Marilyn (7 page)

She smiled.

'Where's the Jeep parked?'

'Out back, behind the building, come on, let's go.'

Elwood picked up Molly and threw her over his shoulder and led the way.

Marilyn followed behind closely, she held the jackets and shells in her arms.

Elwood led her through the long corridor, passing doors and turnings every few feet. They stopped at a double bolted metal door. The rain from outside tried its hardest to invade the motel, persistently beating against the door. They both dropped what they were carrying and put their jackets on, zipping them right up to their chins. They pulled the hoods over their heads and looked at the door.

Elwood gripped the lock handles one after the other and wiggled them until they were both free, the outdoors one step away. He reached for Marilyn's free hand and took it. Neither spoke. He pushed mightily at the door until it opened against the force of the wind. They braced themselves and headed face first into the unknown.

It wasn't too bad when they actually made it outside, the building seemed to protect them from the majority of the wind, acting like a blockade, a protector. A grassy hump cleared the way for a set of steps which led into yet another gravel-filled car park, with six parking spaces. The lawn was overgrown, not trimmed in months, maybe years. They jogged across the grass and down the steps, giving each one the attention it deserved. With a few slips and slides they made it to the bottom, to the car park, unscathed.

Elwood pushed the buttons on the keyring and the lights of the Jeep flashed their welcoming beacons. They upped their pace to a steady run, splashing their way through pools and deep puddles of murky rain water.

The Jeep was old, worn out, like everything else at the motel. Its pallid brick red exterior barely distinguishable in the dead light of apparent morning.

Both doors swung open in unison and they climbed inside, shutting out the ugliness of the outdoors.

Elwood found the home for the keys, inserted and turned. It started first time.

'Attagirl. As reliable as ever,' he boasted. 'Buckle up.'

Marilyn quietly did as she was told.

Without checking his mirrors, Elwood reversed at an unsafe speed. They chugged around the car park, following the path closely until they were clear of the motel.

NINETEEN

Jack grappled his way through the woodland, swiping at lose branches and kicking at lumps of mud, clearing a path for both himself and his captor. He tried to take in the view, what there was of one. He had never seen the countryside, except from pictures in books and shows on television. He had always imagined that it would be a lovely place to spend time.

   Trees had been split and snapped from the force of the gale, birds' nests lay discarded in pieces, their owners dead, partly buried next to them. Jack could feel himself beginning to cry for the first time, but he held back. His small, frail body took a battering from the assault of the terrain—mounds, holes, and muddy ditches attacked him from every angle. He lost his footing once or twice, almost falling into trenches.

It was bitterly cold, the rain made his face feel like a block of ice, he poked and prodded at it as he walked, trying to summon some sort of feeling back. It was pointless. Each breath was like an ice-pick stabbing him straight through his lungs. The power and energy in his legs were dwindling, a limp was setting in. The wind howled a chilling song through the trees, making it practically impossible for Jack to think, it was like something from a horror movie. He hated horror movies. He thought about when he stayed up to watch the original
The Wolf Man
from 1941. It was black and white and nothing looked real, but it still scared him for a week. He would wake up in the middle of night in pools of sweat after being chased by the wolf man for what felt like hours. These woods were not helping matters, they felt alive, like someone, something was watching him from afar.

***

Walter's size nine boots trampled leaves and twigs into the soil, leaving a path of delirium in his wake. He watched his steps scrupulously, but his eyes never strayed too far from Jack. The air was crisp and it awoke his senses, making him feel revitalised, fresh.

'Don't you just love the winter, huh?' Walter yelled, a hand curled around his mouth.

Jack turned, stunned, tight-lipped.

'Do you remember when me and your mother took you on your first holiday, you must have only been about four? You were probably too young to remember it, but we all got soaked,' laughed Walter, 'kinda like this, and three of us ended up spending the entire time in bed with the flu? Some holiday, hey, David?'

Walter watched his feet plunge into the slop along the path.

'We were so worried about you. You had never been ill before, you had this huge fever and your temperature was through the roof. We had no idea what to do.' His voice grew deeper, ireful. 'The doctor could hardly speak a fucking word of English...'

'Look,' Jack interrupted, timidly.

***

There was a clearing up ahead through the bent and contorted bushes, a semi-circle arching doorway made of leaves and wrenched branches.

Jack moved along through the clearing, lazily backhanding the loose twigs.

'I... I don't remember the holiday,' he said, delicately.

'What holiday? Speed up, boy, if you know what's good for you,' O'Sullivan demanded, ignoring Jack's attempt at continuing the conversation, a foul snarl carrying each word.

Jack did just that, instantly transforming his walk into a run.

O'Sullivan was right behind him, walking in his fresh footprints.

They got clear of the bushes and made their way to a muddy, downhill trail that went on for a hundred yards, maybe more. It was a cinch, stable and balanced all the way down, and there it was…

No more than a stone's throw away, a farm house, surrounded by once lush greenery, now it was an overgrown, jungle impersonator. The farm house was a fossil, outdated and old fashioned, built in the style of a typical English farmhouse. It had ditched the old-school thatched roof for a remarkably modern slate roof. The red brickwork was immersed in thick ivy that grew insubordinately wherever it pleased, reckless and carefree. It was approached by a challenging, cobbled and crooked path where the rain splashed and bubbled between the stone. The mandatory barn lived just opposite, the doors were secured fast, surprisingly withstanding the aggression of the squall.

Jack stopped dead, his feet sinking into the bowels of the earth.

'Well, what are you waiting for, boy? No one told you to stop, keep moving.'

O'Sullivan shoved Jack in the back with an angry palm, sending him tumbling forward. Jack swung his arms to and fro like two miniature windmills in a breeze, hoping to catch something, anything that would stop him from going head over heels into the muck and filth. It was no use, he toppled and rolled head first down the track, into a muddy ditch, grazing his forehead on shreds of partly buried rocks and churned up pebbles. He wanted to scream. Maybe the wind would carry his cries for salvation far enough that someone would come to his rescue. The tears he cried this time, were for himself.

O'Sullivan trudged behind him, hovering over his injured body, his eyes lacking any sign of remorse.

'Get up, you hear? Get up now.'

O'Sullivan gripped him under the arm, dragged him to his feet and pushed him ahead.

'Keep walking.'

Jack limped onwards, poking at the graze on his head with a relaxed finger, it hurt to touch, but there was no blood. A painful, bloodless memento to take away with him. He brushed himself off, wiping the dirt from his knees, chest and elbows. He declined to turn around and look at O'Sullivan. They walked the path that led to the farmhouse, O'Sullivan lingering a few steps behind Jack at all times.

'Now, remember who is in charge here. Any trouble at all from you and I'll kill everyone inside, even the fucking dog if they've got one,’ he spat, sincerely, without a trace of a joke. 'You got that?'

     'Yes, sir. I'm not going to be any trouble.'

'Good, glad to hear it.'

They climbed the two small steps that made their way to the door. It was old and large, fitting in with the style of the house. A black knocker in the shape of a laughing jester fashioned itself to the top middle of the prestigious entryway.

'Now, let me do all the talking. I don't want to hear a fucking peep from you until I say so, have I made myself clear?' O'Sullivan panted through a buckled mouth.

'Yeah, you've made yourself clear,' Jack replied with a hint of sarcasm that passed unnoticed.

O'Sullivan clicked his fingers, and pointed to the empty space next to him, like Jack was some kind of unruly mongrel that needed telling off.

'Now, do as I say, come and stand next to me.'

Jack shuffled across as he was ordered and waited.

O'Sullivan gave three heavy knocks with the jester and stood back. Waiting. His hand behind his back, ready for whoever was behind the door.

'Not a fucking word.'

TWENTY

He peeked through the gaps in the drawn blinds, pulling the slats apart with his thumb and index finger. They had been drawn for over twelve hours, masking the wretchedness and sickness of the outdoors. This was nothing new to him, he had seen many a storm over the years.

The office was still relatively empty, void of any trinkets or personality. The wood panelled walls were artless, naked, showing off their freshly painted shine with modest pride.

He mumbled under his breath, again, realising how often he spoke to himself in his office. Sometimes, walls were the best listeners, the best secret keepers, a lonely man's best friend. He freed his pistol from the holster with polished competency, an olden day gunslinger in a modern world. It was standard issue but it felt heavier than usual and the metal was icy in his hand. He couldn't remember the last time that he had fired his weapon, it had been that long, but it was like riding a bike, you never forget. He gazed at it for a long second and put back where it belonged.

The steady, monotonous hum of the generator could be heard, seeping under the cheap doors and through the thinly insulated walls. No peace or quiet in this town, that was for sure.

It was a waste of time, he couldn't see a thing, the black returned a wet scowling stare that never seemed to retreat. The radio conversation that he had had not so long ago played over and over in his thoughts, like a never-ending composition of agony and woe. Pushing these images and voices to the farthest reaches of his consciousness proved fruitless. He grabbed his freshly brewed cheap, instant coffee from the windowsill and knocked back two big mouthfuls, not savouring the taste. He put his mug back without breaking his gaze, hearing the knock at the door, but not registering its sound. There it was again, this time he responded without turning around to look who was there.

'Come in.'

A tall, thin man walked through the door. He was young, in his late twenties, but looked about thirty-five. His crisp, clean and neatly pressed uniform, soaked, rubbed together, creating a shuffling noise as he walked into the office.

'You wanted to see me, Sheriff?' the deputy questioned.

'Yeah. Yeah, I did.'

The sheriff still didn't move, he combed both hands through his bouncy, blond hair.

'Sheriff, are you… are you all right?'

The sheriff sighed.

'No... No. I guess not. You know, When I was a boy growing up, storms were more frequent that sunshine.' He digressed. 'I thought I had become somewhat immune to the depressing effects of bad weather.'

He turned, suddenly, snatched from his trance, a frightful look etched into his face.

'Thanks for coming out, Deputy, I mean with the weather like it is an' all.'

'No problem, Sheriff. I only live a few doors away. It was no bother.' The deputy paused, shuffling in the doorway with his hand in his pockets. 'So, what's happened, what's the emergency?'

The sheriff sat down in his expensive leather office chair, lowering himself into the seat awkwardly, swivelling left and right uncomfortably. He rested both of his arms on his equally expensive oak desk and crossed them, they were thick with ageing muscle. The cold from the wood numbed his forearms. He didn't invite the deputy to join him in sitting.

'I just got off the radio with Elwood Bailey,' he stated, interlocking his fingers and resting them on the desk.

'Elwood Bailey?' the deputy squawked. 'The crazy fellow from the motel?'

'Yeah, that's him, Davies. He isn't no crazier than the rest of us around here.'

'Sorry, boss,' Davies apologised, regretfully.

     'Anyway, he's got a young woman there at his motel claiming that a man named David O'Sullivan kidnapped her son.’

'Holy shit, boss. Are you serious?' Davies blurted, wishing he had a seat to sit in.

'Unfortunately, yeah, I'm serious.'

'Shit, do you believe her?'

'I've got no reason not to. We have to take these things seriously, you know that, Davies.' The sheriff brought both of his hands to his face, stroking the fresh stubble that marked his chin. 'You should have heard the fear in her voice, it was real, chilling. They seem to think he's heading our way, to get onto the freeway. I'm inclined to believe them. It's his only option, a bold one at that in this fucking weather. He'll end up killing himself and the boy if he's not careful. The roads are deadly.'

Davies took all the information in, processing it like a computer from the 1980s.

    'Jesus H Christ, R.J. You've got to be fucking shittin' me. A kidnapper heading our way, coming through our town? Shit. This is the biggest thing that's happened since. Well... Since ever.'

Now he took his seat, uninvited but justified.

The two men sat for a moment, staring at each other, listening to the rain pounding on the window. Silent.

     'What do we do now, Sheriff? I mean, boss. I've never even arrested anyone. I'm not exactly Dirty Harry,’ Davies joked, minus his usual smile.

'I don't know, Davies.' He looked to the ceiling, rubbing the light from his eyes. 'I guess the standard procedures are out of the window. I mean, roadblocks are out of the question in this weather. I've tried radioing the neighbouring stations but I can't get an answer. To get to the freeway he has to go through town, past this building, past my fucking window, that son-of-a-bitch.'

R.J. jumped to his feet and wondered around his office, shaking his head and muttering to himself as he walked.

'I know this much. He can't reach that freeway, Davies. There's no way in hell we can let him.'

He kicked out at the carpeted floor with his boots, scuffing the brown fabric with each pleasing touch. His handsome features crumpling under the decay of his competence.

'These fucking phone lines, are they up yet, Davies?' he asked, hopelessly, already knowing the answer.

'No, boss.'

R.J. kicked out at the floor again, his mind a blank canvas. The muttering resumed.

     'We need some sort of patrol. We need something. Davies, anyone around here with a radio?'

Davies got up, following suit, the sense of urgency pumping through his veins, although slightly delayed.

‘Yeah, I think so, Sheriff. I know Mr Peters has, and Mr Torrance down at the store,' Davies confirmed.

'Good, good. Now, I need you to get a hold of them. Give them some bull shit story about some guy wanted for, I don't know, anything, a few towns over, travelling with a child. Just don't tell them the truth, I don't want anyone panicking, or trying to take shit into their own hands, I don't need any dead heroes, or a dead kid, for that matter. Got it? Tell them to keep an eye out for a car. It'll be the only one coming through this town. No one else is crazy enough. If they see anything I want them to radio through, immediately. Understood?'

'Got it, boss.'

‘Can you get a hold of Langston and Brewer, too? They live at the edge of town. Ask them to attempt to set up a roadblock, any means necessary. That fucker isn't getting through this town. Let them know what's going on. He could be armed and he's no doubt dangerous so they need to proceed with caution. Got that?' he added. 'Getting that boy back to his mother in one piece is our main objective here.'

'Understood, boss.' Davies acknowledged, with an attempted waist-high salute.

Davies hung around, his tall frame just dangling aimlessly where he stood. He rubbed the sides of his moustache looking for solace.

'Well.' R.J. demanded. 'What are you fucking waiting for?'

'Right, yeah, on it, boss.'

Davies left, leaving the door ajar, allowing a draught to enter the room.