Page 20 of Small Town Hunter

“I can’t go back, but I’m didn’t hurt anyone. That’s not why I’m running.”

His tone tells me it would be wise not to lie. I’m not a good liar, anyway.

“I would rather die than get married today, Mister. You can believe that.”

“What would happen if you went back?”

“I’m not going back. I can’t.”

“Your groom will be worried.”

“I don’t care.”

Crash rubs his jaw. “Okay. So, California.”

“Yes.”

“I’m afraid I’m not going to California today.”

“What about tomorrow?” I whisper.

He reaches for his keys. “Son of a bitch,” he mutters, turning on the vehicle and swinging back towards the motel.

Hourslater I wake up in a strange bed. The light of a sunset is piercing through the blinds. Crash is sitting in a chair, watching TV. I rub my crusty eyes.

The Carolina Parakeet, America’s only indigenous parrot species, used to roam across a vast territory–

“I see those all the time,” I mumble.

“They’re nearly extinct,” he says.

“We have them in Tippalonga.”

“No shot.”

“Yes, we do. I swear.”

It’s nice and cold in here with the air conditioning…But I’m not dressed. That fact is like a siren in the distance, getting louder every second.

Where are my clothes?

I stare at the birds on the TV. Apparently this parakeet is extinct for real.

“What’s wrong?” Crash asks.

“Did you undress me?”

The beer can he’s holding crumples in his grip; the veins in his neck stand out. “You passed out in the doorway. I damn near had to cut that fucking thing off you.”

Before I can reply, Crash gets up and goes into what I think is the bathroom.Did I really faint? Where are we?

We’re in a motel room. It’s very small and dirty.

Putting it together, I realize it’s the motel across the street. Serenity Motel. A place known for crackheads and prostitutes and wayward sinners.

I check my watch.

“Oh, my God!”

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