He turned the sedan around and headed back to the main
highway. “I’ll put you in a motel for the night,” he said. “You can catch the
bus to Kingston in the morning.”
“It’s awfully kind of you to help me,” she said.
He didn’t even look at her. “I never meant to help
you.”
“You mean you didn’t expect to find me in the trunk of
the car. Don’t you want to know what I was doing there?”
“I know what you were doing there.”
She bit her lip and turned away to hide the rise of
tears. She felt shamed to the marrow of her bones; a poor, pregnant fool whose
husband beat her senseless on schedule and made her ride in the trunk of his
car. Now this mysterious stranger, her husband’s murderer, was forced to help
her not from kindness, but from necessity. The thought of throwing herself from
this car occurred and was dismissed for the baby’s sake. It seemed she was safe
with this man. There was nothing to fear.
They drove in silence back to town. There were no five
star hotels in this neck of the woods; nothing to impress a man who drove a
fancy car and picked up strays. He took her to the Fountain Motel off the main
drag and bade her stay in the car while he arranged for a room. The bus station
was five blocks from here. She could walk it easily in the morning.
He returned with a blue plastic keyring in his hand
and got behind the wheel once more. He drove around to the rear and parked in
the space outside a door marked “17”. The view from here was of rolling meadow
studded with trees. It was a prettier sight than the road through town, and a
lot more peaceful.
He got out of the car and retrieved her bag from the
back seat. She followed him to the door of the motel room. The musty smell of
old carpet and curtains met them at the threshold but a trace of pine cleaner
hinted at the cleanliness of the bathroom. There was a double bed, two
armchairs at a table and a TV set bolted to the dresser. Everything was a muted
moss green or antique gold except for the wood, which was chipped oak veneer.
It would do, she thought happily.
“The room is paid for,” he said, dropping her bag on
the bed. “Check out before noon and there won’t be a problem.”
She turned at the bathroom door. “Are you leaving?”
He seemed amused by her question—the first real sign
of emotion he had registered all night. “I was not planning to stay.”
She started forward, hands out to stop him. “Don’t go,
please. Don’t leave me alone.”
He stared at her in bewildered amazement. “I killed
your husband.”
“Are you worried that they’ll catch you?”
A corner of the wide mouth twitched. “No.”
“Then don’t leave. Please. I don’t want to be alone.”
He sighed. “Katherine—”
“Just for tonight,” she begged, sensing by his use of
her proper name that he might be persuaded to change his plans. “Please.”
His eyes darted to and from the bed so quickly that
she would have missed it had she blinked. “I can’t,” he said flatly.
She felt the hot prickle of tears behind her eyes and
a wild desperation that alarmed her. “I don’t want to make love with you. I
just don’t want to be alone.”
He stood still for a moment. She waited with heart
palpitations while he considered his answer. She didn’t know him, didn’t know
his name or his family or anything about him except that she wanted to be near
him, near his strength and his quiet calm. She felt safe with him and she was
loath to let go of that safety.
“Please,” she whispered. “Please.”
He was silent for so long that she thought she might
snap under the strain of waiting, then he shut the door. “You must be hungry,”
he said.
“Yes,” she said, realizing that she was.
“Tell me what you’d like. I’ll get it for you.”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. What do you want?”
When he smiled, it wasn’t much of a smile. She doubted
that he was accustomed to doing it, which explained why it didn’t reach his
eyes. “I’ve eaten,” he said.
“Oh. Well, I don’t care really. I can wait until
breakfast.”
“Can the child?”
She saw his point. “Maybe not. I guess something with
protein might be a good idea. There’s a McDonald’s some ways up the road. I
like their Filet-O-Fish.”
“I’ll be back,” he said.
She sat on the edge of the bed and waited. She didn’t
know what to do with herself while he was gone; didn’t know what to think or
how to behave. She thought she should be a heck of a lot more distraught over
what had happened to Dale, but she couldn’t force grief to surface. Maybe she
was in shock. Maybe it would hit her in the morning and she would fall to
pieces the way she couldn’t just now. Maybe she was dreaming—but she hoped not.
Part of her was actually happy; the part she had denied for years, the part
that had wished her husband dead.
“Why did you tell the neighbours you were leaving?” he
asked while she ate. He had brought her two fish sandwiches and a 7-Up. She
would have preferred Coke but she didn’t dare complain.
“I didn’t want them to worry,” she said.
“One of them betrayed you.”
“I know. It must have been Marjorie. She’s as scared
of him as I am. Was, I mean.” She braved a glance across the table at him. “Is
it gonna be a problem?”
He shook his head with the surety of one who was
familiar with such situations. He wasn’t the least bit concerned at having
killed a man over a stupid traffic infraction. Her unexpected presence was the
wrinkle in his fabric.
“Why did you wait so long to leave him?”
She shrugged with feigned nonchalance, choking down a
dry bite of her sandwich. “I was afraid he might kill the baby.”
“You didn’t fear for yourself?”
“Sure I did. I just figured I could handle it if it
was just me. But the baby is innocent, you know? It didn’t ask to be born or
anything. I have to protect it, don’t I?”
“ ‘It’?” he asked, smiling a little.
She offered a small laugh. “I don’t know if it’s a boy
or a girl.”
“Have you a preference?”
“I’d sort of like a girl,” she admitted shyly. “But,
as long as it’s healthy, I don’t mind what it is. Do you have kids?”
He sat back in his chair. His face wasn’t a kind face
by any stretch, nor was it particularly warm or friendly. It was a face that
made you think twice before you spoke in case the tilted brows angled lower
over the eyes and you suddenly found yourself in grave danger. Dale had pissed
him off and paid dearly for it. She began to regret having put the question,
but then he simply said: “I’m alone.”
“Are you lonely?” she asked.
He got up from the table and walked to the dresser,
picking up the remote for the TV. She watched him sit down on the end of the
bed and hit the power button. He had removed his leather jacket. His sweater
was old and a loose fit. The jeans were split at the left knee. His boots,
though, were new. She thought that was strange but she wasn’t about to comment
on it. She had the uncomfortable feeling that she had hit a nerve and he had
consequently detached himself from the proceedings. She knew the signs from
experience. He was warning her to quit now, while he still had control of his
temper.
She finished her sandwiches and folded the wrappers
before stuffing them back into the bag. “If it’s okay with you,” she said, “I
think I’m gonna take a shower before bed.”
He nodded, eyes fixed on the television screen. She
noticed as she passed that it was tuned to the program listings and the volume
was muted. She wanted to apologize for offending him but was not certain that
she had. He didn’t seem upset. He seemed indifferent.
She left the bathroom door ajar. He might not admit to
being lonely, but she wasn’t afraid to acknowledge it in herself. She wanted
the comfort of knowing he was right outside, that she wasn’t alone in case
there had been a terrible mistake and Dale came back to find her. He had done
so much for her already, and for all that he was clearly a cold-blooded killer,
she felt secure in his company. For the first time in years, she felt
protected.
She took her time in the shower, letting the hot water
peel the grime and dried sweat from her skin. She used the little bar of motel
soap to wash her hair—she had forgotten to pack shampoo and places like this
didn’t supply guests with all the luxuries. She kept her mind focused on the
job at hand, of shaving under her arms and brushing her teeth; refusing to let
herself recall the recent past or anticipate the immediate future. All that
mattered was now. All she could handle was now.
She stepped from the tub onto the towel she had spread
in place of a bathmat. The half-open door had given steam an escape route and
the mirror was only partially fogged. She would have turned her back to it
except doing so meant facing the door and she didn’t want him catching an
accidental glimpse of her. The TV sound had come on; he was watching Star Trek.
If he was engrossed in the show, copping a peek at her probably wouldn’t occur
to him, but she didn’t want to risk it.
She scrubbed the damp towel at the roots of her hair,
trying to avoid looking in the mirror. Then her eye caught the eye of her
reflection and she stalled, locked to her own gaze. Nothing to be afraid of,
she thought, curiously intimidated by the wide eyes staring back at her. The
girl in the mirror was pretty enough despite the dark circles under her eyes.
Her bones were slight and slender beneath pale skin that showed a number of
bruises in varying stages of healing. Being pregnant had given her cleavage of
a sort; her breasts were still small, but now they were plump with
rose-coloured nipples. Below them, the sphere of her belly bloomed full and
round as if she had swallowed one of the globes she had studied during
geography class in high school. Her belly button was nothing more than a faint
thumbprint on the verge of disappearing completely. The babe had taken a few
serious blows on her behalf and she wondered now, as she often did, if any
permanent damage had been done. It was quiet in there for the moment. Freed
from the stress of its mother’s terror, the baby was sleeping.
A soft sob caught her unawares. She saw the girl in
the mirror raise her hands to her mouth, then she shut her eyes against the
pitiful sight. She wasn’t beautiful, she wasn’t smart, she wasn’t anything but
scared and lost and helpless.
She surrendered to the onslaught of tears, weeping
bitterly into her hands until her throat ached with the effort of doing it
quietly. She stopped when she felt the air stir at her back and a pair of big
hands came to rest lightly on her shoulders. Her tears faded to a hiccoughing
halt. She stood immobile before him, afraid to open her eyes.
The hands at her shoulders slid slowly along her arms
to cover her hands where she yet held them over her lips. Holding each wrist,
he gently pried them from her mouth and pulled them apart so that when she
summoned the courage to open her eyes, she saw herself with her arms spread
wide like a bird stretching its wings. He stood behind her, his grip loose on
her wrists, his eyes meeting hers in the mirror. His face was impassive. He had
released his hair from its rubber band and it flowed in glorious rippling waves
over his shoulders. He looked like a pagan idol. She inhaled a tremulous breath
but stayed silent.
He brought her hands together again, pressing her
palms flat to her own flesh and guiding them deliberately over the contours of
breast and belly and thigh. Her skin shivered in the wake of their combined
touch as he repeated the motion. On reaching the tops of her thighs the third
time, her hands suddenly shifted to cover his. His wrists were so thick that
her fingers could not completely encircle them, but he did not protest.
Sneaking a peek in the mirror, she saw that his lids had dropped halfway over
his eyes. The irises gleamed darkly between the black lashes and she thought
she saw the muscles flicker in his jaw. Sensuously aware of his warmth at her
back, she drew his hands up and over the baby, sensing a new element behind the
trembling of her skin. She paused for a heartbeat while wisdom debated against
desire. Desire won.
To be continued …
