Dorothy looked up from the skillet as they began to pass through.
"What's going on?" she asked.
"I have to speak to someone. Griffy's covering the bar for me," she told her quickly.
Terri just nodded at her. As soon as she recognized her, Dorothy's face blossomed with surprise, but before she could say anything else, Terri and Darlene walked out.
"Over there," Terri nodded toward the car.
Garret Stanley kept his face turned away as they approached. Darlene's steps grew slower, more cautious. She glanced at Terri who didn't look all that comfortable herself.
"Who is this guy?" Darlene muttered.
Before Terri could provide any additional information, Garret opened the car door and stepped out. Darlene gasped the moment she set eyes on him. And so did Terri.
He had her police escort's .38 in his hand and he was pointing at the both of them.
"Get in behind the wheel, Doc," he said. "You," he told Darlene, "get in the back."
"What is this? What are you doing with him? This is the man. I thought you were a doctor," she told Terri.
"She is," Garret said. "So am I. Move," he ordered.
"This wasn't what you told me you would do," Terri protested.
"Don't make me do something else I didn't tell you I would do," he replied and pulled the hammer back on the pistol, keeping it fixed on Darlene. Terri looked back at the restaurant's rear door. There was no one around and it was too far to run back to it. With all the noise within, any shouts for help would not be heard. She nodded at Darlene.
"I'm sorry. You had better do what he says," Terri told her. Darlene looked at the gun. Garret Stanley held the rear door open for her and Darlene slipped into the back. He followed.
"What now?" Terri asked.
"Just drive away," he told her. "Slowly," he emphasized and turned to Darlene Stone.
EIGHTEEN
He sat in the motel owner's chair and stared at the front door. When he saw himself reflected in the window of the door, he saw he was pouting. Nothing that he had done over the past twenty-four hours had pleased him. This was a totally new and unexpected feeling. In his mind he was really born the day he had escaped, whenever that was. Time itself was so confusing a concept. It made even his recent history vague, especially now with all these memory lapses. How long had he been happy, successful, traveling like a smooth rocket through space? Was he ever this unhappy and was it that he simply could not remember it?
Sitting there and struggling to understand made him more irritable than ever and it frustrated him that he had no one in particular to blame for his depression and dissatisfaction. Other people at least had parents to blame. Who were his parents? Obscure faces floated through his mind, wispy, faces of smoke, holding shape for a moment or two and then dissipating and disappearing somewhere in the darkness that clouded his thinking. There were bits of music, occasional voices, clips of sentences, words, all of the sounds coming at him over a continually interrupted transmission from a station so deep down in his memory, he could barely hear anything.
Not knowing who he was and from where he had come never bothered him as intensely at it bothered him at this moment: Surely it had something to do with his new physical problems. Whatever. Even that malformed, ugly creature he had stomped out back there had a history, had pictures and memories to cherish. Where did he leave his pictures, his memories?
Someone had stolen all that from him, he thought. Someone had done something terrible to him and he didn't even remember it being done. What was most frightening was he couldn't recall who had done it, and that meant he might very well confront this person and not know he was his mortal enemy. Therefore, everyone must be thought to be his mortal enemy, he concluded. He would trust no one, not that he ever put much trust in anyone he could recall, but especially now he would invest not even an iota of faith in anyone's words. He decided he was out in the world like Cain or like Judas. Once anyone discovered who he was, they would despise him.
He hated being this analytical, this philosophical about himself, and especially this paranoid. It had been so easy, so enjoyable just taking things as they were, gliding along, tasting, touching, never having a single responsibility, and concerned only with his own pleasure and well-being. Who needed anything else, especially all this deep thought? The more intelligent you were, the more unhappy you are, he concluded. Pity the ant who suddenly realizes how small and vulnerable he is among the moving humans around him. Be oblivious to your own mortality and weakness and you will never be unhappy, he told himself.
The headlights of an approaching vehicle swept over the office walls and ripped him out of his musing. He was grateful for that and sat up quickly to watch as a slightly built, dark-haired man with glasses emerged from the car that had just pulled up in front of the motel office. When the door opened, he could see the woman in the passenger's seat. She didn't look very happy.
"Evening," the man said after entering. "I think we've gone off the beaten track, so to speak. How far is it to Kingston?"
"Kingston," he repeated. "That's a good eighty miles," he said, even though he wasn't sure. From his understanding of the area, it seemed reasonable, however. At least he would appear to know what he should know.
"Eighty? Wow." The man scratched the back of his head and then looked toward his car and his wife. "She's not going to be happy about that. We've been driving all day. You have any availability?"
He really wasn't in the mood for anyone, but he also realized he had to keep up the charade of being the motel owner so he wouldn't cause any undue interest and attention. He didn't have time to think about any of that. He had to work on where he was going, when, and how. He had to free his mind of everything else so the messages would come, as they always had before, the sense of direction, the new target, so to speak. He had to be receptive, and as long as he permitted all this static in his head, it wouldn't happen.
"Yeah, sure," he said quickly and got up. He scooped a set of keys off the rack.
"Ten will be fine for you," he added handing the man the keys. The man stood there looking at them and smiling dumbly.
What am I doing wrong? he wondered. What have I left out?
"Well, don't I have to sign in first?" the man asked.
"Sure, sign in," he said and turned the book toward him. The man still stared at him, a confused smile on his face.
"How much is the room?" he asked.
"Thirty-eight fifty," he said. "All the rooms are thirty-eight fifty."
"Oh." He looked out at his wife again. "She gets annoyed when we don't stay at places that advertise on TV."
He started to take the key back. Maybe the man wanted to go. Good. Go, he thought. I have to have peace and quiet so I can hear the voices.
"But I'll tell her that we've gone far enough," the man suddenly decided and reached for the keys.
"Suit yourself," he told him and gave him the keys. The man took them and then signed the book. He reached into his jacket to produce his wallet and slip out the credit card.
It put him in a small panic. He had to process that. "Where was the credit card device?
The man watched as he searched.
"Everything all right?"
"Yeah, yeah, my brother puts things where I can't find them," he replied.
"Oh." The man smiled with relief as if he had a brother who was always doing something similar to him as well.