round as they’d been, now exaggerated, either in fear or excitement, and for a split second Beetle wondered if maybe the motel was on fire.
“You were sleeping,” Greta said, more statement than question. “I woke you.”
“No, yeah—sort of.” His voice sounded thick and slow in his ears. He cleared his throat.
“I thought so,” she said. “You were pretty drunk on the balcony. I would have let you sleep, but I know you would want to see this.”
Beetle waited expectantly. He was trying to remember what they’d spoken of out on the balcony and was drawing a blank.
“There are people at the church!” Greta told him in an unnecessary whisper, given they were likely the only two guests in the entire motel.
“Huh?” Beetle said.
“The church! With the upside down crosses.”
“Ah…”
“Three cars just arrived. Right now.”
Beetle frowned, struggling to make sense of the meaning and significance of this. Who would attend church at this hour, and why the hell did it matter?
Greta read the confusion on his face and said, “The legends! Remember?”
The legends. Right. What had she told him? Something about mutants…and a graveyard? Or a school bus? He shook his head.
“Satanists!” she blurted. “They’re there right now!”
Beetle almost smiled—almost.
“You don’t believe me,” Greta said. “I can see that in your eyes.”
“What time is it?”
“Two in the morning. Who visits a church at two in the morning?”
“You really think there’re a bunch of Satanists over there?” His eyes shifted to the door.
“What?” she said.
“Huh?”
“You want me to go?”
“I’m a bit tired, and I have a headache…”
“You want to go to bed?” She seemed incredulous.
“I’m sure you’ll be safe,” he assured her. “Just lock your door—”
“I don’t want to hide. I want to see them—and you have to come with me.”
“To the church?” Beetle was already shaking his head “I’m not going to the church.”
“You’d let me go by myself?” She became indignant. “What if they kidnap me? What if they sacrifice me?”
“No, I don’t think you should go either. It’s late. Go to bed. In the morning you can check it out, see if they left anything behind.”
“And miss a real Satanic mass? No way! This is why I came to Helltown. Now come with me, Beetle. Please? We’re wasting time standing here. They might finish soon and leave.”
“I’m sorry, Greta. Not tonight. Maybe in the morning.”
“I have a car. We can drive there. It won’t take long.”
Her persistence was trying Beetle’s patience. He’d made up his mind; he wasn’t changing it. “I’m not going,” he told her firmly. “That’s that. Okay?”
Anger flared in Greta’s eyes, and for a moment she wasn’t uniquely attractive; she was beautiful. Then she clenched her jaw and returned to her room, slamming the door behind her.
Beetle eased his own door closed, relieved to be alone again.
He stepped into the bathroom and urinated into the toilet bowl without bothering to lift the seat, fearing the simple act of bending over might ratchet up his headache. Afterward he filled the paper cup on the counter with tap water and drank from it greedily, spilling water down his shirt. He refilled the cup and drank again, albeit more slowly. His parched throat thanked him.
Back in the room proper he sat on the end of the bed, facing the TV. A news anchor was reporting on a tsunami that had struck Japan’s eastern shoreline. Beetle’s eyes shifted to the bottle of vodka next to the TV. Roughly a third remained. He was about to fetch it when he realized the idea of drinking more booze right then made him feel more nauseous than he already was.
Then, quite abruptly, a weight settled over Beetle. Not the suicidal depression—that was still there, pressing down on his shoulders like an invisible lead cloak—but something else that made him stare stupidly at the television and fidget with his hands repeatedly.
Boredom. He was bored out of his fucking mind.
He wasn’t going to kill himself tonight. He’d already decided that. He wasn’t going to continue drinking either. Ideally he would have liked to go to sleep, but right then he felt not only wide awake but wired. If he attempted sleep he would lie there, thinking thoughts he didn’t want to think.
“Fuck it,” he grunted, getting up and snagging the motel room key.
Beetle knocked a second time on Greta’s door. When she didn’t answer he realized she wasn’t ignoring him; she had likely already left for the church. Beetle started along the hallway, noting the zigzagging line of blood that stained the carpet. He passed