Sixteen

He stood in the shadow of the azaleas that grew high around the end of the porch, and watched the door. He figured if he stood here long enough, he’d see her. He’d listened to her message several times. It hadn’t taken a genius to figure out that something was not right.

He still wasn’t sure what that something was.

There were several people on the porch tonight, two men and a woman. The woman and one of the men sat in the rocking chairs that faced the sound. The other man sat on the porch railing, facing them. From time to time he glanced over at the door to room 105 which was to his immediate left.

Weird.

Room service appeared with a cart and went straight to room 105, which a tall muscular man answered.

The man in the shadows leaned forward, as if closing another six inches or so of space would improve the view.

The door closed, room service disappeared at the end of the porch, and the threesome remained in conversation.

He glanced down toward the path. A boy of eight or ten was walking toward the dock, pulling leaves off the shrubs as he passed by, and tossing them onto the path.

Stupid kid. Stupid parents, letting a child walk alone at night. Oh, sure, you’d think the Windham Inn was a safe enough place. But you just never knew about anyone. The most normal looking face could hide a monster.

He should know.

He glanced at his watch. Almost eight. Time for a shower, a late dinner, then on to other places, other things. He had a game plan, and he was going to stick to it.

He glanced back at her door. She had a place in the plan, but it wasn’t time for her just yet.

Besides, he figured she’d stick around for a while. And he knew where to find her.

It wasn’t in room 107.