26

I awoke again at sundown. The bed was soaked with my bodily excretions; my skin was chapped and sore where the leather straps had held the acidic moisture to my skin. The room smelled of the things I imagined a well-­used prison cell to hold—urine, sweat, pain, and disgust.

I was alone.

Slowly, each minor movement a major difficulty, I slipped out of bed onto the floor. The gray-­brown carpet was worn through to its string weave in a path from the door to the bed, and from the bed around to the bathroom. Using the bed as support for my aching legs, I pulled myself to my feet and shakily walked to the bathroom, my entire being feeling violated and desecrated.

I showered until I felt dizzy, scrubbing every inch of my body, trying to scour away the feeling of the old woman’s probing fingers, but the memories clung too deeply. I scrubbed, opening the scabs on my arm, and blood mixed with soap and shampoo and water and swirled down the drain in the stained shower floor.

The tears came when I knew I couldn’t scrub deep enough, and I leaned against the cold shower stall, sliding soapily down as my poor knees gave way under the weight of my sobs. I sat in the bottom, hard spray pelting the top of my head and shoulders, and I cried with all the strength I had left. I knew I was paying for my sins, I knew that I had deserved everything Rosemary dished out, and probably more. I wailed and sobbed and shook my feeble fist at God, and finally I just cried.

Eventually, my strength for self-­pity was ex­hausted, and so was the hot water. I reached up and turned it off, then pulled the curtain aside and used it to help balance me as I straightened out my deterio­rating legs. A fresh towel was on the sink, and next to it stood all the necessary toiletries as well as some light makeup, lipstick, eyeshadow, mascara. I dried the shivers from my skin with the towel and wrapped it around me.

Back in the main room, I threw the sheets and blankets over the cesspool of a bed, and found my pack on a torn imitation-­velvet chair. The clothes I had worn—two nights ago? two years ago?—had been cleaned, pressed, and folded neatly. On top of the clothes was a sealed envelope with “Angelina” penned on it with a flourish, and leaning next to the chair was a beautiful new cherrywood cane.

I picked up the cane to admire it. The handle was fashioned as a brass lizard, intricately carved, with its tail winding almost halfway down the wood, ending in a little lizardlike curl. It fit my small hand perfectly, my fingers closing around its cold throat. The cane was short, exactly right for my size. I loved it and hated it, needed it and resented it. Bless her, curse her. I sat on the edge of the chair, cane between my knees, and fingered the envelope. I lay it down again, unopened, and dressed.

She was gone. My ride to Sarah’s gone. I had endured all—that, and now . . . nothing.

I was so disappointed I could have raged, except I had no energy for it. All my energy had flowed out in tears and swirled down the shower drain.

Once dressed, feeling tidy and clean, comfortable and warm, I again sat in the chair, cane across my lap, and opened the envelope.

Inside were three sheets of lavender notepaper, each one covered with a fine writing.

My dearest Angelina:

I am always filled with remorse after I succumb to my baser passions. Regaining my senses is always a shock, yet I maintain this flat for just such emergencies. I prefer to be prepared for my perversities than to fall victim to them in more terrible ways.

I am writing this as you sleep the deep slumber of one who’s no stranger to baser passions, the ancient ones, if my instincts are correct. This is what makes me feel that you will understand, as few do, the depth of remorse of which I speak.

My remorse is such at this moment that I dare not face you this evening. I am afraid. I am afraid of your reaction when I loose you in the darkness, and I am afraid that my own guilt and self-­loathing will drive me to suc­cumb to you. And I cannot do that, for I have those who depend upon me.

And so I leave you here, augmenting my guilt and remorse. But it, too, will pass. I sincerely hope you find your way to your friend Sarah, and to assist you with your journey, please accept the gift of this cane.

I don’t know if this will in any way repay you for the ordeal you endured here, but let me add this: Never before have I been so thoroughly entertained by one as soft and tender as you. The experience of the past two nights has been one of sublime ecstasy for my departed morals, and for that I am much indebted.

May peace be with you.

Rosemary.

Tears ran down my cheeks. I knew exactly what she meant. I could easily end up like her, old, alone, picking up crippled kids in out-­of-­town truck stops on Christmas Eve in order to satisfy that . . . that . . . what? God! I crumpled the letter in my hand and gave myself up to a half-­dozen solid sobs.

I was different from her. I would never end up like her. Never. I could beat this thing. I would beat it. I was beating it. I just needed to get to Sarah’s.

I tried out the cane, practiced with it, began to learn how to walk with less pain. When my insides had calmed down a bit, I washed my face again, blew my nose, and combed my hair. Then I hefted my pack and limped, cane in hand, through the door, leaving it open behind me.

I hobbled down the stairs and into the early nighttime traffic. It was cold, but there was no biting wind. I looked around for a few moments, trying to get my bearings, but then I had no bearings. I didn’t even know what city I was in.

I still had the ten dollars the salesman had left me, so I walked to a little coffee shop on the corner. It was warm inside, one whole corner filled with police­men drinking coffee and talking quietly among them­selves. I took a seat at the counter and ordered hot cocoa and a sandwich. The folded newspaper on the counter said I was in Santa Fe. I was close. Probably less than one hundred miles stood between us. I knew Sarah would take me in. She had taken me in when I was sick before, she would take me in again. She would help me, and this would be the last time I would ever need anyone’s help. The very last time.

I drank the cocoa and ate a few bites of tuna, paid my bill, and walked over to the table of blue uniforms.

“Excuse me,” I said, and immediately had their attention—all six of them. I leaned a little heavier on my cane. “Is there a bus station, or . . . some way for me to get . . .” I stopped and looked for a moment at the worn toe of my boot. I didn’t know what to ask. “I’m trying to get to Red Creek. No. I’m going to Red Creek, but I don’t have a ride. I mean I had a ride, but she . . .” I stopped again. They must have thought I’d been drugged. I felt as though I’d been drugged.

Then the worst happened. The tears that have pushed against the backs of my eyes since—since when, since I was twelve?—began to fall and splash in the dirt on the black-­and-­white linoleum floor.

“I need to get to Red Creek, and I don’t know how.” I hiccuped loudly, then took a deep breath, ashamed of my display. The silence at the table grew dark. After I had collected myself, taken a couple of good breaths, swiped at my eyes and my nose, I looked up at them.

All six of them were looking at each other, thinking, apparently, about my plight, then one said, “Have you got money?”

I felt in my pocket and drew out the four ones and change left over from my meal. I looked at it stupidly. I felt as if my senses had left me.

“That won’t get you too far,” said another. “Where are you from?”

“But I have more,” I said. “I have a bank account in Pennsylvania.” Again they all looked at each other; this time they each seemed to be uncomfortable—embarrassed, almost—in my presence.

One of the policemen stood up, pulled a smooth five-­dollar bill from his wallet. He held it out to me. “Here,” he said. “There’s a little motel a couple of miles down this road. It’s called ‘Fivers.’ The lady who runs it is named Molly, and she charges five dollars a night. You get there and stay the night, and in the morning you call your bank in Pennsylvania and have them send you some money here, okay?”

I stood there, looking at the money in his hand, thinking about calling the bank in Pennsylvania in the morning. I wouldn’t be awake in the morning. Bank­ing hours were daylight hours, and I couldn’t call them unless I was awake. And how on earth could I get miles down the road with these legs?

He shook the money at me. “Here. Take it. Don’t hang around the streets here at night. It’s dangerous.” He looked at his friends. They avoided his gaze. “Here. Take it!” Reluctantly I accepted his gift. “Now get down to Molly’s or one of us’ll arrest you.” His companions grinned, the tension broken.

I mumbled a thanks and turned around, went back to the counter and asked for another cup of cocoa. I couldn’t believe what I had just done. Was I totally insane? Where had all my intelligence gone? My resourcefulness? My sense of adventure, my in­vincibility? To beg a policeman for money! Angelina!

I was so ashamed, I wished I hadn’t approached them, told them my stupid story. I wished I hadn’t taken the money, and now I’d ordered more hot chocolate and had to sit here in front of them and drink it, instead of running away, and worse than that, I had to pay for it. He didn’t give me money for hot chocolate. Oh, God, I was miserable.

I picked up the Santa Fe newspaper and opened it up to distract myself from self-­destructive thoughts, and my mind gagged on what it saw.

Boyd’s picture was on the front page. The head­line read: “Colorado Slaughter Linked with Nevada Murders.”

Seven Slopes, Colo. (UPI)—The mur­der of a crippled newsstand proprietor in Seven Slopes may be connected with three murders committed two years ago in Westwater, Nevada, according to a Westwater man in town to assist police with the investigation. Boyd Turner is in Seven Slopes to see if the murders have certain elements in common. “If they do, then I think we can piece some clues together. We may come up with the identity of a prime suspect,” he said. The police chief declined comment.

The grisly murder of Vietnam vet Josh­ua A. Bartholtz has terrified the local popu­lation of Seven Slopes. Deadbolts have sold out of the local hardware stores. The town has emptied of tourists, and in addition to the prospect of a homicidal maniac loose in town, business people are faced with eco­nomic disaster. This is all very similar to a situation in Westwater two years ago when three people were murdered in one bizarre holiday weekend. Those murders remain un­solved.

I couldn’t read on. I could only look at the photo of Boyd, captured with mouth open as he talked to reporters. His Stetson was riding high on his fore­head, pushed back, no doubt, in a reflexive show of frustration. He wore his corduroy jacket with sheep­skin lining, and he stood in front of the Snowson Hotel in Seven Slopes. A little tug of homesickness tweaked me in the midst of my horror.

Now Boyd was hunting me. He’d given up on small animals and birds. Now he had a quarry worthy of his tracking skill.

My senses seemed to snap back into place. I quietly folded the newspaper, finished the cocoa, hefted my pack, and picked up my cane. I walked back to the policemen and lay the five-­dollar bill down in front of the officer who had given it to me.

“Thank you,” I said. “I have no need for this. I’m really quite all right, and I do have a place to stay tonight. I just sometimes . . . lose track. Please par­don me.” And I walked out with as much dignity as my ineptitude at being crippled would allow.

I will go to Sarah’s, and I will get well. And then I will call Boyd and we will talk it over. I will let him take me in if he needs to, but not like this. Dear God, not like this.

I put my thumb out as soon as I was out of sight of the coffee shop, and got a ride right away.

“It doesn’t seem to matter much what I do. It’s all the same—life’s all the same. I could be a Madison Avenue type, and it would be the same, dealing with the same types of people, doing the same things, handling the same disappointments, the same tests of character, and I’d perform just the same at any of those jobs. I’d just do it the way I’d do it.

“My old man worked construction until he couldn’t anymore. His muscles and spirit wore out about the same time. He tried a desk job, but he was just too far gone. Life had worn him down. I keep thinking that maybe if he’d started out at a desk, he’d have turned out different. But he wouldn’t have. That was his choice in life. He didn’t have to wear down. He didn’t have to work construction. But knowing Pa, he would have worn down doing anything. He just chose construction to do it to him.

“This attitude has given me a lot of freedom in life, but freedom is its own disappointment sometimes. I’ve never really settled down, never really committed to anything—until Angelina, that is. And when she came into my life, I said, Boyd, this is the vehicle for your energies, this is the thing for you to do.

“Selling shoes, ranching, being a cop—it’s all the same stuff. So, I figure, if it doesn’t matter what you do, then how do you choose what to do?

“The choice is the message. All the time I was hunting alone in the mountains, I’d pray for a real hunt. When I’d bring down a deer, I’d be grateful for it, but disappointed, too. Deer were no longer a hunt for me, but I didn’t know what was. I’d just pray for a real hunt.

“So you see, I’d asked for this hunt. The choice of career, or hobby, or both, is your only shot at making a statement in life. To me, it’s the hunt.

“The hunt is the message.”