7. Jael
Prayer Factory - Florence + The Machine
O nce you have wheels, you have everything.
I spin the key ring around on my finger as I approach the rusted out station wagon parked in the backlot of the Mariner’s Motel.
Hopefully this thing still runs.
It’s been so long since it’s received a wash, there’s dried mud specked on the windows and dust collected on the dashboard. I twist the key in the ignition and listen to the feeble whine of the engine.
“Come on,” I mumble. “This isn’t the time to be shy.”
The engine gives another groan before finally starting up all the way with a thicker rumble. A smile spreads across my face as I promptly click my seatbelt into place and readjust the mirrors.
The motel manager was kind enough to let me borrow his station wagon. All the cash in the drawers too. There wasn’t much considering the Mariner’s Motel has only seen three or four guests over the last few days, but every dollar counts in my situation.
I asked nicely and he understood.
Taking one last glance at the seedy motel in the rearview mirror, I say, “Thanks, Stanley.”
I turn out of the cratered motel parking lot and hit the road. Easton’s city sign slips past me, signaling I’ve crossed over and the city’s nothing more than just a memory.
The road stretches out before me. The buildings quickly dissolve into dense clusters of trees and hills as I head west. The morning sun tracks me as I go, its rays of light falling across the asphalt.
Silence meets my ears. No other cars for miles, just the hum of the station wagon’s engine.
At first I hardly notice how oppressive it is. Then my nerves flutter to life and it begins to bother me. It leaves space for my thoughts to feel the void. For me to notice how every shadow feels like him. Every shape conjures up some part of him.
The thick stretch of trees I drive by. The broken signposts on the shoulder of the road. All of it twists into some form of him when I glance at them too quickly, then glance again to realize I’m mistaken.
At one point, I swear I see him standing by the ditch off the road, his massive frame towering above the underbrush, his face still obscured.
My foot jerks on the brake, and the wagon skids to a halt, tires crunching on gravel.
He’s gone when I blink and look again. It’s just shrubbery gently swaying in the wind.
“Get it together, Jael,” I mutter to myself. My grip tightens on the wheel, knuckles aching.
I turn up the radio. The static fades out for a twangy country song. Not at all my favorite—actually, my least favorite genre—but it’s better than the paranoid silence. Better than the noise inside my head. All the endless questions about my sister and everybody who’s after me. Spiraling thoughts about the shadow man…
Hitting the road again at even faster speeds, I do my best to sing along to the chorus of the song playing.
I’m off key. I get the lyrics wrong. A couple minutes later the song ends and a new one starts up, but it doesn’t even matter.
It takes my mind off everything I’m trying not to focus on.
Dozens of miles and a few hours later, I pull into the parking lot of a diner with a throat raw from shouting over the music. The sign above the door reads Darla’s Diner in faded pink neon, with smaller letters advertising Home of the $1 Slice of Pie .
My stomach growls at the thought. I’ve barely eaten in two days. The only thing I’ve had was the bag of chips, the soda, and a few cups of muddy coffee.
The place smells like sugar and bacon grease. Two scents I welcome since I’m starving. The waitress behind the counter winks hello at me; she’s wearing a button-up waitress uniform that’s the same pale pink as the sign outside. A handful of people sit scattered throughout the diner. Some in booths. Others at the counter.
I take a stool at the counter next to two older men hunched over coffee and a newspaper.
“Latest victim was some big-shot editor at the Easton Times,” the guy on the left, a wiry man with a weathered face and thick glasses, says.
“Winston something,” the other man grumbles, scratching his beard. “They say it could be a sign the Cleaver’s still among us.”
“Matches the other guy he killed at that bar, right?”
The second guy grunts his answer.
I’m so busy listening to what they’re saying that I don’t notice the waitress approach.
“Can I get you something, darling?”
I flinch, blinking over at her. “Oh, yeah… I think I’d like some pie.”
The corner of her eyes crinkle with humor. “First time here? We’ve got it all. Cherry pie. Apple pie. Peach pie. Blueberry pie. Lemon meringue pie. It’ll be Thanksgiving soon, so we’ve even got the pumpkin and sweet potato ready to go?—”
“How about cherry?” I say. “And a milkshake. Chocolate.”
The waitress—whose name is Darla I realize, glancing at her name tag—wanders off. The men at my side are still in the middle of their conversation.
“Cleaver’s been busy this year. What’s the toll now? Fifteen? Sixteen people?”
“If you ask me, the boys in blue are pinning stuff on him,” says the second man. “All these unsolved murders they’ve had hanging over their heads. It’s easy to say he did ’em all.”
“You think they can make that stuff up, Bert? They ain’t pin nothing on him that wasn’t him.” He fixes his glasses and folds up the newspaper they’ve been poring over. “Besides, anybody that he offed doesn’t sound like they were too good themselves.”
“Why do you care?” I ask, my voice sharper than I intend.
Both men glance over at me, startled.
“What?” Bert says.
I shrug, reaching for my knife and fork rolled up into a napkin. “It sounds like you gentlemen have spent plenty of time talking about the Cleaver. But why do you care? If he’s only after bad people like you claim, then you have nothing to worry about… right?”
“I suppose…” answers the second man.
“Then no use talking about it. You’ll never know the answer either way. Who can say why the Cleaver does what he does?”
The men exchange looks, then shift their bodies away from mine. I’ve struck a nerve, because they lower their voices and don’t address me again.
The waitress sets my pie down in front of me. “Don’t pay Bert and Carl any mind, darling. They’re both retired and have nothing better to do than sit around scaring everybody. You keep living carefree. Don’t let nothing trouble you.”
Though I only smile in answer, her words are appreciated.
The truth is, I wasn’t just speaking to Bert and Carl. I was speaking to myself too.
What use is it to wonder why the Cleaver—otherwise known as Kaden Raskova—did what he did? None of us will ever know unless we find a way inside his head.
Just like people may never get why I do the things I do.
I slice into my pie and delight in how the cherry filling oozes onto the plate, sticky and bright like blood. The filling almost looks like innards if I use my imagination a little.
I laugh to myself and then scoop up a huge forkful to devour.
The milkshake and slice of pie go so quickly, I half consider ordering more things off the menu. But then I notice the afternoon fading away through the diner windows and remind myself I have to get going.
I hop off the stool feeling several stares on me. The others in the diner watching as if they sense I’m different. I don’t belong with them.
Fine by me. I don’t need to belong anywhere; I just need to find my sister and shake off the shadow man.
The bathroom is cramped and smells of bleach. The mirror over the sink is permanently smudged and there’s no hot water when I twist on both faucets. I splash cold water onto my face and push away the growing sense of unease that’s creeping over me.
When I straighten up, I see him behind me in the mirror.
My heart drops. I spin around to his hulking frame in the bathroom window. He’s filling up the narrow space, his head tilted at an angle so that it falls out of view.
I can’t move. My legs lock, my mind going dark.
“No,” I whisper. “You’re not real! Get away from me!”
But no matter how many times I blink, he’s still there. He’s in the window watching me. Any bravery I’d had earlier is long gone. Old habits are too damn hard to break.
I bolt.
I race through the diner to more concerned stares, shoving the door open and stumbling out into the parking lot. He’s followed me, coming from around the back of the building up the side where there’s a gas station. He stops near the pumps to watch as I sprint toward the station wagon.
“Stay away!” I scream, fumbling with the keys. I dive inside and fight to slot the key into the ignition, my hand shaking so violently it takes me several tries. The engine groans like earlier, refusing to catch, and I slap the wheel in frustration. “Not now! Start up damn it!”
He’s stalking toward me now. Slow, deliberate.
The engine bumbles to life as he’s coming closer. His face is still a black void, covered by some kind of mask that covers his entire head.
I don’t have time to stay and consider why.
I slam the gearshift into reverse, tires squealing as I peel out of the lot. For a moment, he doesn’t move, standing there as he watches me go. But when I look in the rearview mirror seconds later, he’s gone.
I don’t slow up. My foot presses down harder on the gas. The station wagon jolts forward, far away from the diner and the trees and the man who won’t leave me alone.
As night approaches, I have two options. Stay on the road or pull over somewhere to check in at another motel. There are plenty along the highway, usually with glowing signs and advertisements about their special rates.
“You’re on limited funds,” I say to myself. I dial up the radio and then the heat. “A motel room two nights in a row would be a waste. You know you’re not getting any sleep anyway.”
It’s the truth.
There’s no way I’d be able to rest with so much unknown. I’m no closer to finding my sister and the shadow man’s still out there. Dr. Wolford’s probably sicced the police on me too.
“How’s everybody out there doing tonight? Hope you’re ready for more tunes. Pulse FM plays nonstop hits day to night, night to day. But sit tight. Up first is our sixty second news update, giving you not just the freshest jams but the most-up-to-date happenings from around the country,” croons the radio DJ. “Police believe a new victim of the serial killer the Cleaver has emerged. Winston Cooper was found in an alleyway?—”
I cut off the radio, my nerves twisted up inside me.
Both hands tight on the wheel, I focus on what lays ahead.
The highway stretches endlessly into the dark. The lane rolls beneath me like an unraveling black ribbon. The headlights of the station wagon carve out a narrow path ahead, guiding me through the pitch-black night.
No other cars pass by.
I’m once again alone, pondering if anyone else is alive out there.
I should stop. I know I should. I’ve been driving for hours and the needle on the fuel gauge hovers dangerously close to empty.
More motels whiz by from the sidelines of the highway, the rates seemingly lower and lower. Fifty bucks a night, forty bucks a night, thirty…
The thought of locking myself in another room with thin walls and dim lights makes my stomach churn.
I have to keep going. I have a destination in mind, and once I get there, I can finally turn the tables.
The paranoia comes in waves, crashing over me like a high tide. Sometimes I feel almost strangely calm, almost borderline sedated. But then I glance at the rearview mirror and my chest tightens all over again.
Every shadow belongs to him. Every dark shape in the night must be him.
The monotony of the road starts to lull me into a dangerous haze. My eyelids grow heavy, my head nodding forward before I jerk upright, forcing myself awake. I crack a window to allow the cold night air in, stinging my face, but it doesn’t help.
The semi-truck comes out of nowhere.
The blare of its horn shatters the quiet. I jump in my seat and jerk the wheel, swerving hard to the right. The station wagon’s tires screech against the asphalt. The truck roars past me, its headlights glaring in the side mirror, and for a moment, I can’t breathe.
My heart slams against my ribs as I attempt to pull back into my lane, hands shaking as I try to right my wrong.
It’s too late. I’ve veered off the highway toward the treeline. I slam desperately on the brakes and brace myself for impact.
The station wagon lurches to a halt at the last possible second, the front bumper smashing against the trunk of a tree. The airbag deploys. Smoke rises from the hood. The air fills with the smell of it and burned rubber.
I twist the key and find the engine dead.
“No,” I mutter. “Fuck, don’t die now!”
But as I twist the key again and again to restart the car, dread mounts. Panic spreads. A cool sweat beads from my skin. I can’t breathe as I shake my head and then glance into the rear view mirror, already aware of what I will find.
He’s come.
He stands among the deep shadows of the wooded area, backlit only by the single lamppost on the side of the highway, his head the shape of a minotaur’s, horns and all.
He starts toward me.
I shake my head, on the verge of passing out.
This can’t be real. This can’t be happening.
Pebbles and grass crunch beneath his large feet. His stride is long and slow yet he gains ground quickly.
I abandon the station wagon altogether, deciding to run for it. This isn’t at all what I had in mind, but what other choice do I have?
I dart out from the car and make it only a few steps before my feet leave the ground. I’m slammed against the side of the wagon, his massive hand clenching shut around my throat. My eyes widen looking up at him, finding his face shrouded in darkness.
He’s wearing the mask again.
“Please,” I sob. “Don’t hurt me.”
He gives no reaction. He simply stares down at me like he’s content in such twisted and tense silence.
I squirm in his hold, both hands coming up to pry at one of his. His wrist is so thick it makes up almost both of mine. His palm so wide, it’s the size of my face. He’s big enough to do serious damage if he really wanted to.
As I claw at him, signaling I want him to release me, his grip loosens on my throat. His thumb drifts toward my lips, running along the curve.
Confusion fills me up.
What does he want from me? Who is he? Why is he after me?
I go still where I’m pinned against the station wagon, my brows knitting at the questions I’ll probably never have answers to.
His thumb presses against the seam of my lips and I realize what he wants. I part them for him, letting him push his thumb into my mouth.
By peering up at him closely enough, I can begin to make out the features of his mask. The large flat contour of a nose and deep, dark eyes that are disturbing. The lines entrenched into the mask and the horns that sit up top.
It’s a minotaur.
The paralyzing fear and panic that have driven me now twist into a new emotion that I can’t place. I can’t begin to describe it as I hold his gaze and do what I need to in this moment. I let my tongue trace over the pad of his thumb, pursing my lips to lightly suck on it.
His breathing deepens. The sound both monstrous yet familiar.
He grabs the side of my face with his other hand and then replaces his thumb with two of his fingers. They slide right past my lips, across my tongue, farther down my throat. The tears I’ve been holding in begin to fall as he hits the back of my throat and my gag reflex takes over. I retch around his fingers, still holding his gaze.
It’s surreal and disorienting.
Terrifying and strange.
But I can’t break eye contact. I can’t look away. I choke on his thick fingers and realize the pounding in my ears is blood rushing through my veins. It’s blood flooding my sex.
He withdraws his fingers slicked with my saliva and then I gasp as he reaches between us. I’m helpless pressed up against the station wagon, adrenaline coursing, as he forces his hand down my pants.
His slick long fingers sink into my pussy, going deep, stretching my walls?—
I jerk against the steering wheel with drool dripping down my chin. The bright lights of a passing semi-truck burn my retinas, waking me from my sleep. The driver blares his deafening horn at me as he speeds by on the highway.
It takes me several more seconds to realize I’m on the shoulder of the road. I must’ve pulled over.
Wiping my mouth, I’m in a daze glancing around at the dark landscape.
He’s nowhere to be found.
“Does that mean it wasn’t…?” I whisper. I get my answer when I turn the key and the station wagon rumbles to life. Carefully, I merge onto the highway, still unable to shake the feeling that what happened between us wasn’t just a dream.
Every moment of it was real.