On Tenterhooks (35 page)

“Nice
view
,
isn
’t it?” asked Martin as he joined Steve at the curb.

“Yeah,” said Steve. “That could’ve been me
.
That would’ve been me
, over there.
”

Martin followed
his friend’s
gaze across the beach road to the throng of smiling and laughing tourists on the other side.
He
dropped the bags and put his hand on Steve’s shoulder.

“I hear ya.
Well, y
ou’re with us now.”

“Yep
.”

They collected the bags and headed to the lobby
.
Hotel Carmelita was a very small
,
but modestly charming example of Mexican artistry
.
Intricate patterns of mosaic tiles adorned the walls and ceiling of the lobby. The
deep blues and
greens with accents of
mustard
and rich reds
formed repeating patterns that rolled over their heads as they crossed
the
room
.
Veronica
handed Steve a room key.

“Wow,” said Steve, examining the metal key in his palm, “an actual metal key
.
I haven’t been to a hotel with one
of
these in a long time.”

“Like I said,” answered Martin, “trapped in time.”

“I got us one
bo
y
s
’
room and one
girls
’
room, next to each
other
, second floor,” she said. “All the
good
ocean views were taken, but the clerk here says we’ve got a great view of the skyline
and a little bit of the water
, such as it is.”

“That’s fine,” said Steve
.
They took the ornate
ly carved
steps to the second floor and found their rooms
, parting in the middle of the hall
.

“Let’s meet back in an hour and talk next steps over a sampling of the local
fare
,”
Veronica
suggested
.

Steve and Martin agreed
and entered
their room. They
each picked a bed and
dropped their bags on the floor
.
Martin opened the window
, and both
men
lay
down on their beds without unpacking
.
Within moments, Martin’s breathing became regular
,
and Steve knew he was asleep.

Steve
lay
face up, staring at the rough plaster walls and colorful watercolors
hanging in
the room
.
Through the window, he
could
hear seagulls and a
n occasional trumpet note or two from a
distant mariachi band over the general buzz of the tourist crowd across the street.
The sounds were simultaneously reassuring and unsettling to him
.
On any other occasion, he’d drink in all the noise as part of the atmosphere of the place
.
It helped complete the picture
.
He could smell the salty air and the spicy dishes served at the outdoor cafes surrounding the hotel.
He could see the frescoes and terracotta roofs and bright aqua
Caribbean
waters that lapped against the pale, fine sand beaches
.
At any other time, and perhaps to any other observer, it presented an intoxicating portrait and feast
.
However,
here, under these circumstances, it only painted Steve’s hollowness in greater contrast
.

On top of the ache, and even more troubling now, was the sharp surface realization that this was the first stop on this express journey where he had no goal to attain
.
It gave him an uneasy feeling that would only be resolved with
some sense of
order
.

I’m in a Mexican beach town surrounded by tourists, seagulls and mariachi bands. I doubt clarity is on the menu.

Eventually, he dozed off and was startled awake with a banging at the door.

“Yo, g
uys!” he heard Abby’s voice through
the heavy wooden door. “Are
you two
asleep or something?  Come on!  We’re starving!” 

He heard Abby’s tinkling laughter trailing down the hall behind her.

“Whoa,” said Martin, slowly rising from his bed. “Guess we overslept, eh?”

Steve looked at his watch.
An hour and twenty minutes had passed since they’d arrived at the Carmelita.

“Yeah.
I wasn’t planning on sleeping
,
so I didn’t set an alarm.”

“Okay,” said Martin
.
“Give me two minutes
,
and I’ll be ready to go.”

He yawned and stretched
at the foot of the bed
, then
grabbed his shaving kit from his duffel bag, walked to the bathroom
and closed the door.

Steve sat up on the edge of the bed and looke
d out the window
.
Nothing had
changed, except the sun
sat
l
ower
in the sky
.
He still heard the band and
the tour
ists. H
e still
smelled the ocean
.
N
othing
new
and
still no definitive direction
.

Hearing
Martin
open the
bathroom
door, he
stood and stretched.

“Let’s eat,” said Martin. “I’m
half-starved
myself.”

“Same here
.”

Walking out
into the empty hallway
, they
locked the door behind them
and
knocked on the door to the girls’ room
.
No answer.

“Lobby,”
they said, simultaneously
.

When they reached the lobby, they found
Veronica
waiting on a bench
, listening to
a lone guitar player
, who
sat
next to the front desk
strumming a
Spanish
guitar
.
He looked up from his playing and
nodded
in greeting
to
Steve and Martin
.
The
chords of the guitarist’s song were familiar, but
Steve
couldn’t place them.

“Hey, sorry we’re late,”
he said
, noticing that
Veronica
’s cheeks and neck were blotched with angry red patches. Her brow was glistening with beads of sweat.

“You okay?” Steve asked.

“Yeah, fine.
Just tired I guess.”

“Where’s Abby?” Steve asked.

“She didn’t want to wait for you guys
. She
went to check out the beach, before dinner
,
” said
Veronica
, rising slowly from the bench.

“Wow,” said Martin, clutching his stomach. “All of the sudden dinner doesn’t sound like such a good idea.”

“You okay?” Steve asked Martin.
He had to raise his voice over the mounting volume of the song.

“Yeah,
I think so.
J
ust got a bad stomach cramp
,
”
he mumbled as he
sat down on the bench
.
“J
ust let me rest here a second.”

Veronica
leaned on the wall above Martin
.
She closed her eyes and took several deliberate, slow breaths.

“Something’s not right,” Steve
said
.

The guitarist began to sing in English, with a thick accent.

“
Together we better, forever we strong
.”

“
The song!
He’s here.
Veronica
!
Where did she go
?
”

“
United as one, we can no go wrong.
”

Recognition
hit
Veronica
like a baseball bat to the face. “
Oh
,
shit.
I sent her around the back
way to avoid
all
the tourists.”

“
We walk hand an hand up to death an beyond
,”

Martin stood
.
“Let’s go!”

“Show me!”
Steve shouted
.

“
We’re
better together,
es where we belong
!”

They sprinted through the front door and headed to the left
.
Around the corner of the hotel was a small, narrow alleyway that ran from the back of the
building
all the way to the beach street
.
The
setting
afternoon sun filled the small area with dark shadows and menace
.

Halfway down the alley, leaning against the wall of the hotel, they spotted two figures
.
Steve recognized Abby’s long curly
blond
hair
.
She stood against the alley wall.
Another, taller figure stood in front of her, blocking her escape
.
Even at this distance,
in this light,
the
narrow
build and pale complexion
were
obvious.

Chapter
3
3

Abby
could smell his hot
breath in her face.
It reeked
like dead apples left to
rot
in the
scorching summer
sun.
Her eyes and her chest burned with a fierce
,
unrelenting
pain.

Preacher
had
her
pinned against a wall, his
hand cupping her right breast.
She felt his burning palm t
hrough the fabric of her shirt. T
he
fire in her mind was too intense. She couldn’t
fight him
. Her
eyes were wide with
agony
.

Steve watched as they rolled back into her head
.
The helpless girl
let out a long and low wail of pain as her body convulsed around Preacher’s grip.

Steve
shouted
, and
Preacher turned and looked at them
, smiling serenely.

“Her bosom is ripe to receive the milk of the True Lord!”

Veronica
screamed. Steve grabbed the only thing he could find, a metal trash can
,
and charged.
Preacher
let go of Abby and took a step back
.
Abby
slid down the wall, sobbing.
The
acrid
smell of her own burning flesh filled
the air
.
She collapsed onto the street and vomited.

“Martin, get her out of here!”
Steve
yelled. He raised the empty can above his head as he crossed the alley, intent on smashing it over Preacher’s head
.
Preacher
continued to
smile as Steve closed on him
.
He
held out his right arm and clutched his Bible to his chest with his other
.

As Steve
started
to lunge at him, the air around Preache
r rippled
. Steve watched, stunned
as
the man’s
arms
stretched to
absurd
lengths and groped for
him.

Martin and
Veronica
pulled Abby up and moved her back the way they came. Steve stopped short
,
as Preacher seemed to tower above him
.
When he
th
rew the can
,
Preacher
deflected it easily
,
as if dispatching a falling feather
.
Still smiling, he took a step toward Steve
.
Steve then felt a deep, guttural
vibration
in his stomach
.
It reminded him of a dog’s throaty growl, amplified through a concert sound system. It terrified him
,
and
he
backed away without taking his eyes
off
Preacher’s now-towering face
.

As
Preacher advanced slowly
,
Steve stumbled and lost his balance, falling backward
.
His elbows popped as he hit the asphalt hard.
Preacher continued to
move forward
,
with his
broad
smile and deep growls
.
T
oo terrified to stand
, Steve
back
ed
up
, half
crab-
walking
,
half
sliding
across the slick ground of the alleyway. He pushed himself to move faster
,
but Preacher continued to get closer
, his
arms
flittering
above Steve’s head, like downed power lines that flicked
back
an
d forth riding on
surges of death.
A
strong pair of hands grab
bed
Steve
under his arms and pulled him to his feet
.
Steve turned to look as
Veronica
yanked him backwards out of the alleyway, back into the sunlight
.

Martin had his arm around Abby, holding her up
.
Her eyes were closed and her shoulders slumped.
Scorch marks marred her shirt
,
and
Steve
saw blood on her chest.
His adrenaline
kept him moving, but he was shaking with fear
.
Veronica
and Martin mirrored the look of terror on his face
.
When
Steve
turned back,
he saw that
Preacher
was back to normal size
, but
still advancing on them in his deliberate
ly slow
pace, the massive smile
across
on his face
.
Steve turned and pushed them all down the street.

“Go! Go! Move!”

They
cross
ed
the parking lot and headed toward the crowd of tourists dominating the sidewalks
along
the beach road.
They needed crowd and distance, immediately.
As they
moved quickly
in
a
tight knot
down
the
jammed
sidewalk
, people stepped back
to let them through, but it was still slow going
.
Steve
looked back frequently as he led the group past storefronts and open-air restaurants, intent on putting distance between them and Preacher as quickly as possible. He saw no signs of pursuit, but he continued to push them forward as fast as
he could
.
He wanted to scream at them
so that they’d move faster
.
He was desperate to move the
curious tourists
out of his path and sprint. The adrenaline and fear that
were
pounding on him from the inside would sustain his run for miles
.
He knew
Veronica
could
keep
up with him and probably leave him in the dust if she
really wanted to
. The
panic on her face was slowly ebbing
,
but even without her adrenaline rush,
he
knew
she
was
far the better
athlete.

Running was not an option
, though, because
Abby and Martin
would never
make it.
Abby moved with them but relied heavi
ly on Martin to guide her.
Steve
saw
that
she
wouldn’t be able to stand much longer
.
He needed a place to hide out and
determine
what Preacher had done to her
.

Coming up on their left amongst the t
ourist trap tiendas
and the tiny fresh markets
,
Steve saw what he was looking for
.
The name above the door, “La Pluma y La Espada”, meant nothing to him, but the familiar neon
beer logos
in the window told him that this was a bar. It was likely to have a dark corner or two where they could rest and regroup.

“In here!”

He beckoned the others to the door and held it for them as he hurried them through
.
Veronica
went in first without a sound. Martin walked sideways to move through the doorway without letting go of Abby
.
As they passed, Steve saw that Abby wa
s pale and still looked dazed, but
she was
conscious.
Looking back over his shoulder once
more,
he scanned the crowded street
.
There was no sign of Preacher
.
Once inside, he
pushed the door shut,
un
willing to wait for it
to
close on its own.

When
his eyes
adjusted to the dim light of the cool room
, he saw it
was nearly deserted
.
He had expected a crowd of thirsty tourists to hide in. A bored bartender leaned on
the dingy counter
.
He wore a grayish, stained apron and
had
a bar
rag thrown over his shoulder. He looked at them as they entered, but quickly went back to
watching
the
soap opera
with Spanish overdubbing on the TV mounted in the corner
.
The bar reeked of cigar smoke,
stale alcohol
and sweat, but it was dark and quiet, full of shadows
they so desperately needed.

Two grizzled locals occupied a small table near the front door. Several empty pilsners and an overflowing ashtray
sat on
their table
.
Steve
moved away from the door, beckoning
the
others to follow-him
.
Martin helped Abby
toward
the booths that filled
a
sidewall
.

“Steve
, all of you, over here
!”

The voice, a man’s deep voice, came from
a table in the
shadows at
the back of the
bar.
Steve stared hard into the corner
.
He
couldn’t see much of the stranger
,
only enough to be certain that
it
wasn’t Preacher
.
The shadows hid
the man’s
face
, as he
lingered outside the small circle of light provided by the
thin
metal table lamp hanging overhead.

Veronica
focused on taking some long deep breaths and shaking off the vestiges of her panic attack
as Martin did his best to assess Abby’s condition
.
Steve wanted to help Martin, but he also wanted to keep an eye on the door and the stranger in the corner.

“Who are you?” Steve called
.
No answer
.
He scanned the entire room. The locals in the other corner ignored
him
.
Steve couldn’t tell if their disinterest
were
genuine or feigned
.
The bartender looked at him
again,
nodded in greeting and went back to watching
the soap opera
. With his back to the door, Steve felt very vulnerable
.
He backed up and put an arm around
Veronica
, who watched Martin’s cursory examination of Abby.

“Who are you?”
Steve
called again
to the stranger
.

In the dim light, he saw the orange fla
re
of a cigarette
.
With slow, purposeful movement, the figure in the corner blew a cloud of smoke and crushed the cigarette out on the table’s top
.
He then
pushed the chair back from the table and stood, stretching
.
He was tall, nearly a foot taller th
an Steve.
His
sunglasses,
leather jacket
and boots were all black. Above his
jeans
, his
grimy T-shirt
had
the grayish sheen
of
too many
washings
.
He was
well muscled
—
that much was evident
,
even with the jacket on
.
His
reddish-blond hair
was
pulled back in a ponytail at the base of his neck
, and he
was clean-shaven
except for
a close-cropped
soul patch
.
Each ear bore two silver hoop earrings. He strode toward them with a walk that bordered on
arrogance
.
As he reached Steve, he held out an empty hand.