Nate Kenyon » Bloodstone Prologue

On a cloudless night in April an ancient gray Volkswagen drifted through the outskirts of a town called Holy Hill, South Carolina, before pulling into the Sleepy Inn parking lot. The two people inside the car had seen many such towns over the past few days, and many such motels. They parked near the managerâ€™s office.

â€œIâ€™ll just get us a room,â€ the man said to the woman driving. She was pretty and thin but too pale. â€œRemember,â€ he said, â€œIâ€™ll be able to see you from the window. Donâ€™t try anything stupid. I donâ€™t want to cuff you again.â€

The woman nodded. She knew enough about that. Last time the handcuffs were too tight and had cut cruelly into her flesh. She rubbed her wrist absently, touching the dark-blue bruises that marked their passage.

The man opened the passenger door and got out, flakes of rust fluttering to the ground, then reached back in and pulled the keys from the ignition. Then he closed the door with a thunk and walked quickly to the office.

He was such a tall man, almost as thin as me, the woman thought. She could see his head and shoulders through the grime-smeared window, and she could see the top half of another manâ€™s head. He had thick, white hair and looked like someoneâ€™s grandfather.

She started to shiver uncontrollably. Help me, she pleaded silently to the old man. Oh please, help . . .

* * * * *

â€œ. . . a room for me and my wife,â€ the man was saying. He stood at the counter facing the manager of the motel. The manager had a deeply lined country face and his hands were large and chapped, and he cupped them together on the counter like two lifeless birds.

â€œJust the one night?â€

â€œWeâ€™ll be leaving early.â€

â€œWe got single rooms with twin beds. You can push â€˜em together if you want.â€

â€œThatâ€™s fine,â€ the man said. He stole a quick glance out the window. â€œTwin beds are just fine.â€

The manager reached for a key from the rack behind his head and then opened the dog-eared register on the counter. A brand-new computer monitor and keyboard sat nearby gathering dust. â€œSign in here. Out by ten tomorrow or youâ€™ll be paying for another night whether you stay or not. Thereâ€™s a breakfast place down the road where you can get a cup of joe. Opens up early.â€

The man took up a pen, hesitated just a moment and signed, Mr. and Mrs. Claude Barnes.
â€œOkay, Mr. Barnes,â€ the manager said. â€œRoom twenty-three, just two doors downâ€”â€

â€œDo you have anything toward the end of the motel?â€ the man interrupted. Then, seeing the look on the managerâ€™s face, he continued, â€œmy wife is a light sleeper. If thereâ€™s anything farther away from the road . . .â€

The manager nodded. â€œSure. Iâ€™ll put you in room four.â€ He took another key down from the rack.

The man took the key and left the office, his palms sweaty and his blood thumping. He could see as he stepped back into the parking lot that the woman hadnâ€™t moved from the driverâ€™s seat. He slid a hand in his coat pocket and fingered the handcuffs, feeling their weight, their substance. The metal was cool and slippery. He couldnâ€™t possibly watch the woman all the time. He would have to begin to trust her eventually. He was tired, so very tired. They had been on the road for two days straight, driving through the night.

He walked around the car and opened the driverâ€™s side door. The woman looked up at him like a dog that had been kicked. It made him sick to see her looking at him like that. â€œGet out,â€ he said roughly, and stepped back. She stood up and he couldnâ€™t help noticing her flinch as he reached out to close the door. He knew he would have to cuff her later, and it made him angry. He didnâ€™t like getting angry but couldnâ€™t seem to help it. Heâ€™d never been good with women, had never been able to understand them. She was scared and there was nothing he could do to change that now.

A cold wind had come up, the kind that brings tears. It ruffled their hair and tore at their clothes as they walked quickly across the mostly empty parking lot, and brought a smell of leaves and cold mud, dead things lying in watery ground.

The man fumbled the key into the door lock and turned it. The motel room was dark and hot. He felt around on the wall until he found the light switch, and then he closed the door quickly behind them. The room looked like it had last been remodeled sometime in the 1960s; water-stained wallpaper, lamps with pale green shades, landscape prints in chipped frames and faded pastel colors. He smelled pine-scented cleaner and stale sweat, a room that cried out to be opened up to the wind and stripped to the bare boards.

He sat down heavily on the nearest bed, feeling it sag under him. The springs poked at him like little bony fingers. He wanted a hot shower but didnâ€™t dare take one yet.

She was staring at the twin beds. â€œWill you handcuff me again tonight?â€

â€œDamn it,â€ he said softly, the fight slipping away from him at once. â€œDonâ€™t talk to me about that. Not now.â€

The woman had turned her eyes on him. â€œI wonâ€™t run. I promise.â€

â€œYes you will,â€ he said. â€œI would.â€

â€œI didnâ€™t run away just now. I saw you in there through the window. I could have gotten away any time. I could have screamed for help. That man would have helped me. He looked like a nice guy.â€

â€œI would have had to kill him,â€ he said quietly. â€œDo you want that?â€

â€œYou couldnâ€™t kill him!â€ she said, her voice rising in pitch. â€œYou donâ€™t have the guts. Fucking coward.â€

The man looked at her for a moment and shook his head. â€œIâ€™m sorry. Really I am. But youâ€™ve got to understandâ€”â€

â€œI donâ€™t understand anything!â€ the woman shouted suddenly, forcefully, the words torn from her throat. Her hands had curled into fists; tears welled up behind bruise-colored lids. She struggled out of the light jacket he had given her and threw it onto the floor, then pulled her white haltertop over her slender neck and head. She ripped at her skirt until it gave and fell around her ankles, and she stood trembling in front of him in lace bra and panties, her chest flushing red.

â€œGo ahead.â€ She stared at him, her eyes wild. â€œRape me if thatâ€™s what you want. Come on, you son of a bitch. Get it over with, why donâ€™t you?â€

â€œIâ€™m not going to touch you.â€

â€œCanâ€™t get it up? Always trying to push women around when thereâ€™s nothing between your legs? I know you. I know who you are.â€

â€œShut up.â€

â€œFuck you! Coward!â€

The last shriek of words hung in the air and drifted away to silence. He remained still on the bed, watching her face, wondering if anyone had heard. A vein in her throat jumped. She was so thin, he thought, but beautiful. A strange thing to be thinking now but he couldnâ€™t help it. This was the first time since he had taken her that she had put up a fight, and it was about time.

â€œCome here,â€ he said, and added, â€œplease.â€ He patted the mattress beside him and waited.
She shook her head. But then she sat. He reached into his coat pocket and withdrew the handcuffs, and she sighed as he touched her arm, letting out a single, choked sob. He closed one of the cuffs on the cross bar at the head of the bed and the other on her wrist. Then he stood up from the mattress and gathered her things from the floor. â€œCover yourself,â€ he said.

Then he went into the bathroom and closed the door, leaning his head against the slippery wood. The woman was quiet in the other room. Was he crazy, taking her like this? The thought had crept into his head lately; he had begun to think of it as a real possibility. Slowly, he undressed and climbed under the scalding spray, letting his head hang down, letting the needles of water wash away the dirt from his skin. Wash away the guilt.

* * * * *

Twenty minutes later he left the bathroom and found the woman asleep on the mattress. She had not dressed. He stood looking down at her a moment, watching her sleep. Needle marks and bruises dotted her arm. Tears streaked her face.

Maybe he was crazy, after all. The thought did not afford him any comfort, nor did it change things much. It did not stop the images that kept churning through his head, did not stop the voices. Real or not, they were there, clamoring to be heard. They wouldnâ€™t stop until he had done what they asked him to do.

He turned out the light and quietly climbed in between the sheets on the other bed. Lying in the blackness, listening to the sound of the cars on the road, he realized he only knew her first name. Angel. Surely that wasnâ€™t her real name. Nothing but a stage name, like the dancers in Las Vegas used to keep the crazies out of their backyards. She knew where they were going and something of what they had to do, even if she wouldnâ€™t admit it. But that didnâ€™t make it any easier.

â€œIâ€™m sorry, Angel,â€ he whispered softly, but her breathing did not change, and he was sure she hadnâ€™t heard. He closed his eyes in the darkness, and prayed the dreams would not come again tonight.

Read the opening to part one: Past Haunts

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Bloodstone Prologue

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