8. Chapter 8
Chapter 8
Melanie
I wake early, not feeling rested at all. My brain's been running in overdrive, replaying yesterday's nightmare while trying to figure out what to do or even how to do it. Making a pot of wretched motel coffee, I sit with a steaming mug in the chair with my feet on the windowsill, watching the sun rise over an unfamiliar town. The coffee is awful, but caffeine is caffeine, and if I'm going to get through today, I need my mind sharp.
Once, after a natural disaster while I was in college, I interviewed a commander in the National Guard. I asked him how a civilian, with no training, could take on these stressful situations. “Try and tackle the things you can handle first,” he said. “Those things will add up to other things and pretty soon you're prepared for the bigger problems.” His philosophy made such sense. I can't remember his name, but I've always remembered what he said.
Okay, what do I need to figure out first? Do I stay here another night? I need time to think, to sort all of this mess out. Michael's face flashes in my mind: “I love a chase.” I push the memory away.
“I know, you bastard, but I'm not a fucking gazelle running through a field of grass. I need time to process all of this bullshit.”
Second - check messages. Mom and my aunt were expecting to watch the ceremony on FaceTime. My throat tightens, thinking of them waiting, wondering. Michael's threat echoes: “They'll be dead within four days.” But it can't hurt to just listen.
Third - get real food starting with much better coffee. The Doritos and donuts were pure panic eating and I can feel that today. I scold myself, stay hydrated, better food, vitamins. You need to take care of yourself. Who knows how long it's going to take to fight this lunatic.
A movement outside makes me jump, the kind older lady from check-in is walking past my window. A knock follows. When I open the door, she's smiling, holding out a steaming container.
“Huevos Rancheros,” she says, pressing it into my hands.
The rich smell makes my stomach growl embarrassingly loud. “Muchas gracias,” I manage, closing my eyes and inhaling the aroma. “Could I stay another night?” I point at myself, then the hotel room, hoping she'll understand what I mean.
“Si, si. I do.” She pats my hand with grandmotherly affection. “Comer,” she touches her scrunched hand to her mouth and makes like she's chewing. Then shuffles away, leaving me fighting tears at her kindness.
Back inside, I devour the food in minutes. The warm, homemade meal fills more than just my stomach - it's the first hint of normal since everything fell apart. And confirms that I need to maintain myself for when the chase ends. If I allow it to end.
I shake my head - smaller tasks first. The shower calls to me. Hot water cascades down my back as I try to wash away yesterday's terror. But memories ambush me - Cameron's hands massaging shampoo into my hair, his laugh echoing off shower walls, the way he'd pull me close under the spray, pushing himself into me. It all seems like a lifetime ago. The sadness of missing him and what's happening drives me to my knees.
Should I have called Michael's bluff? Should I have stood up to him? Told someone? Gone to the Sheriff? The image of my mom and aunt on that iPad screen with those men in their house. Mom holding the giraffe that Michael gave her. They both looked so vulnerable, so frail. I sit on my knees, crying.
Bawling at the thought of them not being able to do anything to defend themselves as they flopped in the water. The realization hitting my aunt that she was going to die. Mom... being totally helpless, not being able to swim... I can't. How could I? The tears stream down my face faster than the shower.
What kind of monster would do something like that?
Michael. That's who. He had the men there. He called the shots. He planned this. He orchestrated everything. What are two helpless elderly ladies against him?
My head screams YOU ARE WHAT THEY WANT! Who wants me? What do they want with me?
The water begins to run cold, and I force myself to stand up and finish the shower. Shivering and tired, I wrap in a thin towel and manage underwear and jeans before collapsing. Sitting on the floor against the bed, knees pulled up, arms crossed, resting on my knees, I zone out completely. Time becomes meaningless. I don't know how long I sit there. Not thinking, not processing. Just numb.
Moses appears, placing his front paws on my legs. He ducks his head under my arm as his purr kicks into overdrive. The tears start again.
“I shouldn't have brought you. What happens to you if Michael catches me?” Moses wiggles under my arms until they're resting on him and not my knees. “I don't know what he'll do with you.” I pull Moses in for a hug. “I can't have him hurt you.” I sob until the soaked Moses pulls away from me. The idea of Michael hurting or abandoning Moses makes my skin crawl.
“What is it with helpless things? Does that make you a big man?” I ask no one. Putting my chin on my recrossed arms, I give way and allow the thoughts to flood me.
When I've finally had enough, my protesting muscles tell me hours have passed. I stand looking at the nightstand radio clock. Nearly noon - I've lost the whole morning to grief.
“I guess I better put a shirt on, huh?” I tell Moses as he grooms himself after his tear bath. I quickly finish dressing and tidy the room, securing Michael's threatening materials in their box. No need for housekeeping to see those. Grabbing my phone and keys, I steel myself to face the world.
“I'll be back,” I tell the still-grooming cat while pressing the power button on my phone. It comes alive with a barrage of notifications; the binging seems to last for an hour. Three hundred sixty-seven texts, two hundred twenty-nine missed calls. My stomach clenches. Later. I'll deal with those later. With the box under one arm and my purse, sunglasses, and car keys in the other, I leave the motel.
Walmart's only ten minutes away. Less than an hour later, I'm done shopping. I'm proud of myself - I stocked up on necessities: microwave meals, fresh food, proper cat supplies. A detective-style magnifying glass catches my eye - might help examine those newspapers Michael left. Plus, a three-section notebook, pens, sticky notes and highlighters. Loading the car, my phone chimes with three new texts. One from Cameron. One from his mom. And one number I don't recognize, but the first line catches my attention.
My grandmother asked me to text you.
It is not safe; a bad men are here.
Park in back of the hotel by the black pickup.
She will meet you there.
Bad men? I text back, holding my breath: Please describe the men.
The response brings panic: Shorter, black hair, lots of money, very demanding. The other man is very scary, knives on face.
Michael. Terror claws at my throat.
Moses!
Another text: He wants to know where you are. He will pay.
The knife man speaks Spanish. My grandma tells him the wrong room. She says you left this morning.
I blow out a large breath to try and control my shaking hands. He is very bad, please, he can't find me.
Grandma says stay where you are for now. She and Grandpa go talk to the men. I'm listening through the window.
My hands shake as I reply: Ok. Don't be seen. What are they saying?
Blinking dots...
How? How did he find me?
Blinking dots...
Oh, come on! Tears spill onto my shirt. My breath is labored. Finally, a bing notification.
Grandma says come park in the back, far side of black truck. Man gone.
On my way.
I answer, starting my car. I drive back thinking about how Michael found me and how fast I can gather Moses and leave. I drive by the motel, turn three blocks down, and make my way to the back of the motel. Seeing the black dual-wheeled pickup truck, I pull in next to it, essentially hidden from the street.
The grandmother appears with a boy around eleven, pushing a laundry cart. She looks around, then motions for me to step out.
“When did he get here? What does he know? I need my cat!” The words tumble out altogether.
“It's okay. Grandma has everything,” the boy says in perfect English.
His grandmother speaks rapid Spanish. The boy translates: “She says he came asking about you, offering money. Said he was your husband. But Grandma knew - she told Grandpa he hurts women. They have five daughters and Grandpa would never let anyone hurt one of his little girls. Grandpa told the knife man that he went for a walk around seven and you were packing your car. He said when he got back, your car was gone. He told them Grandma had already cleaned your room, but they could check. He gave them the key to the room two doors down. He told them you were a crying mess. That seemed to make them happy. They said we need to call if you come back.” The kid hands me Michael's business card. Just touching the thick paper makes me want to dry heave. Grandma speaks again. “Grandma and I, we've got your things. She knew you wouldn't stay once he came looking.”
“He's not my husband. He's just a horrible man.” I say and the boy translates. The grandmother's eyes flash with understanding.
From beneath towels, she produces my laptop bag and suitcase. The boy brings out Moses, who seems to think this is some sort of grand adventure.
“He's so big and fluffy. And very friendly,” the boy grins. “I like him.”
“He was a gift from someone I love very much.” I settle Moses in the car, then offer them my groceries needing refrigeration. The grandmother takes them with a knowing smile.
“I don't know how he found me,” I say aloud.
“Did you use a credit card?” the boy asks.
The realization hits like a punch in the gut. “Yes. Oh God, I'm so stupid.”
“If he is smart with computers, then he knows how to track your card.” The boy's phone rings. After a brief exchange in Spanish, the boy tells me, “Grandpa said to tell you when he was talking to them, the shorter man got a call. He heard the voice on the phone say, 'Walmart, sir, ten minutes straight north on the highway.'“
The grandmother and I share a panicked look. She reaches into her apron pocket and presses a roll of cash into my hand.
“No, please, keep it,” I protest. “I have money.”
She's adamant, speaking in hurried Spanish. The boy tells me, “No, Jane Doe. She wants you to have his money because he hurt you. You take his money.”
The boy hands me a paper. “My aunt and uncle's motel, on the other side of town by the fishing lake. She'll call them. You should go get cash. Go to the bank here in town, make a big withdrawal, then never use those cards again. He already knows you were here. So, when you leave, he won't know where you are going. Then when you're settled, only use preloaded untraceable cards.”
“You're really smart,” I tell him, ruffling his hair.
He grins. “I watch a lot of crime dramas on Netflix.”
One final hug from the grandmother, her fierce protectiveness bringing fresh tears. Then I'm gone. She pushes the stack of money into my hand and closes it. I get in my car and as I drive toward the bank, I realize - I'm not alone in this fight. There are still good people willing to help a stranger run from evil.