Better Read Than Dead (34 page)

I gathered up the money, tucking it into my purse, and then blew out the candle. I went back out into the hallway and made my way down the hall to the ladies’ room, where I locked the door from the inside. I turned then and looked in the mirror and froze as I saw my reflection. I looked wretched.

Dark ash coated my skin, clothes and hair. My sweater was torn, snagged and dirty; my face and arms were scratched and swollen. My eyes were puffy—slits, really—and a painful mask of remorse colored my expression. I quickly lowered my eyes, not wanting to look at the reflection any longer, and moved to the sink. I pulled off my sweater and turned on the faucet, letting the water warm my cold hands before I attempted to make myself presentable.

It took about twenty minutes, but eventually I was as clean as I could be. I’d wound my hair up into a tight bun, scrubbed the soot off the rest of me, and used just about every paper towel in the dispenser, but at least I looked somewhat passable. I eyed the sweater woefully—I hated to put that thing back on—when I remembered something that would be much better.

Quickly I gathered up the sweater and headed back down the hallway to my office, once again letting myself inside. I went to the spare office Theresa had once used and checked behind the door. There, to my great relief, was the bulging shopping bag from my sister, stuffed to the gills with clothes she’d purchased for me, and which I’d had every intention of returning. I lifted the bag, which was much heavier than I remembered, and smiled ruefully.

For once I was going to accept my sister’s generosity without a fight. I fished around in the bag and retrieved a pair of black cotton pants and a beautiful cream-colored cashmere sweater. I decided not to look at the price tags as I got dressed; better to just assume they were expensive than to look at the price and remove all doubt. When I was dressed I went back to the shopping bag and fished around in it some more, smiling as my hand connected with a beautiful, thick, long black sweater coat that belted in the front. Thank God for Cat.

Quickly I wrapped myself in the sweater coat, then folded the other ruined sweater and my smelly jeans and looked around for something to put them in. I walked over to my garbage can and extracted the liner bag the cleaning crew supplied. I chucked the smelly clothes into the plastic bag, tucked them under my arm, grabbed the shopping bag and bolted out the door. Quickly I trotted down the hallway, taking the back stairwell, and exited the building.

I paused in the alley behind the building, looking around until I spied a large Dumpster, and without a thought I tossed in the ruined sweater and jeans and shut the lid. Then I headed across the street to the Grey-hound bus station, where I intended to purchase a ticket for anything that would get me the hell out of Dodge. Pronto.

My options were reduced to Lansing, Milwaukee, or Toledo. I chose Toledo mostly for the fact that that bus was leaving in ten minutes. I took my ticket outside, got on the bus, found a seat all to myself in the back and bit my lip until we pulled out of the station.

 

Two hours later we arrived in Toledo, and I stepped off the bus and eyed the neighborhood. I saw a Motel 6 just down the block, and with a small sigh of relief I noticed a Wal-Mart about two blocks farther. I walked first to the motel and purchased a room for cash. Normally the nightly rate was forty bucks, but if you didn’t want to present the clerk with ID it was an extra twenty. I wanted to remain incognito, so I gladly peeled off the extra bill.

I took the room key down to my room and unlocked the door, setting the shopping bag just inside without turning on the lights, then closed the door again and quickly headed back out into the crisp night air. It was chilly, about thirty-five degrees, and I wasn’t dressed properly, but at least I had layers.

I hurried to Wal-Mart and walked into the brightly lit megastore, looking around for the section I wanted.

“Can I help you?” an elderly gentleman wearing a blue smock and a pin with a giant happy face asked me.

“Can you point me in the direction of women’s underwear and the luggage department?”

“Women’s lingerie is in aisle five, down this walkway to the left. Luggage is in aisle twenty-six, all the way to the back of the store, just past electronics.”

“Thanks,” I said, trying to smile but failing.

I grabbed a cart and hurried through the store, snatching a six-pack of undies, two sports bras, socks, and, one aisle over, I grabbed a three-pack of men’s white cotton T-shirts. Then I headed to the back of the building for a large duffel bag, and paused before checking out to soap, shampoo, conditioner, toothbrush, toothpaste, lotion and my usual mascara and blush. I also found a contact lens case and enough saline to wash out the soot still making my eyes sting.

Half an hour later I was back in my room, and I peeled off my clothes, carefully folding the new ones from Cat, and throwing my underwear and bra into the trash.

The shower felt wonderful and, exhausted as I was, I still stood there for nearly twenty minutes, shampooing and rinsing over and over until the smell of soot had been washed down the drain.

Pink from the hot shower I finally got out and wrapped myself in a towel. I walked back out to the room and snatched up two of the Wal-Mart bags. Bringing them into the bathroom I pulled out the pack of T-shirts, undies and cotton socks and put on a fresh pair of each. I then brushed my hair and paused for a moment to consider my image in the shadowy reflection of the still-steamed morror. It was my eyes that bugged me. They were flat and angry. I didn’t like the thoughts that were swimming in them, so after a moment I looked away.

I dried my hair with the hotel’s built-in dryer, but because I was so tired I left it slightly damp and headed back out into the room. The bed beckoned, but I had to come up with a game plan before I could even think about sleep. I sighed and rounded the bed, sitting down cross-legged on top of the covers. I put my head in my hands and closed my eyes.
What should I do now?
I asked in my mind.

Visit J.R.,
came the thought in answer.

I lifted my chin and cocked my head.
What?
I asked.

Visit J.R.
. . . came again.

My eye drifted to my purse just then, and I noticed the small notebook that I’d used when I’d written down the details of my dream tucked into the side pocket. I must have snatched it up when I’d been trying to hide from Goblin and Gargoyle. I got up from the bed and retrieved my purse. Pulling out the pad of paper, I went over the details of the dream again.

The message in my head was to visit J.R—so maybe I was supposed to go to Dallas?

Krispy Kreme . . .
drifted into my thoughts, and the image of the sheriff’s star that J.R. had been wearing also appeared in my mind’s eye.

My brow furrowed. The sheriff’s star was easy enough—I was supposed to go to Texas. J.R. from my dream also confirmed that. What I couldn’t figure out was where in Texas. I wasn’t supposed to go to Dallas, but somewhere else, and if I took my guides literally, I was supposed to go to a doughnut shop.

I sighed heavily and looked back at my notes. I focused on the Krispy Kreme shop, and read the detail about all those Krispy Kremes laid out in the coffin, and that struck me as curious. Why would my guides want me to focus on the inside of a coffin? I worked through the metaphor out loud, “Doughnuts . . . coffin . . . Krispy Kremes . . . dead . . . corpse . . . Krispy Kreme . . . Oh, my God!” I gasped—I had it! “Corpus Christi, Texas!” I shouted out loud.

Right side, light, airy feeling
. . . My sign for jackpot.

Quickly I grabbed the phone and dialed information. I got the number for Northwest Airlines reservations and dialed the number. An agent came on the line and I inquired about available flights out of Toledo to Corpus Christi, Texas. I’d have to switch planes in Houston, but if I made it onto the six thirty a.m. flight the next morning, I could be there by one thirty p.m. I eyed the bedside clock and moaned.

“Would you like for me to reserve your flight, ma’am?” the agent said.

I hesitated for a moment, about to say yes, then thought better of it and said, “No, thank you,” and hung up. I’d have to show my ID tomorrow at the airport, which was bad enough. What I didn’t want was for someone to run my credit report and find me too quickly. Yes, there would be a record of my taking a flight, but hopefully it would be at least a few days before someone thought to check with the airlines outside of Detroit. It was just safer right now to pay in cash.

I set the alarm for five, which was a mere four hours away, and turned out the light. In the dark I wept about the loss of my house and all my worldly possessions until exhaustion put me out of my misery.

When they talk about Texas being “big sky” country, they aren’t kidding. I’d never been to Texas, so the wide-openness of the place took me by surprise. I’d watched from the plane as the topography changed beneath me, and long stretches of time passed where, below, there was only dry, baked earth.

After boarding a puddle jumper in Houston, I finally stepped off the plane onto terra firma in Corpus Christi without a clue as to what the hell to do next. I carried my duffel bag across the tarmac and into the airport, looking around with uncertainty. I noticed a group of people gathered by a sign that read, SHUTTLE, so I joined them, allowing fate to bring me to the next step.

My intuition had been unusually quiet since I’d purchased the ticket, which was either a sign of sleep deprivation, or my crew had no comment. At this point I was too tired to care.

The shuttle arrived and we all boarded. The driver asked each of us where we were headed, and I chose the same location as a young businesswoman with a pronounced Southern drawl who asked to be taken to the La Quinta inn.

She and I were the third stop, and I trailed behind her as we stepped off the shuttle and walked into the Spanish-style hotel with a gorgeous brick driveway, white stucco and a clay roof. The inn was large and homey, with a tasteful Southwestern feel and a welcoming attitude.

I waited behind the businesswoman while she checked in at the front desk; then, when she was safely out of earshot, I stepped up to the clerk and told him I didn’t have a reservation but was in need of a room. He nodded and turned to his computer terminal, where, after clicking the keys in a brisk fashion, he located a room on the third floor.

“How long will you be staying, Ms. Masters?” I was using Cat’s last name just in case.

“Two nights . . .” came out of my mouth before I even had a chance to consider it. I was a little surprised by my answer, but figured this was my guides’ way of telling me I wasn’t supposed to dawdle here.

I was also relieved when the clerk told me that it was sixty-five a night—the place looked a lot more expensive—and after forking over a thousand dollars for my plane ticket, I was trying to watch my p’s and q’s.

I paid the clerk, walked through the lobby to an elevator that took me up to the third floor without stopping, and found my room at the end of a long hallway. After turning on the lights, I dumped my duffel on the luggage rack and looked around the room with a blank stare, then moved to the bed and sat down. I hadn’t slept on the plane, and I was so tired I could drop. I pulled off my shoes, and, after puffing up the pillows behind my head, I reclined with a heavy sigh against them. I closed my eyes with the intention of taking only a minute to think about what to do next, and a moment later I fell fast asleep.

 

I was on the tarmac after getting off the plane, and I was hungry. I wanted a snack before continuing my journey, and luckily there was a Krispy Kreme shop near the entrance to the terminal. I walked into the doughnut shop and looked around. The doughnuts were still in the coffin, which I found very funny, and J. R. Ewing beamed at me from behind the counter.

“Abigail!” he said brightly. “I’m so glad you made it. Listen, she’s waiting for you right now. You don’t want to be late. Here’s your tea,” he said as I looked at him with a puzzled expression. “She’s right in through there,” he said, pointing to a door I’d seen before but couldn’t remember from where. The door frame was elaborately painted with a mixture of vines and flowers snaking their way in an arch over a brightly painted yellow door with the name “Cooper’s Abby” across the top.

Weird,
I thought,
that’s my name—only backward.

Curious about the door I began to step forward, when J.R. caught my arm and said, “Careful, missy; you don’t want to get wet.”

I looked down at my feet and noticed a large puddle just in front of the door, so I raised my foot to step over it and reached for the door handle. Before I could grasp it I was yanked violently from behind, and as I spun around I came face-to-face with Andros Kapordelis.

He gripped my arm tightly in his hand and pulled me close to him, spitting in my face as he shouted with rage, “Did you think you could get away with it too? Did you think I wouldn’t find you? Did you think you could go to her and get away from me?”

I was terrified as I looked at him, his face bulging with sickness and gluttony, the smell of his cancer-ridden body putrid to my nostrils, and the spit from his mouth stinging like acid as he raged at me. I struggled in his grip, trying to pull away, but he held me tightly, his mouth turning into a vicious snarl as he refused to let go. I still had one hand free, and as I looked at it I was amazed that somehow I’d still managed to hold on to my tea. Without thinking I threw the scalding liquid into his face, and he howled in pain, letting go of me and clutching at his eyes, dragging the small bits of residue from the tea down his fat cheeks. I didn’t waste a moment, but turned and ran . . . and fell right out of bed onto the floor.