couple of hundred yards up the road, the woods began.
The woods and Wilson Lake.
But it seemed like the only place to go.
The rough asphalt was hot under Marty’s feet as she sprinted up the road. She pumped her arms, throwing out her legs as far as they would stretch, her bare feet reaching out but never far enough. Never fast enough.
She kept running, taking gulps of air in quick gasps, her open blouse flapping behind her.
Soon, she felt an unusual warmth inside her legs. In the muscles of her thighs and calves. Though she tried to work them as fast as before, they began to feel tired and heavy. She swung her arms harder to make up for it. The weariness started inside them, too.
But she kept running.
As she took the turn into the woods, she glanced back.
Car headlights came on.
She tried to run faster. With every stride, her arms and legs struggled against the heaviness. Her lungs burned.
But still she kept running.
Finally, she came to the parking lot by the lake.
Last night, it had been crowded with teenaged lovers in cars. Tonight, it was empty.
Nobody to help her.
Marty dashed for the far side of the lot. She heard the racing engine of the car. Blocking her way was a fallen, long-dead tree. She planted a hand on it, kicked her leg into the air, and vaulted it just as the headlights started sweeping the lot.
She squatted with her back against the trunk and shut her eyes. Her hands were slippery against her knees. Sweat streamed down the burning sides of her face. She took deep, painful breaths, hoping to recover quickly enough to do some good.
Then she turned around and looked over the top of the tree trunk.
Willy was out of his car, walking along the other side of the parking lot, peering into the darkness, pausing to listen.
It wouldn’t take him long to find her. A few minutes, maybe.
Then she saw the silver path of the full moon shining on the lake.
21
Ahead of him on the dark road, Roger saw a neon sign flashing, WAYSIDE MOTOR INN. The pale blue lights below it read ‘Vacancy.’
‘Hey hey!’ he said. ‘A port in the storm.’
‘Hope they’ve got food,' Tina said. ‘I’m starving to death.’
‘Mah dear, ports in the storm are renowned for their cuisine.’ He pulled to a stop in front of the motel office. ‘You can wait here,’ he said. ‘I’ll be back in a flash.’
Inside the office, he asked for a room with twin beds. The manager, a stooped and bony old crone losing the last of her white hair, squinted out the office window.
‘My daughter,’ Roger explained. ‘The spitting image of her mother, God rest her soul.’
The old woman’s watery eyes narrowed at him.
Roger solemnly shook his head. ‘Life is so fleeting,’ he said. ‘Feeble candle flames are we, snuffed, perchance, by a vagrant breeze.’
The old woman seemed to shrink. ‘Forty bucks,’ she said, and pushed a registration card at him. ‘Fill this out.’
As he wrote the requested information on the card, he asked. ‘How late does your cafe stay open?’
‘Never closes.’
He paid, and she gave him a room key.
Back at the car, he climbed in and said, ‘All set. Room sixteen.’ He looked through the cafe windows as he drove by. A lone man sat at the counter. Two couples and a family of six sat at the booths along the wall. ‘It doesn’t appear crowded. The food’s probably greasy enough to lubricate a fleet of Lincolns.’
‘I hope it isn’t closing.’
‘The manager informs me that it stays open continuously.’
‘Thank goodness.’
‘That she blows!’ Roger spun the steering wheel. The headbeams lit the side panel of a station wagon, glanced with a blinding flare off the picture window of Room 16, and came to a stop on the brick wall and door. ‘We have arrived,’ he announced.
‘I hope they’ve got chicken in a basket.’
‘Bet they do. I’ll just set the luggage in our room, and we’ll be off. Unless you want to wash up first.’
‘Let’s eat now.’
‘Do you want to see the room first?’
‘I’d sure like to eat.’
‘Then eat we shall, without further ado. Or further a-don’t.’
‘Huh?’ Tina asked. Then she grinned and said, ‘A joke.’
Roger laughed as he hopped from the car. He hurried around the front and opened the door for Tina. She reached out a hand. Roger helped her out. He held her hand all the way to the cafe, where he let go and said, ‘We’ve got to act properly, now. I’m passing you off as my daughter.’
‘Sure thing, Pops.’
He laughed.
Inside, Tina walked briskly to a booth and scooted across it. She patted the cushion beside her and said, ‘Sit here, Father.’
‘I’ll sit over here,’ he said. He went to the other side of the table. ‘And please take it easy on the father routine.’
‘Why don’t you sit by me? Do I smell bad?’
‘You smell fine.’
‘Then why?’
‘View’s better over here.’
She smiled and nodded. ‘Do you think I’m pretty?’
‘You’re a thing of beauty.’
‘A
‘That’s poetry. John Keats. “A thing of beauty is a joy for ever.” ’
‘Yeah? That’s kind of nice.’
She was a joy, all right. Roger watched her pick up the menu and study it, her brow furrowed with concentration. Serious blue eyes, a sweet clear face still lined where tears had washed channels through the dirt, hair the color of gold.
And her body. The way the paisley dress was clinging, he could see that she had a very fine body indeed.
‘Look!’ She beamed at him. ‘Southern fried chicken.’
‘This is your lucky day.’
‘Sure is.’ Her eyes suddenly went sad, and Roger realized that today, perhaps, had not been especially lucky for her.
‘Mine, too,’ he said.
‘Huh?’
