Page 8 of Preying Heart
I pick up the motel phone and ask to place a collect call. I had to use directory service because I didn’t know her number so I ended up with their landline. Unfortunately, no one picks up so it’s a moot point.
What to do? What to do?
Behind all of this are the last words Slade left me.
I was almost aborted.
I would have died before I was born if it hadn’t been for Slade.
Does this mean Slade wants my baby? That he wants to be an uncle?
I rack my brain for anyone else I can turn to, like the woman at my yoga class that I regularly pair up with. But without my cell phone, I have no idea what her number is. Besides, we aren’t really friends. I’ve never had her over to my penthouse.
No one comes over other than my housekeeper, delivery service, and cook.
Gavin’s rules.
I picture my cook, a purple-haired, nose-ringed Bohemian type. It’s Thursday, and she’s probably let herself in and prepared a week’s worth of portion-controlled vegan dishes.
Gavin is vegan, and therefore feels contaminated if he has to be in close contact with any essence of dead animals. I well remember his horror when he saw me with a bag of Cheetos. I’m sure any cheese flavoring is artificial, but he says the smell of cheese upsets his stomach. Guess I’m going to have to go on a cleanse after I return. Slade left behind a couple packets of beef jerky, and that’s all I’ve been gnawing on.
The cook can’t help, but has she called Gavin to tell him I’m missing? Is Gavin looking for me? Have I left any clues?
Sadly no. My appointment was booked under a pseudonym. My cell phone stopped pinging the towers somewhere on Interstate 5. There were no accident reports to follow up with.
I go through the list of people I see frequently. The doorman. The barista at the corner coffee shop. The dog walker I say hi to on the elevator as she struggles with her chain of canines. The people taking my online creative writing class. My online art gathering.
My eyelids grow heavy, and my stomach growls. I polish off the snack food in the minibar and worry about how to pay the bill later. Tomorrow, I’ll walk to the town square and panhandle. Get enough for bus fare back to Seattle and take it from there.
People out here are used to hard luck stories.My boyfriend took off with my car and money. I need bus fare. Please, spare me a few dollars.
I’ve seen well-dressed people get away with it near transit stations—even given to the harried mother claiming she’s late to daycare pickup or the woman with a covered stroller begging for a hotel room for the night.
* * *
I’m up bright and early the next morning. All I have is my purse and Slade’s camouflage duffel bag—the one with the beef jerky, an unopened box of condoms, several casino T-shirts, a pack of gum, a half-empty bottle of water, and a stash of girlie magazines. I toss the girlie magazines in the trash and pocket the tiny squeeze bottles of lotion and soap. If I can’t panhandle enough bus fare, I’m going to have to walk and hitchhike.
It’s blazing hot outside, and the clunky air conditioner that kept me awake half the night does nothing to cool the sticky sweat from my skin. I gulp down a glass of tap water and fill the water bottle. The taste is sulfurous and stale—probably well water.
I’m really going to need a deep cleanse when I get home.
A knock on the door has me jumping out of my skin.
“Housekeeping,” a male voice announces.
I tamp down the jitters, put the cap back on the lotion bottle I’m using, and exit the bathroom.
“Have at it, I’m on my—” I stop in my tracks. “You’re not housekeeping.”
The man lowers his gun and gestures with his head. “Go to the bed and sit down. Anyone else in here?”
I debate whether to tell him I’m alone, but I figure I’d better do as I’m told. Slowly, I sit down on the edge of my bed.
“I don’t have any money.” I hold my purse tight and glance at Slade’s duffel bag sitting on the bed.
He’s cleared the closet and bathroom, even checking behind the shower curtain.
“Don’t worry. I don’t want your money.”
