her.
Hey, did he really take you for a dollar?
He really did. He's a sneaky kid. He's a lot like you.
Colin laughed.
How's the car handling? Courtney asked. Is six hundred miles a day too much for you, by yourself?
Not at all, he said. My back's probably not aching as much as yours. We'll be able to stay right on schedule.
I'm glad to hear you say that. I'm a little bit of a sexist myself-and I can't wait to get you in that new bed.
Likewise, he said, smiling.
I've had several nights to appreciate the view from this damn bedroom window, she said. It's even more spectacular tonight than it was last night. You can see the city lights on the bay, all distorted and glimmering.
I'm homesick for a home I've never slept in, Doyle said. He was also lovesick, and he was made more feverish by the sound of her voice.
I love you, she said.
Likewise.
Say it.
I've got an audience, Doyle said, looking at Colin. The boy was listening, rapt, as if he could hear both sides of the conversation.
Colin won't be embarrassed by that, she said. Love doesn't embarrass him at all.
Okay, he said. I love you.
Colin grinned and hugged himself.
Call tomorrow night.
As scheduled, he promised.
Say goodnight to Colin for me.
I will.
Goodbye, darling.
Goodbye, Courtney.
He missed her so profoundly that breaking the connection was a little bit like drawing a sharp knife across his own flesh.
When George Leland pulled the rented Chevrolet van into the macadamed lot in front of the Lazy Time Motel the No Vacancy sign was on, large green neon letters. He was not disturbed by that, for he had never intended to stay there. He was not as flush as Alex Doyle, not as lucky; he was unable to afford even the Lazy Time's prices. He just drove slowly along the short arm of the L, then down the long branch until he saw the Thunderbird.
He smiled, satisfied with himself. Just like in the address book, he said. Doyle, you're nothing if not efficient.
He drove away from the Lazy Time, then, before he might be seen. He went on down the road, past two dozen other motels, some of them like the Lazy Time and some much fancier. At last he came to a shabby wooden motel with a small vacancy sign out front and a spare, undecorated neon sign at the entrance: Dreamland. It looked like an eight dollar-a-night dive. He drove in and parked near the office.
He rolled down the window and turned the rear-view mirror so that he could get a look at himself. As he took his comb from his pocket, he noticed several dark streaks on his face. He rubbed at the stains, sniffed the residue, then put it on his tongue. Blood. Surprised, he opened the door and examined himself in the glow of the ceiling light. Dried blood was spattered over his trousers and smeared all over his short-sleeved shirt. The soft white hairs on his left arm were now stiff and purple with dried blood.
Where had it come from?
And when?
He knew he had not hurt himself, yet he could not understand whose blood this was if not his own. Thinking about it, he sensed the approach of one of his fierce migraine headaches. Then, in the back of his mind, something ugly stirred and turned over heavily; and although he still could not recall whose blood had been spilled on him, he knew that he dared not attempt to rent a room for the night while he was wearing the stuff.
Praying that his headache would hold off for a while, he readjusted the mirror, closed the door, started the truck, and drove away from the motel. He went half a mile down 78 the road and parked in front of an abandoned service station. He opened his suitcase and took out a change of
Hey, did he really take you for a dollar?
He really did. He's a sneaky kid. He's a lot like you.
Colin laughed.
How's the car handling? Courtney asked. Is six hundred miles a day too much for you, by yourself?
Not at all, he said. My back's probably not aching as much as yours. We'll be able to stay right on schedule.
I'm glad to hear you say that. I'm a little bit of a sexist myself-and I can't wait to get you in that new bed.
Likewise, he said, smiling.
I've had several nights to appreciate the view from this damn bedroom window, she said. It's even more spectacular tonight than it was last night. You can see the city lights on the bay, all distorted and glimmering.
I'm homesick for a home I've never slept in, Doyle said. He was also lovesick, and he was made more feverish by the sound of her voice.
I love you, she said.
Likewise.
Say it.
I've got an audience, Doyle said, looking at Colin. The boy was listening, rapt, as if he could hear both sides of the conversation.
Colin won't be embarrassed by that, she said. Love doesn't embarrass him at all.
Okay, he said. I love you.
Colin grinned and hugged himself.
Call tomorrow night.
As scheduled, he promised.
Say goodnight to Colin for me.
I will.
Goodbye, darling.
Goodbye, Courtney.
He missed her so profoundly that breaking the connection was a little bit like drawing a sharp knife across his own flesh.
When George Leland pulled the rented Chevrolet van into the macadamed lot in front of the Lazy Time Motel the No Vacancy sign was on, large green neon letters. He was not disturbed by that, for he had never intended to stay there. He was not as flush as Alex Doyle, not as lucky; he was unable to afford even the Lazy Time's prices. He just drove slowly along the short arm of the L, then down the long branch until he saw the Thunderbird.
He smiled, satisfied with himself. Just like in the address book, he said. Doyle, you're nothing if not efficient.
He drove away from the Lazy Time, then, before he might be seen. He went on down the road, past two dozen other motels, some of them like the Lazy Time and some much fancier. At last he came to a shabby wooden motel with a small vacancy sign out front and a spare, undecorated neon sign at the entrance: Dreamland. It looked like an eight dollar-a-night dive. He drove in and parked near the office.
He rolled down the window and turned the rear-view mirror so that he could get a look at himself. As he took his comb from his pocket, he noticed several dark streaks on his face. He rubbed at the stains, sniffed the residue, then put it on his tongue. Blood. Surprised, he opened the door and examined himself in the glow of the ceiling light. Dried blood was spattered over his trousers and smeared all over his short-sleeved shirt. The soft white hairs on his left arm were now stiff and purple with dried blood.
Where had it come from?
And when?
He knew he had not hurt himself, yet he could not understand whose blood this was if not his own. Thinking about it, he sensed the approach of one of his fierce migraine headaches. Then, in the back of his mind, something ugly stirred and turned over heavily; and although he still could not recall whose blood had been spilled on him, he knew that he dared not attempt to rent a room for the night while he was wearing the stuff.
Praying that his headache would hold off for a while, he readjusted the mirror, closed the door, started the truck, and drove away from the motel. He went half a mile down 78 the road and parked in front of an abandoned service station. He opened his suitcase and took out a change of
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