Ashley hadn't heard that old cliche in years and never outside of a movie theater. But thinking about it made her head hurt and she grew impatient. 'Could I just have my key, please?'
Doolin held up his hands in self-defense. 'Just tryin' to be neighborly,' he said. He turned and unhooked a key from the board, then tossed it on the counter. 'Room 107. It's on the end past the ice machine. Nice and private.'
Private from whom? Ashley wondered as she stared at the key and began to have serious second thoughts.
'I think maybe — uh…' She paused, then told herself, You're here, okay? Stop being a baby and make the best of it. The quality of her lodging was, after all, the least of her worries.
'Room 107 will be fine,' she said at last. She picked up the key then paused. 'You wouldn't happen to have a vending machine, or somewhere I can get something to eat, would you?'
'Sorry,' Doolin replied. 'There's a coffee shop a few miles — '
'Oh, I don't — I mean, I'd rather stay in tonight,' Ashley said, reminding herself not to let her stomach speak for her in the future. She turned and started out the door.
'By chance is there somebody lookin' for you, Miss Arlene?' Doolin asked, his voice taking on the air of a small-town deputy sheriff.
Ashley stopped, shocked by the question, and turned to face him. 'No, of course not,' she replied, trying to maintain a casual confidence in her voice. 'W-why would you ask such a thing?'
Doolin stared at Ashley's bruised eye; then his eyes moved slowly down over her perfect body. 'Oh, I don't know,' he said. 'You just seem a little… tight.'
Ashley's eyes followed Doolin's and she nearly screamed when she saw that her rain-soaked nightwear had become see-through, and that the cold had had its stimulating effect. She stepped back in horror and crossed her arms over her breasts.
'I have to go,' she said, face flushed. Then she turned and hurried out the door.
'Ring the bell if you need anything,' Doolin said after her. 'Just ring the bell…'
He copped a last look before Ashley slammed the door behind her. Then he closed the registration book and smiled.
Chapter 22
Rain continued to fall as Ashley limped painfully across the empty parking lot to her Chevy. She looked around then opened the car door and climbed into the driver's seat.
She shut the door and sat for a while with her hands resting on the wheel. Rain drummed the roof and splashed the glass as she peered out at a distorted image of the Sands Motel.
She thought of Danny and of their wedding day, of how handsome he had been in his dress uniform. So tall and strong. So desirable. She remembered how hard it had rained at his funeral, and how the American flag draped over the casket had gotten wet, and how she'd been concerned after hearing of an incident where a wet lowering strap had snapped, allowing the coffin to fall into the grave where the lid broke loose and exposed the body to the entire assembly.
She gripped the wheel tightly, fighting the urge to scream, then shook the disturbing image out of her mind.
You can drive away, she thought desperately. You can start the damn car and drive away.
Go ahead, Ashley, a second voice countered, drive on out of here. But don't say I didn't warn you when you fall asleep at the wheel and kill yourself.
She reached across the seat and grabbed the two shopping bags and stepped out of the car into the rain again. Then she hobbled the short distance to Room 107.
– The first to assault Ashley's senses, the eye-watering odor — as if someone had dumped a truckload of rotting cabbage in the room and sealed it shut for ten years. She switched to mouth breathing and wished she had purchased some surgeon's gloves back at the drug store.
All around her, flower patterned wallpaper blistered and peeled from the crumbling plaster like a severe case of motel eczema. Discolored carpeting in front of the TV betrayed the likely truth that something had died there in recent months. Jammed against one wall, a small bed, its lumpy spread a montage of stains. Above it, an oil-on- black-velvet matador, its fuzzy texture (and most of the sequins adorning the cape) long since rubbed off. From a shelf, a dusty oscillating fan wheezed back and forth, ruffling her wet hair in a vain attempt to cool the air, its gear-drive skipping and jumping, each erratic sweep of the room likely to be its last.
She flopped the large plastic shopping bag on the bed; then from the smaller bag, she removed a half-full quart of grape juice, a half-eaten box of crackers, and a pint of gin, and set them on the night table along with her car keys, credit card and phone. She dumped the contents of the other bag out onto the bed: a lavender faux-suede jacket; a sundress; a white bra and three pairs of panties; a men's white undershirt and pair of boxer shorts (make-shift pajamas, like the ones she used to borrow from Danny); miscellaneous toiletries, pills, and makeup accessories; a simple necklace; and a pair of low heels. She draped the jacket over a chair and smoothed the wrinkles out of the new sundress.
She walked over to a vanity mirror with half of its silvered glass falling from the frame, and as she ran a brush through her hair she regarded a strange reflection with its Picassoesque interpretation of her tired eyes. The bruise under her right eye was getting darker, and she cringed at that frightening memory.
She smoothed her cheeks with her hands and sighed. Her youth was slipping away — falling through her fingers like a handful of rose petals. I'll continue to feel young, she thought. I know I will. I always have. But one day the world will take a vote and decide that I'm old. But tonight she didn't feel young at all. Tonight she felt very old.
She tore the price tag off of a new vinyl purse and stowed the brush inside. Then she opened a bottle of acetaminophen 500s, removed the cotton padding, shook three capsules into the palm of her hand, and downed them with a swallow of grape juice. She capped the bottle and tossed it in the purse, then went over and shoved the handgun between the mattresses.
– Just then the white van pulled up and parked near the Sands Motel office. The thugs got out and went inside.
– Doolin stared at Ashley's picture, tracing the lines of her body with his eyes and imagining himself there in her arms. He would have sold his soul for a copy. 'Oh, I'd remember her,' he said, picturing Ashley as she walked out the door in her see-through nightwear. 'But the truth is, we don't get a lot of visitors out here these days — not since the freeway bypass anyways.'
The thugs looked at each other. There was no freeway bypass.
Needles laid a $50 on the counter. 'Take a closer look,' he said. 'She's four or five years older, now.'
Doolin scooped up the money and clutched it tightly in his fist. Then he took another long look at the photo. 'Like I said… I never seen — '
Beeks snatched the $50, and with one powerful hand he grabbed Doolin by his pajama collar and lifted him off his feet. 'You're a lying sack-of-shit,' he said, his huge face within inches of Doolin's.
Doolin couldn't make a sound. Blood backed up in his veins like a web of tiny stopped-up sewer drains, turning his complexion three shades darker than its usual alcohol-induced rouge.
Needles noticed only one key missing from its hook on the board — number 107. 'Put him down, Beeks,' he said calmly.
Beeks gave Needles a puzzled look and held Doolin even higher. 'What'd you say?'
'I said 'Let the man go.''
'Brother, I don't get you sometimes,' Beeks said, shaking his head. He gave Doolin a toss that sent him sprawling.
Doolin gasped and wheezed and then climbed to his feet and held onto the counter while the excess blood drained from his head. He looked at Needles through watering eyes and straightened his pajama collar. 'Ahem,' he
