hope, and my last chance of making an escape with Melody. I’ll be facing one of three scenarios: (1) Melody coughed up my arrival to the marshal, in which case I will be nailed; (2) Melody tasted what it’s like to be free—both from my arrival and my departure, and the fact that she can turn me in if she chooses—and suspects that only I can give that to her; or (3) she’s already gone, disappeared—or dead.
I turn into the motel parking lot, spotting the marshal’s Explorer still in place from last night, and drive around until I find another red car to park next to, the only trick I have to conceal my cherry bomb. I exit my car and slip on my jacket, then my driving gloves. I move in and out of the walkways and crevices of the motel that I’d walked just hours earlier. The facility appears dirtier and more neglected in the daylight than when illuminated by nothing more than the moon. I slip behind the bushes a stretch away from their rooms and stare, watching for anything: a crack in the door, movement of blinds, a cleaning person going in or coming out.
After almost twenty minutes of crouching, the marshal is the first to emerge—from Melody’s room. I read the numbers on the doors and I am certain of it; I can’t help but wonder how close they’ve become, if Melody’s apparent attraction to the marshal somehow evolved—or worse, the possible words they exchanged in what might have been an all-night discussion, how the impression I left on Melody was not as effective as I hoped.
The marshal walks out and stands on the sidewalk, goes nowhere, breathes like he’s getting ready to make an Olympic run down a ski slope. Then he quickly returns to his room. Two minutes later he shows again, takes a few paces back and forth while he rubs his eyebrows and temples, then back into his room. He goes through this ritual one more time before he doesn’t make it back, bends over like he’s looking for something he dropped in the shrubs, then retches all over the hedges, stumbles back inside his room, and closes the door.
This, I determine, functions equally as a blessing and a curse. I’d intended to snag Melody when the marshal left his room to take care of resolving their bill, prepare the Explorer, meet another marshal—whatever would draw him out and away. Now I know he is indisposed, a real chance to get her out of here. Unfortunately, I’ll have to pull it off with him one wall away.
I reverse my movements, retracing the perimeter of the facility, keeping my eyes on the doors to their rooms. I zip down the walkway and slow as I come right up on their doors. I pause and listen for voices, hearing only the marshal’s muffled vomiting; I make note of how flimsy the structure of this motel actually is, how quiet we will need to be.
I pull out my card and open Melody’s door within seconds, a mastered skill utilized for its final time. My eyes slowly adjust to dim flickering light, the muted television throwing gray light upon the walls. I hear the shower running and splashes of water hitting the bottom of the tub in large bursts. Her room is strangely warm, heat still radiating from the ventilator even though it’s off. Within thirty seconds, the water stops and the only remaining sound is the vent fan for the bathroom. Its rattling and knocking make it impossible to hear sounds from the marshal next door.
I stand like a statue by the entryway, survey the room like a vandal coming back to assess his handiwork. So many things remain from the night before: the clothes she removed from her body, the chair by the window, the smell of stale smoke once exhaled from my lungs.
And then I start absorbing those things I missed the first time. A Rorschach-shaped, roux-colored stain decorates the pillowcase in the dent where her head had rested. A ripped-open box of hair coloring along with its near-empty contents rests below the mirror on the dresser. One-inch lengths of hair are sprinkled unevenly across the floor like salt on an icy sidewalk. Other than her clothes from the night before, there is so little to know of her. Were I a voyeur or snoop, how disappointed I would be at gaining access to her life. The woman barely exists.