCY” glows red in the
night.

“Hey, I’m gonna stop in here,” says Paul.
“You’re welcome to share my room if you want.”

no no no no no

I say nothing. There’s not much else around,
nowhere to go unless I keep on walking and hitch another ride.

He pulls in, parks in front of the brightly
lit office.

“Just wait here. And crouch down a bit.
Sometimes they like to charge by the number of people in the room.
I’m just going to pay for a single then we can sneak you in.”

I nod and he jumps out.

The familiar roiling starts up in my
stomach.

you know why he wants you to hide

I watch him inside, chatting with the night
clerk of the motel, laughing easily. Everything about him looks
safe and friendly. Everything about him makes my body scream

RUN

As he thanks the clerk and turns to come back
out I reach for the door handle. I’ll tell him I can’t stay. I’ll
walk off into the night without a word. My legs have rested; maybe
I could run.

The door handle doesn’t work.

The blackness pulses, heavy and strong,
pressing into my eyeballs

RUN RUN RUN

“Oh, yeah, that door doesn’t quite work.”
Paul hops in, restarts the van. “I’m gonna park closer to our room.
That way he won’t see you.” He jerks his head to indicate the night
clerk, and gives me a wink with his flash of teeth. “Remember?”

hands clammy, cold sweat dropping down my
sides

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. I can do this.

He parks in front of room 7, climbs out, and
comes around to let me out.

When I move to slide out he doesn’t get out
of the way. He’s close enough for me to smell his aftershave and
the sour smell beneath it, nervous under a cool demeanor. No, not
nervous. He leaves me trapped there between the door and the van as
he reaches behind my seat for a suitcase.

Not nervous.

Excited.

He slings his arm around me like we’re best
buddies after our three hours on the road. Pulls me toward the door
marked “7.”

The taste of bile in my mouth becomes a
flood.

“Hey, it’s okay.” He’s noticed how badly I’m
shaking. He pushes me through the door and sits me down on the bed.
His suitcase at my feet and he’s peering into my face. “When was
the last time you ate anything?”

I’m panting now. “Yesterday.”

the door’s still open run RUN

blackness swimming in

“Okay. Why don’t you lie down? Come on, it’s
okay, just lie down.”

can’t see anymore, just his voice sounds so
nice but under it I can hear it that greedy sound of anticipation,
of GLEE

He gently makes me lie down. “It’s gonna be
okay. You stay here and I’ll go grab some food, okay?”

His hands are gone. I’m safe.

I hear clicking sounds then his hands are
back, gripping my wrist.

Click, clank click.

A cold bracelet biting into my wrist.

fuck no NO NO NONONONO

“You stay right here and when I come back
we’ll have some fun…”

Even that cold shock gone now in the rush of
darkness –

My first thought is,
I’m still handcuffed
to the bed.

My second thought is,
I’m not hungry
anymore.

It’s hard not to open my eyes with all the
sunlight streaming in. Gauzy white curtains cover the windows,
allowing only a vague picture of the parking lot.

The van is still parked out front.

It looks to be noon or later from the direct
shadows beneath the cars.

My uncuffed arm is in front of my face. It’s
cold. No sleeve. I don’t have on a shirt anymore. My right arm is
cold too, colder, dangling from the handcuff that is attached to
the bedpost and serving as a pillow.

My feet are cold but my waist isn’t. A sharp
breath and I see it. The arm encircling my waist. A hairy arm,
wearing a cheap watch.

With that breath I am suddenly aware of the
warmth at my back.

Am I wearing pants? I move one of my legs and
see that I am not.

I can’t breathe. Where’s the blood? Why am I
naked?

The world tilts as I roll off the edge of the
bed and stand as far away from the mattress as I can with my arm
still attached to the bedpost.

And heave a sigh of relief.

There’s the blood.

I shouldn’t be so relieved. This is a big
problem. BIG problem. I’m handcuffed to a crime scene.

First things first. Get my hand back.

I try pulling it out, but the cuff is tight.
These are no kinky handcuffs. Stainless steel. Maybe even police
issue.

There must be a key here somewhere. I lean
over the body of Paul, a piece of it, anyway, and feel in his
pockets with my fingers. Nothing. Roll him over and try the other
pocket. Nothing.

His suitcase is on the floor at the foot of
the bed, open. He took the cuffs from that suitcase; it would stand
to reason that the key would be in there. But I can’t reach it. My
fingers barely reach the end of the mattress.

I stretch and stretch. The cuffs are rubbing
the skin of my wrist raw.

Then I see the ring of keys on the nightstand
on the other side of the bed.

I scramble right over Paul, sliding through
the blood, and snatch them up. A handcuff key would be small,
silver – there it is!

Freedom!

I shouldn’t be so relieved, but I am. Backed
up against the tacky motel wallpaper, my eyes darting from the
splatter on the walls, the leg up on the radiator with the sock and
shoe still on, the open suitcase –

Lights glints off of the sharp, shiny objects
in there.

One step closer, curiosity, the instruments
neatly tucked into pockets on the lid, a box of gloves, a large
plastic sheet. A lump forms in my throat.

Paul wasn’t just any pervert.

My mind refuses to focus. I’m frantically
searching for my clothes, my shoes, then forget about it, rushing
into the bathroom running the shower with an itch to be clean, to
scrub this all away. The bathroom is clean. No sign of blood here,
the toilet paper folded just so, the little packets of soap and
bottles of 2-in-1 shampoo/conditioner still neatly placed by the
faucets, towels white and fluffy.

I stay under the hot stream of water so long
the bathroom is enveloped by a thick fog. I look myself over: a few
new bruises, and the chafing on my wrist, but everything else
intact. Paul never got a chance to use his torture devices on
me.

Once I’m done and toweled off I feel more
together. Take a deep breath. Everything will be okay. Paul himself
told me that.

Open the door and again look upon the
chaos.

First, I need clothes.

I spy my shirt, pants and underwear half
under the bed. Paul must have cut them off of me, although they
look torn to shreds rather than cut. They were almost shreds
anyway. There’s another bag, which Paul must have gotten out of his
truck… after… I paw through it, find some jeans, which are too big,
and a belt to keep them on. A white t-shirt that’s big, too, and a
gray hooded sweatshirt with sleeves I roll up.

I don’t touch his underwear. I’ll find some
someplace else.

My shoes and socks are on the other side of
the bed, near the window. I lean against a bare spot of wall to
pull them on. I want a coat, but it looks warm enough out for
now.

Next, see if Paul the Serial Rapist Killer
had any money.

His wallet’s on the nightstand next to where
his keys were. I’m lucky he was what he was: lots of cash, no
credit cards. His driver’s license was issued in Washington State
and says his name was Gary Lafayette. I take the cash and leave the
wallet.

I consider taking his keys and driving off in
the van, but since I’ve never driven a vehicle before I think this
would be a bad idea. Not to mention the likelihood of getting
pulled over. If Paul/Gary hasn’t already been put on the police
wanted list, the night clerk might have the license plate number or
description handy when the motel people discover that one of their
rooms got a blood bath.

On my way to the door to leave, a black
Polaroid camera half hidden under the bed catches my eyes.

I pull it out, and with it find a stack of
photographs.

The first few I look at are obviously from
some other scene, boys cuffed to the bed looking at the cameras
with scared eyes and gagged mouths, or unconscious. I barely
recognize myself among these, ribs countable and arms like thin
sticks, eyes open and glazed over and bugging out.

With trembling hands I slide this photo out
of the way and look at the next.

It’s blurry and I can barely tell what I’m
looking at. But it’s not a boy. Maybe the perv’s dog or something.
I nearly collapse in relief but remember the blood puddles on the
rug and keep myself up with shaking legs. I tuck the photos in the
front pocket of the sweatshirt and leave the room.

It’s important to keep out of sight. I hide
behind the van, peeking through the windows to the office. Then I
walk back to the end of the motel, around room 8 which is likely
unoccupied judging from the lack of cars in the parking lot. I
crouch lower than the windows along this back wall and creep around
the L-shaped building, praying no one will come out of the back
doors.

And I’m back on the road.

I let the trucks zoom by; I ignore the ones
that stop. The memory of Paul’s teeth keeps me from even looking at
them.

At a gas station I stop and buy a soda and a
sandwich that I eat sitting on the ground against the wall, cooling
off in the shade. I purchase a bottle of water for the road and
head off again.

I want to be as far away as possible by the
time room 7 is discovered.

A green sign looms on the horizon. As I get
closer, the white letters spell out

These flat fields I see are all I’ll be
seeing for the next few days.

I sigh and keep walking.

It’s getting close to dark when I smell
something familiar. The breeze is at my back, and the scent drifts
up to me, makes me feel warm and secure even though all day I’ve
been jittery from the adrenaline rush earlier. Warm fuzzy feelings,
but sad, too, once I realize what that smell reminds me of.

Once the vehicles on the highway have all
turned on their headlights and I’m getting déjà-vu flashes from
last night, I head down the little embankment on the side of the
road, into a field. Wheat, the stalks rustling softly in the
breeze. I’ll make a little nest out here, sleep under the stars.
It’s cold now, and the gray sweatshirt isn’t nearly as warm as my
old jacket. So I yank up handfuls of the wheat and lay it over
myself until it’s less of a nest than a burrow, and my body heat is
starting to warm it up.

Away from the road and the sound of my
sneakers pounding the pavement, I hear it.

An animal approaching, taking quick trotting
steps. Panting. With that smell.

I lift my head, craning around to see if it’s
real. It’s too dark. “Lila?” I whisper. Then, louder, because I
don’t even know why I’m whispering when there’s not a soul around
to hear me, “Lila!”

The steps roll into a loping run and I hear
an excited yip. Then she’s here, knocking off my wheat blanket and
whuffing her hot breath into my face and neck and licking me,
licking me, and it’s the happiest moment I can remember.