It had been nearly forty-five minutes since the game changed with a single gunshot. Since she first found Hank on the bed tossing accusatory glares in her direction, he had lost consciousness. Each shallow, labored breath caused a gurgle in his chest and his face had grown pale.
“Hell no, shithead,” Tony said. “The bullet’s still in him. They have to report bullet wounds.”
“What’re we going to do?”
“You’re going to shut the hell up so I can think.”
Rudy hung his head and walked toward the bathroom. Just as he got to the door, he said, “Tony …”
“I said, ‘shut the hell up.’”
“I know, but this is important.”
Tony looked away from Hank and up to Rudy, but kept the pressure on Hank’s chest. “What the hell is more urgent than this?”
“I didn’t think of it ‘til just now, but when I went to the car earlier, I smelled fresh cigarette smoke.” He nodded his head toward the wall separating the rooms. “Do you think he was at the car?”
Tony glowered at Rudy and said, “Damn prying bastard, I’d make book he was and that he’s already called the police. Damn it, get the car and bring it up to the door, we’ve got to get the hell out a here now. Hey Whor..,” he stopped, looked at Natalie and shook his head, “grab the food and drink and get in the car.”
“If we’re leaving,” she asked, “could I use the bathroom again?”
The scowl in Tony’s eyes said he remembered what Hank’s face looked and smelled like when he got into the motel room. He nodded toward the bathroom. “Make it quick.”
She stepped through the door, closed it behind her, and turned the lock. From her panties she retrieved the pad and pen, and while she sat on the toilet, wrote:
“Been raped and kidnapped, 3 men, 1 shot and may die. Tony Alonso, Hank and Rudy. Driving old dark sedan, headed north, I think.
“Natalie Beaumont (Amy Westerhill) 714-555-8526”
She wrote the note a second time, unrolled the toilet paper enough to slip the note between the sheets and rolled it up inside. Then, she flushed the toilet and opened the shower curtain enough to put the second note on the soap holder. She returned the notepad and pen to her panties, and opened the bathroom door. Alone in the room, she slipped her arms into her black leather jacket, picked her purse up from the floor and gathered what remained of the food and beverages. As she started for the door, Tony came back into the room and closed the door behind him.
He picked up his tweed jacket from the floor where it laid between the bed and the wall. With what seemed like a practiced flick of his wrist, he pulled the revolver from his waistband and pointed it at her.
Although she felt a shudder travel down her back, she stared at him and refused to show fear. Was this it? My life ends in a pool of blood on a sleazy motel’s thread bare carpet? The silent tension between them grew so heavy it seemed possible that what paint wasn’t already sagging from the walls, would liquefy and begin to ooze onto the floor. She watched as his forefinger massaged the trigger of the pistol. Is he toying with the consequence of pulling it? She knew he would find none. His eyes were brazen. He could end her life right now without flinch or guilt. Her eyes met the vacant stare of a psychopath. He was damned. His soul bore no expectation of redemption. There was only one way this could end and he had the silver-barreled advantage.
She had to break the spell.
“I think I have everything,” she said, with an even tone.
She still stared down the barrel when she saw a spark ignite in his eyes. They began to dart between her and the floor and then at indiscriminate things in the room. She knew something in the air between them lingered unresolved but though his demeanor was still menacing, the demon seemed to slither back into its crevasse.
“You sit in the back seat with Hank and keep pressure on his shoulder. Moving him’s made the bleeding worse. Rudy’ll sit shotgun and keep me awake.”
She continued to stand with her arms filled with her purse and the bags of groceries, and, while she let the tension drain, watched for a sign. If she stepped forward too fast, he would see her shaking. She didn’t want to defy him but she didn’t want him to see her panic either.
“Hank’s life is the only thing keeping me from throwing you on the bed, putting a pillow over your head and pulling the trigger,” he said. The words clicked off his tongue with the rhythm of a tap dancer. “If he dies, you’re next. Get your ass movin’.”
For the first time since he blew smoke into her face when he threatened her in the trunk, she sensed he didn’t intend to shoot her. But she walked past him and out the door without testing her premonition. She hoped he would follow right after and not search the bathroom. If he found either of the notes, her life could be forfeit no matter Hank’s state—living or dead. So, when behind her she heard him close the door with a quiet click, she released a sigh of relief.
Rudy had pulled the sedan up parallel to the sidewalk and Natalie stepped between the neighbor’s car, parked diagonal a few feet away, and the empty trunk that had been her crypt for almost a day. She peered into the backseat compartment. Hank was stretched out on the bench wrapped in one of the burnt orange blood stained bedspreads. She took the seat behind the driver, placed his head on her lap and closed the door.
Tony slid into the driver’s side of his Impala and then eased out of the parking lot.
_____
©
Jearl Rugh 2012
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