Exodus 2022

EXODUS 2022

K
ENNETH
G. B
ENNETT

Booktrope Editions

Seattle WA 2014

Copyright 2014 Kenneth G. Bennett

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Cover Design by Kathleen Grebe

Edited by Elizabeth Johnson

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to similarly named places or to persons living or deceased is unintentional.

Print ISBN 978-1-62015-212-6

EPUB ISBN 978-1-62015-308-6

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Library of Congress Control Number: 2014905193

For my beautiful wife, Susan Marie Andersson, partner and cohort in countless wilderness adventures. Thank you for walking this path with me and for listening to my stories.

“God has to nearly kill us sometimes, to teach us lessons.”

-John Muir

JUNE, 2022
. Joe Stanton opened his eyes and whispered his daughter’s name. “Lorna Gwin.”

No reply.

“Sweetie? You awake?”

Joe yawned and stared at the popcorn-tiled ceiling, stained here and there with sprawling amoeba-shaped rings, souvenirs of long-ago rainstorms.

He stretched. Shifted position in the bed.

Early morning sunshine stabbed through a crack in the blackout curtains, illuminating the spartan motel room like a searchlight in an abandoned mine. Ella slept quietly beside him, her dark-red hair spilling across two pillows.

“Lorna Gwin?” Joe whispered, louder now. He sat up and swung his feet to the carpet. The adjacent double bed was empty. Rumpled and ruffled, but empty. “Lorna G?” 

Must be in the bathroom.

Joe got to his feet. Too fast. “Darlin’?” he croaked, head spinning, hands trembling.

No sound from the bathroom. Nothing.

Something’s wrong.

He crossed the room in three strides, stepping through the bright slash of daylight.

I overslept. Something’s happened.

The bathroom door stood open, revealing an empty tub, shower curtain swept to one side. No sign of the little girl.

“Lorna Gwin,” Joe called, turning and scanning the main room in earnest now.

Ella stirred.

“Lorna?” Joe stepped to the window and shoved the heavy drapes apart, trying to keep his voice steady. “You hidin’, sweetheart? Come on out now.”

Ella rested on her elbows and tracked his movements with startled, sleep-filled eyes. “What is it? What’s going on?”

“Lorna Gwin’s missing.”

Joe threw on a wrinkled T-shirt. Stepped into a pair of cargo shorts.

“What?”

“Lorna Gwin,” Joe replied, exasperated.

He jammed his feet into a pair of Keens and tugged the laces tight. “Probably went down to the lobby to get a soda. I told her not to leave without telling us.”

“What? Joe…Baby—”

The door slammed, and Joe stomped toward the stairs. It was 5:32 a.m.

THE BELLS ABOVE THE MOTEL
office door clanged and clattered.

“Lorna Gwin?” Joe whispered, stepping inside.

The lobby of the Breakwater had a homey 1950s-era motor-lodge feel to it. Glowing fir floors. Framed needlepoint art on the walls. Joe scanned the room, took it all in. Registration desk. Seating area. Fireplace.

A newspaper lay rolled and banded on the rug, where it had fallen through the mail slot. The Sunday edition of the
San Juan Islander
.

“Sweetie? You in here?”

No answer.

Silver-haired motel owner Walter Spinell stepped through the private door behind the registration desk.

“Mornin’,” he said warmly. “Gimme one minute and I’ll have the coffee on. We don’t normally get moving quite so early on Sunday, but—”

“I’m looking for my daughter,” said Joe. “Have you seen her?”

“Your daughter?” Spinell made his way around the desk.

“Little girl, five years old. Did she wander down here by any chance?”

“No,” said Spinell, noting the concern in Joe’s voice. “Don’t think so. You’re the first one in this morning. Those bells are pretty loud. My wife and I usually hear—”

“I need to find her. I think something’s”—Joe hesitated and his face, just for a moment, went completely blank—“I think maybe something’s wrong.”

“Wrong? How do you mean?”

Spinell remembered Joe from check-in: Scruffy beard. Earring. Tattoos on one arm. He also remembered Joe’s wife. She was a knockout. He’d given them Room 22, the last available unit. He couldn’t recall a kid.

“When did you see your daughter last?”

“Last night.” Joe stared out the window, raked his fingers through his thick, unruly hair, and nodded, as if confirming his own memory. “Last night. When we all went to bed.”

“Okay,” said Spinell. “I’m sure she’s right around here someplace. Where’s your wife looking?”

No response.

“Fella?”

Joe stared, face blank once more, and Spinell felt a thin wire of fear begin to coil in his gut.

“Could she have gone to your car? Did you check the lot? Where’s your wife?”

Joe’s eyes glinted like wet obsidian, and his mouth worked, but no sound came out. Spinell’s concern ticked up a notch. The guest from 22 had the look of a shock victim. A meth head.