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Authors: Lane Tracey
Copyright © 2013 Lane Tracey
KINDLE EDITION
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Cover and book
design by
THE KILLION GROUP
Dedications
To my twins who have those eyes
T
o my older son who has a thing about cars, too
To my spouse, always
Table of Contents
Chapter
1
It’s all wrong.
My head feels like a wet sandbag. I’m dead weight on this bed. There’s a deep ache in my skull and shoulders, pinning me flat in a wrestler’s hold.
Something’s off. It doesn’t feel right.
Swallowing makes my dry lips bleed. The sharp tang of blood mixes with the foul taste already in my mouth. I drag my eyes open, oddly reluctant. What is this place? Maybe this is a dream. It’s hard to focus. Blinking once, twice, my sideways view shows me a blue wall with a picture of a creepy circus clown. It gets my head off the pillow. Feeling heavy and sore, I push all the way up, look around, stop breathing.
I seriously don’t know where the hell I am. Is this a joke? My head twists back and forth. There’s an old-fashioned, fat TV, cheap table and chairs, and brown carpet with a God-knows-what huge stain by the door. It’s obviously a motel room, but I don’t recognize it. Where is everyone? Why am I alone?
I bolt upright and flip the covers off. Then, cold fear slams me in the stomach and I can’t move—frozen, half in and half out of the bed. The only movement is my ribcage madly expanding and contracting. The ball of panic grows in my stomach, reacting to the sense of nothingness out there. My mind can’t wrap around this place. But it’s more than wondering
where
I am that’s terrifying me.
I hear myself whimpering and it sounds disembodied, as if it’s coming from next door. Poor girl is frightened half to death. I grab the sheet up around me, protecting me from whatever it is out there, climb back into bed, and rock back and forth.
Footsteps scrape outside my door and a shadow passes the drawn shades. I stuff the sheet into my mouth and bite down on it to stop a scream. Spit and snot pool in the back of my throat and choke me. This won’t do. The sheet serves as a tissue for my wet nose and face. I push myself out of the bed and stand up on shaky legs. The cold air makes my naked body feel even more exposed.
Though tiny, the room overwhelms me. My mind’s a blank. Where to go, what to do? Panic threatens to unravel me and it takes all my strength to will my feet forward. Unbidden, they take me to a large mirror in an open vanity area. I stare at my reflection. My face looks so pale and haunted. It looks mismatched with my body, tanned brown, except for strips where a bikini blocked the sun. Scanning back up, I watch my expression grow more and more horrified. What is it?
I back away, twist around, and run flat out across the room, tripping over the chair, killing my leg but not really feeling it, fumbling with the lock, ripping open the door, getting slammed in the face by heat and coming to my senses. There’s no one outside, thank God. My ribcage and heart slam against each other.
Time warps. In slow motion, my naked body pulls away from the door and pivots back to the room. The door clatters shut. I jump forward like I’ve been
branded. Outside isn’t safe. There’s something out there. It was just a feeling. No one was out there. Just a brief view of an outside corridor, empty parking lot, and dusty road below me. Where is everyone? I shake my head, trying to rid myself of the rising panic. Got to move.
The closet is in my line of sight and I’m there in four steps. Jeans and a tank top are neatly hung inside, with underwear hooked over the hanger. I tear them down and claw through the pockets, coming up with a room card and some cash and coins. No ID.
A sound rips out of me. It’s feral. Got to find it. Got to find
something
. Opening every drawer in the place, looking in the bathroom—in the toilet of all places—on the hideous table. Odd, grunting animal sounds come from somewhere. It’s me.
It’s not awareness of the animal sounds that stops me dead. Those sounds are sucked right out of me when my eyes really see what’s on the hideous table. It’s the blazing title of every magazine announcing my location that makes my knees buckle and parks my butt in one of the ugly chairs at the table. Las Vegas? What in the world am I doing in a motel room alone in Las Vegas? My elbows dig into the table, hands barely holding up my head. The animal sounds are back along with whimpering.
Desperation and panic drive me out of the chair and back to the jeans on the closet floor. I paw through the pockets again with shaking hands. Empty. My breathing is double-time. I feel sick and as if I’m going to faint. Got to lie down until my head stops spinning.
I stumble the few feet to the bed and flop onto it. My right hip barks against something lumpy. Rolling over and throwing the rumpled bedspread back, there’s a backpack. Oh God, maybe in here. My fingers are shaking so hard, the damn zipper won’t unzip. OK, pockets, then. Nothing. Back to the zipper and more fumbling. My efforts are rewarded seconds later when the zipper gives all at once, spilling some of the contents.
I feel sick again. I flip my feet over the side of the bed, put my head between my knees, and take deep breaths. God, I can smell the floor. It reeks.
Despite the smell, as soon as I feel slightly under control, I turn my head around and warily eye the backpack as though it’s alive and might attack me. My hands are trembling convulsively on my lap, a reminder that I’m on the edge of a precipice that’s dying to swallow me. A deep breath; hold it. My hands thrust out and swiftly upend the backpack and shake it viciously, spilling the rest of the contents on the bed.
I lose it. Because it’s all money and nothing else. A ridiculous amount of money. This is a nightmare. But I keep waiting to wake up. Oh please, wake up. A roaring sound builds in my ears. The room is too bright. Gotta get away from this money. I back up until I’m pressed against the far wall and stare at the mound of cash on the bed.
My mind races, desperate for context, because it feels as if my grip on reality is slipping. Cheap motel, a ton of money, Las Vegas, no ID, maybe on the run. I can’t take my eyes off all that money. My panic and nausea increase a notch as I consider the myriad, sleazy connections between Las Vegas and money: gambling, drugs, prostitution.
Then my vision telescopes and the money once dominating everything in the room fades. Because my mind—pushing, insisting—intrudes into my consciousness with questions like, why am I alone and where is my family? It’s too much. I feel myself falling into the precipice over its lip to blackness, swallowed whole. Then sick, shaking, stumble to the toilet, retching, heaving, making unearthly keening noises as I throw up violently.
The muscles along my sides and back convulse again and again until there’s nothing but spit, green bile, and air to take from me. The porcelain rim under my cheek is cold comfort. My arms lie slack at my sides. I don’t feel anything and that feels good.
But it’s a lie. One tear spills from my eye and tracks down to the end of my nose. It stays there for a long time. With the last of my strength, I push away from the toilet and roll up into a ball in the corner of the room. I shut my eyes and will the world to go away. But the reality that threatens to crush me, that terrifies me, that has haunted me since I woke up is certainly not going away.
I don’t remember who I am.
Chapter 2
The smell finally forces
me from my fetal position. Not the cold air finding the sweat on my naked body, seeping through my pores, skin, bone, and down to my heart. But my nose is covered by a strand of my hair that has vomit on it. After ages, I watch my hand float up and push the hair aside. But then my nostrils are immediately assaulted by the odor of urine. A tilt of my head shows me that there are spots of it around the toilet. Rolling around in pee while puking. Nice.
I sit up and take a deep breath. I know why they set the air
-conditioning so cold in here. It stinks and stink molecules slow down in the cold. A hysterical giggle rises up, gets caught in my throat, and I choke on it. Steady. Get yourself under control. There are things to do. You can’t stay in the corner forever.
Why not?
That’s ridiculous. You’ve got to go for help.
No. It’s not safe
.
What are you talking about? Go to
the police. Find out where your family is. They may have filed a missing persons report.
No! What if I’m in trouble? What if I’ve robbed someone or a bank or something
? The money—and I have this feeling there’s someone outside the hotel watching
….
You’re being ridiculous.
No, I’m not, I’m not
. These thoughts are ripping me up. My arms wrap around my knees to hold me together, fingers gripping, not moving even to wipe away tears. My breathing is way too fast. There’s no paper sack in this stinkhole to fight against hyperventilating. Anger helps me get my breathing under control.
Get up. Move. Do something
!
A puppeteer seems to be controlling my legs and arms a
s I move in jerky steps toward the TV remote control. Maybe my face will be on the news as someone who robbed a casino or bank or something. My thumb turns white from pressing so hard on the remote, betraying my fear and desperation. My grip relaxes somewhat when there’s nothing on the news channels but the opening of a new hotel and a dead body found floating in a condo’s hot tub.
I
t’s the ad for a BMW on the TV that jolts me into thinking to look for a car in the parking lot. Just the thought starts my hand shaking around the remote. But there were no keys in my pockets. Well, there wasn’t much of anything in any pockets.
My mind feels sluggish. It resists
working out what’s happened.
Either I dumped or someone strippe
d me of my ID and keys, but maybe I’ll recognize my car if I just go to the window and look down at the parking lot. There. I blow out air as if achieving some great feat. But at the prospect of going to the window and moving aside the shade, my heart skips rope in my chest like a possessed second-grader.
Wait. Wasn’t the lot
empty before? There’s a vague memory of flinging open the door and seeing a corridor and…the remote thumps to the floor as a cry rips out of me. The phone on the nightstand is shrieking, insisting I pick it up. Instead, I back against the corner and slide down the wall until I’m sitting, hunched and trembling. Staring, staring at the screeching instrument until it stops. There is no limit to my terror.
The room tilts, like at a fun park, but this isn’t fun. My reality is tested. I’m no one. There’s nothing to hold on to. My head is between my knees, chest grasping to bring in air. I smell, but that helps me feel real.
When you don’t have a past to anchor you—friends, family, experiences—what keeps you from floating away?
I’ve been in deep denial. Pulling my head from my knees, the digital readout on t
he bedside clock tells me it’s two p.m. Of course, it’s past checkout time. The call was probably just the front desk. The front desk has information on me. My head goes back between my knees, arms wrapping tighter to stop the shaking. It’s simple: talk to the front desk.
No. It’s not safe outside
.
The front desk has information on me. It’s worth the risk.
But this feeling of being hunted is so strong, it takes the phone again jangling along my nerve endings to raise my head from my knees. I stand up and approach the phone as if it’s a black mamba—too slow and the ringing stops. It’s okay; they’ll call in another half-hour.
My hand is resting on the receiver, wai
ting, when the phone rings again in fifteen minutes. Still, nerves in my stomach jump and my mouth goes dry.
“Yes?”
My voice cracks with fear. I try again and croak, “Hello?”
“Ms. Smith?” says a polite voice
. “Will you be continuing your stay with us? It’s well past checkout time. How would you like to settle your account?”
All I can do is breathe heavily into the phone like a stalker.
“Ms. Smith?”
“I’ll be down in a few minutes,” I manage and hang up. Somehow my feet carry me to the bathroom sink, where I turn
on the water full blast and splash my face and the back of my neck. I take a long drink right out of the faucet, not bothering to use one of the little wrapped plastic cups. It tastes disgusting, but is deeply satisfying.
Workin
g dried vomit out of long hair is tough. Scissors would have made an easy job of it. I’m thoroughly chilled at the end of washing, and rub myself and the mess on my head with a thin towel more to warm up than to dry off. A quick sniff of the clothes in the closet tells me they aren’t clean, but that can’t be helped now. Dressing swiftly, I glance in the mirror and make an impatient sound; my fingers rake through my hair and get caught. Whatever. Then my breath catches.
Shoes! Where are my shoes? A swift search turns up nothing. Oh sweet. I walked across the Las Vegas desert barefooted.
I feel panicky. My feet will blister in five steps across that sizzling parking lot. Calm down. They have to be here somewhere. My eyes scan the room for the hundredth time. Try the other side of the bed. And there they are, a pair of sandals, under the bed on the side the backpack was on.
Relief floods me, weakening my limbs as I sit on the bed to slip the sandals on. The backpack is next to me like some newborn
who has just awakened from a nap and is screaming to be fed. It demands my attention. Not now! I want to scream back. But it needs counting, hiding, protecting, and again I’ve been in denial. Like, right now, how am I going to carry it to the motel’s front desk?
My mind shuts down at that point and my body takes over, hands cramming all the money back into the pack. I sit on the edge of the bed, lean back and hook one strap around my shoulder and then the other. Slowly shifting forward
—it’s incredible how heavy the backpack is even sitting down—letting the momentum carry me forward, I try standing. Oh, no way. My legs buckle, feet shuffling madly forward, trying to maintain balance. Once balanced, still trying not to think, I take a shaky breath, pull open the door and walk out into the glaring sunlight. The desert heat rushes up to meet my face and it’s like walking into a brick wall.
It’s overwhelming being outside. The heat is a living thing, closing around my throat. Everything in my body screams to run back into the room and ball up in the corner again. But the same momentum that got me off the bed carries me forward.
I move down the narrow corridor, past rooms 210 and 208, and struggle down the worn stairs. I should search all around the motel for my car. But the backpack is too heavy, it freaks me out to be outside, and I want to get the encounter with the desk clerk over with.
M
y tank is soon soaked through from the intense heat and my feet keep stumbling under the weight of the pack. I’m sorely in need of a shower and new clothes, but that will have to wait. My eyes squint against the glare of the sun. It makes it hard to see the tasteless motel sign made of lights. The Lucky 7. If my stomach wasn’t in knots, that might be funny.
My head swivels around, looking for a car that mi
ght spark some recognition. Hope is nonexistent as nothing has looked familiar to me other than my own face and body. Three cars sit at the far end of the dusty, hot lot: a dull green Ford Taurus, a white Toyota Camry, and a Black F150. My eyes linger on the lifted, clean F150 for a moment, but it’s not recognition, just admiration. Are you kidding me? I mentally slap myself and return to looking nervously over my shoulder for the nameless, faceless boogie man I keep imagining is out there.
It’s a relief to be back in air-conditioning again by the time I reach the lobby. I’m glad to see it’s empty except for the desk clerk. His head is down, but I can see that
he’s older, maybe early thirties. He has a bad case of acne and sniffs repeatedly as if he has a cold. The clerk looks up and at first regards me with a bored expression. Then his eyes light up like a beast from hell as he slowly takes in my body from my feet to my hair. This doesn’t help my nerves.
Taking a big breath, I push sweat-matted hair off my forehead and notice my hand is shaking.
Pull it together
. I shift the heavy weight on my back and try to walk confidently up to the desk.
“I’m Ms. Smith in room 212, and I would like to stay
, uh, three more days.” I lick my lips, hoping I sound self-assured. The clerk stares at my lips as if he would like to eat them, taps on his computer, and in the same voice I heard on the phone says, “Yes, we do have availability.” I had been pretty confident about availability due to the total of three cars in the parking lot and the stench in the room. He shows me all his teeth in what he probably thinks is a sexy smile. My stomach rolls over. “All set. Is there anything else I can help you with, Ms. Smith?”
I hesitate, gripping my hands together so the shaking isn’t noticeable.
“Um, were you working when I checked in?” Little hope here considering most likely I checked in last night.
“Yes, I was. I remember you because of the deposit instead of credit card.” I’m
surprised and totally confused. Before I can think through his answer, I blurt, “I’m sorry?”
“You know, people give a credit card at check
-in? But you preferred to offer a large deposit.”
I digest the information and try to think of what to ask, but my entire being seems focused on the tremor in my clasped hands.
“Uh, I was sick and don’t remember much. Exactly how much did I give you?”
“A thousand doll
ars.” His eyes narrow. He looks as if he’s trying to figure out what I’m up to or what’s wrong with me. I push it.
“One more thing. I know this sounds strange, but did someone drop me off?”
He’s not answering me, just staring, all the flirting stripped from his face. The backpack is going to rip my upper back in two. My breath releases when he finally says something.
“A cab, right at the front entrance. Close to three p.m. when I was about to get off work.”
“I was alone?”
“You were alone.”
The shaking is moving up my arms now and that’s as far as I can go.
I thank him and hurry
out of the lobby. He must think I’m on drugs or mentally ill, but he gave me useful information. Despite the crushing heat and weight of the pack, I practically jog back to my room, bolt and chain the door behind me, and barely break my rhythm to strip naked and get into the shower. Once there, I lean my head against the wall, water and relief washing over me in sheets. After a time, I scrub myself over and over, trying to peel off the terror and desperation of the last few hours. And something else. There’s something else I’m trying to clean off.
The backpack rests just outside the curtain where I check it compulsively every two minutes.
My mind runs in a ceaseless loop about getting help versus staying hidden. Finally, I decide not to call the police. I will stay hidden in this rundown motel that inexplicably feels safe.
Ever since I woke up in this nightmare
, I have had one unshakeable feeling: someone is hunting me. It could be the police. It could be someone else. There is no other reasonable explanation for the money, for taking a cab, and for being in this place. But, there’s something wrong with me—
Why can’t I remember?
I don’t know. I just know I have to hide
.
