The Lion, the Lamb, the Hunted: A Psychological Thriller

“Not trying to be.”

“Touche.”

We walked in past a rack of literature, presumably about Telethon, although I couldn’t imagine what there was to promote about the place. CJ grabbed a handful and shoved them into her purse.

About ten feet away sat a man behind the counter, fifty-ish and heavy-ish. He lifted his head as if we’d awakened him from a hundred-year nap.

“Looking to stay the night,” I said.

“Single or double.” It sounded like an automatic phrase.

CJ offered me a quick glance, then said, “We actually need two rooms.”

He dragged himself to the rack, grabbed two keys, then dragged himself back. The task looked painful.

I said, “Can we get adjoining rooms?”

“They are,” he replied.

“Is there anyone else staying here?” CJ asked.

“Nope.”

“Why’s that?”

“Off season.”

“When’s in season?”

“Summertime.”

“What happens then?”

“Nothing, really.” He shrugged. “Just …you know…summer.”

“I see,” CJ replied, but the look on her face said she didn’t.

* * *

Before even settling into my room, I sat on the edge of the bed and started writing forgiveness repeatedly. It hadn’t escaped me that my urge to list was becoming unmanageable, that I was out of control. I wondered where I’d be, who I’d be with, if the urge hit so strongly that I couldn’t stop it.

I made it to forgiveness thirty-five when I heard a knock on the connecting door. I shoved the pad into a drawer, then opened the door to find CJ waving a handful of pamphlets at me. The look on her face screamed, get me the hell out of here.

“It’s official,” she said. “This place sucks.”

She came in and inspected the bedspread for cleanliness before sitting down beside me. “According to these pamphlets, the town’s attractions are the jail, the water tower, and the train station…oh, and the cemetery. It’s a bad sign, Pat.”

“I didn’t need a pamphlet to tell me that. Did you happen to figure out where there is to eat around here while you were doing your research?”

“In fact, I did.” She opened one up and read it. “We have Covey’s Diner, famous for their cow’s tongue.”

“Seriously?”

“And if that don’t strike yer fancy, well, a half mile on up the road is the Hash House where they serve…” She held out her hand as if waiting for my answer.

“Hash.”

A smile, one of those wry ones again. “Which one you got a hankerin’ for? Besides the tongue place, that is.”

“Three guesses.”

“I’m gonna say hash.”

She pointed at me. “I’m gonna say good guess. We can save the tongue place for our special night.”

Chapter Forty-Six

The Hash House was everything we’d hoped it wouldn’t be: another filthy dive at the end of a dusty road. Country music twanged through ceiling speakers, with sizzling grease doing background vocals. I started to wonder whether Texas had any decent places to eat or if we were just missing them at every turn.

The sign said to seat ourselves, so we found a booth in back. Across the aisle from us sat a kid sporting a t- shirt that looked as if he’d spilled a can of oil down the front. He had a greasy ball cap to match and a serious case of teenage acne. He stared at us with his mouth half-open and a faraway look in his eyes—one that seemed to state the obvious: nobody’s home.

And then there was the young couple a few rows down who looked as though they hadn’t spoken a word to each other in years. She’d clearly used a fork to style her hair. He had a tattoo on the side of his neck that said Mercy.

My feeling exactly.

Finally, CJ said, “Okay, the mouth-breather over there is totally creeping me out.”

“What, you don’t think he’s cute?”

“If you mean cute in a Charles-Manson-had-a-baby sort of way, then yeah, okay, I can see it.”

A sheriff’s deputy walked in, young, probably in his mid-twenties. Brown hair, blue eyes, nice-looking guy. He sat in the booth behind us with a smile of hello.

“Well there’s a welcome sight,” CJ said, giving him a little wave and smile in return.

“What’s that? Someone who doesn’t look like they were derived from a chicken embryo?”

“Yeah, and he even knows how to smile.”

“Y’all from out of town?” he asked.

CJ nodded. “Just passing through.”

“Whereabouts you from?”

“Dallas,” she replied.

“Not much going on around here, is there?” I added.

“Nope,” he said through a laugh. “The town’s so small, our New Year’s baby was born in March.”

CJ and I laughed, too.

A waitress breezed past our table—another ninety-eight-pound-twenty-something—and dropped two menus in front of us.

As she opened one, CJ said, “Is it me, or is there only one waitress in Texas?” Then she gazed around the room appraisingly. “It does have a certain charm, this place. I especially fancy the dead moose head on the wall over there.”

“I’m glad you like him,” I replied, nodding toward it. “He’s tonight’s special.”

“Very good, Pat,” she said, eyes wide with pleasant surprise. “It’s official. You’re now a card-carrying member of the Smart Ass Club. Welcome.”

“I proudly accept.”

CJ smiled, then her face grew more serious. “So what’s next?”

“Salad for me. I’m staying away from the mystery meat. The moose over there’s making me nervous.”

She gazed over the top of her menu, shot me a look. “You know what I mean. Our plan of attack.”

Before I could answer that, the waitress came to our table. She cracked her gum, took our order, never once bothering to make eye contact. Then she left.

“So…” CJ said, “Bill.”

“I’ve got the cousin’s address. Let’s start there.”

“And on the slight chance he’s there…” She reached for her purse, opened it, tilting it forward so I could see inside. The butt of a gun stared back at me.

Suddenly acutely conscious of the deputy sitting behind me, I said out of the side of my mouth, “You brought a gun?”

A smile lit up her face.

“Jesus… Do you know how to use it?”

She gave me a what-do-you-think look, and then, “This is Texas.”

“You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you?”