Passion (10 page)

D.J. would have done it. Of course, D.J. never would have gotten herself into such a mess. Oh, she would have picked up John
last night; she certainly would have taken him to a hotel room—although not her own—and she would have used him so thoroughly
that he wouldn’t have had the energy to move for a few days. Then she would have walked away without even a backward look,
and if he had dared show up at her hotel this morning, she likely wouldn’t have given him the time of day.

But D.J. had guts. Teryl was just a spineless, helpless, sniveling fool.

D.J. took control. Teryl took orders.

She had followed John’s orders, what few he had given, all day. Now, atlas in hand, she sat waiting for the next one.

“See how far it is to the next town.”

“What state are we in?” she asked wearily.

“Should be Tennessee. The last town was Morrison—no, Morrisville.”

She flipped through to the Tennessee map, found the highway they were on, and began searching for Morrisville. When she didn’t
find it, she checked the index, but it was no help. “There’s no Morrisville on this road. Are you sure we’re in Tennessee?”

“We have to be. Jesus, we’ve been driving all day.”

She couldn’t remember seeing a sign welcoming them to Tennessee, but then she hadn’t been paying attention to signs. She had
spent most of the day staring blindly out the window, coming to life only when he prompted her for further directions. Now,
seeing the white glow of a highway sign ahead, she squinted to make out the numbers underneath the state designation. No wonder
she hadn’t been able to find Morrisville; she had been looking on the wrong road. She was bending over the map, searching
for the new road, when John swore with such viciousness that she flinched, and the atlas slid from her limp fingers.

He brought the Blazer to a stop on the grass at the side of the road and jerked the map from her lap where it had landed.
“For God’s sake, Teryl, we’re in Mississippi,” he muttered darkly, flipping through the pages to the M’s. “How the hell did
you manage that?”

Mississippi. They had left Mississippi behind a long time ago. If they were back in it again, then that meant they’d spent
the entire day driving in a giant circle. It meant that after a long, edgy, tense day, they were little, if any, closer to
Richmond—assuming that John truly intended to take her there. It meant another miserable long day to make up for today.

The prospect was too disheartening. Feeling as if she just might fold in on herself, she couldn’t even find the energy to
defend herself. “I’m not the one driving,” she said listlessly.

“But you’re the one giving directions.”

“And you’re the one not following them.”

“Maybe they’re not worth following. Don’t you know how to read a map?”

“I’ve never tried. I’ve never driven anyplace where I needed a map.” The discomfort in her neck was making its way steadily
up into her head until even her scalp ached. Forget food. She wanted a bathroom and a bed. She wondered if, while he studied
the map, he would let her make a quick trip into the dark woods that flanked the road. She doubted it. He had let her to to
the bathroom only once today, when they had stopped for gas, and then only after he had checked out the small, smelly, windowless
little room himself. Lunch had been candy bars, chips, and Cokes from the same gas station.

She wished for a little of that Coke now to wash down a handful of aspirin from D.J.’s survival kit. What would her friend
think when she found out—
if
she found out—that her gag gift had truly become a small part of Teryl’s survival?

What would she think when she went to the airport tonight to pick up Teryl and Teryl never showed? How long would it take
her to start worrying? How long before she called the hotel in New Orleans? How long before she found out that Teryl had checked
out this morning and disappeared?

Not that D.J.’s concern would do much good. No one had seen Teryl leave the studio with John yesterday. No one in the Quarter
would likely remember them, except the cabbie who had taken them to the hotel, and he’d had little interest in her face; they
had given him so much more to ogle. Probably no one at the hotel had noticed her with John this morning, not even the valet
who had brought the Blazer. She was just so damned forgettable, and John had seemed so normal. There had been nothing about
them that warranted attention.

Being forgettable seemed an awfully poor reason for dying—and even though he’d denied it, she wasn’t convinced that John wasn’t
going to kill her. Who could predict what a crazy person would do?

Resting her forehead against the cool glass, she closed her eyes. “If I don’t take some aspirin soon, I’m going to throw up,
and I can’t take aspirin without something to drink, and I can’t drink anything without going to the bathroom first.”

He glanced at her—she felt the weight of his look—then closed the road atlas, tucked it away, and shut off the lights. “There’s
a town about ten miles up. Maybe they’ll have a motel and we can stop for the night.”

Twenty-four hours ago the thought of spending the night with him had been exciting, erotic, pleasurable. Twelve hours ago
it would have filled her with fear and loathing. Tonight she didn’t care. He could do whatever he wanted, as long as she got
access to a bathroom and a bottle of aspirin first and he let her sleep—or went ahead and killed her—afterward.

The town was little, the business district no more than six blocks long. The three restaurants they passed were closed, she
noticed, as was the only grocery store. So much for a real dinner. The only sign of activity in the entire place was at the
convenience store located at the opposite end of town, right across the street from the lone motel.

Teryl’s smile as she surveyed the place was mirthless. It was two stories, no more than sixteen rooms, cinderblock painted
an offensive pale green, and ugly, God, so ugly. If there was a name, it was well hidden; the painted sign above the door
read simply Motel. Underneath that hung a sign that read Vacancy. There was no way to add a No in front of it, she noticed.
The owners probably found the likelihood of ever being completely booked so remote that they hadn’t wanted to waste money
on something they would never need.

John parked off to the side of the office, shut off the engine, and turned toward her. “You have to come in with me. Stay
at my side and keep your mouth shut. Don’t even make eye contact with the clerk. Understand?”

When she nodded, he removed his seat belt and got out. She didn’t move at all until he came around the truck and opened her
door; then she unclicked the belt, gave it a tug to make it retract, and slid to the ground. The parking lot was mostly dirt
with a sparse layer of gravel scattered over it. It felt unsteady beneath her feet, and
she
was unsteady above. Her legs were stiff, her muscles protesting the exertion after so many still hours in the Blazer.

He walked at her side, his hand resting lightly on her right arm, just above her elbow. To anyone watching, it probably seemed
a courteous gesture, providing a bit of support to someone who was obviously shaky after a long day’s travel, but she knew
the truth. She knew how quickly the nature of his touch could change from easy to hard, from supportive to restrictive. She
had no doubt that if she made the slightest move while inside the office, if she opened her mouth to ask the most innocent
question, or if he suspected that she was even thinking about escape, he would retaliate.

The motel office was tiny, three walls of glass and a paneled rear wall with a door that led to the owner’s living quarters.
The sound of a television, loud and distracting, came through the open door; when the bell announced their arrival, it was
muted, then a voice called, “Be right with you.”

Teryl rested both arms on the high counter while they waited. She should be thinking about escape, she acknowledged. She should
be making plans, seeking opportunities, mentally preparing herself to act when or if fate presented an opportunity. For example,
in spite of John’s warning, there was no reason why she shouldn’t appeal to the clerk for help. It wasn’t likely that John
would harm her in front of a witness… was it? And if the clerk, who was male, happened to be a big, strong male—bigger than
John, stronger than John—she would have to be a fool not to appeal to him for help, wouldn’t she?

She was saved from answering that question, because right then the clerk came through the door. It was a man, all right—the
oldest, tiniest little wisp of a man she’d ever seen. With his frail body and long, thin hands, with his bald head and little
eyes and big, hooked nose, he reminded her of nothing so much as a cartoon drawing of a gangly, awkward baby bird. As a final
insult, the little old man was practically deaf; John had to resort to shouting to make himself understood.

With a sigh, Teryl leaned on one elbow so she could rest her head on her palm. Pausing in filling out the registration card,
John pulled her left arm from the counter, lowering it out of the clerk’s line of sight. Apparently he didn’t want the
old man—who to her looked about as blind as he was deaf—to see the bruises and grow suspicious… or maybe he didn’t want to
see them himself. Maybe he was ashamed of what he’d done. That would certainly explain the flush reddening his face.

The clerk took John’s money—far too much for a dirty little place like this—and gave him a room key in exchange. Room 14,
second floor, on the end, as far from the office as they could get. They returned to the truck to get their bags, then climbed
the rickety steps to the top.

There was a light on in Room 8, Teryl noticed as they passed, but every other room was dark, the drapes open. Room 14 had
no neighbors, no one whose attention she could attract with a scream. There was only the one flight of stairs, and the windows
that fronted the rooms all held small air-conditioning units. John had gotten lucky. Unless he was very careless, she had
little chance of getting away.

And somehow she didn’t think he was going to get careless now.

He unlocked the door, pushed it open, and flipped on a light, then waited for her to enter first. Clutching the handle of
her suitcase in both hands, she stepped across the threshold into a dimly lit, musty, mildewy-smelling room. It was one hell
of an unwelcoming place, threatening in its darkness, sickening in its smell. Suddenly she didn’t feel so tired. Suddenly
stopping for the night didn’t seem such a good idea.

Sharing a room with him didn’t seem so acceptable.

Using his own suitcase, he nudged her forward so he could enter; then he closed and locked the door behind him. The click
of the lock made her shudder with revulsion. She was trapped in an awful place with a man she knew entirely too well and not
well enough, a man who may or may not be crazy, a man who might or might not kill her, and she had no one to blame but herself.

Because just once, just one night, she had wanted to be wicked in New Orleans.

Now she might have to pay for it with her life.

J
ohn stopped just inside the door, setting his bag down, taking a moment to look around. The room was small, the two beds shoved
against opposite walls, the space between them so narrow that the bedside table was wide enough to hold a phone and an ashtray
and nothing else. The sight of the ashtray made him long for a cigarette—he’d been smoking them by the carton in the last
few months, at least until he’d heard the news about Simon. Then smoking had become too nervous a habit, and he was already
nervous. Already edgy. He didn’t need anything to add to it.

The only other furniture in the room was a dresser with a TV bolted to it, mounted on a black swivel base. Automatically turning
it toward him, he pulled out the button that turned it on. The audio came on immediately, but the picture, like a giant Polaroid
shot, developed slowly. It was snowy and ghostly, but even with the bad reception, it was easy enough to recognize the show,
a replay of “New Orleans Afternoon.”

Without hesitation, he pushed the button and shut it off again.

Teryl had stopped at the foot of the more distant bed. She stood there, still holding her suitcase, as if awaiting further
instructions. She needed aspirin, she’d said, and something to drink and a bathroom. She also needed food—which he
could get from the convenience store across the street, even if it was just packaged honey buns or more candy bars—and sleep.
If that weary, bruised look was anything to judge by, she needed rest as desperately as he did.

Sleep she would get. Rest he wasn’t so sure about. Somehow he doubted that she would be able to relax enough to get any real
rest until he had been removed from her life and put away, preferably someplace with iron bars, strong locks, and soft, padded
walls.

With a dispirited sigh, he moved away from the door toward the closer bed, leaning across it to turn the air conditioner to
high, then freeing the pillows from the spread. As he did, she abruptly broke her silence.