I became bored enough, I switched off the TV and rolled over. I heard voices again. Only this time they seemed to originate outside the room instead of inside my head. I went to the window and pulled the drapes back an inch. Two men were walking side by side along the balcony. One looked like the man who had entered the office while Daniel and I were quarreling. The other was smaller and wore his blond hair biker style, flowing down his back. They spoke quietly. I couldn’t make out what they were saying, yet I heard their voices just the same. It made me wonder.
“If the girl had screamed, someone would have heard her,” I told the room. “Why did no one hear her?”
No one in the room replied.
FIVE
I was awake by seven o’clock, an altogether uncivilized hour for a man to be up and about—and I had done it two days in a row now! Personally, I don’t think people should get up before 10:00 A.M. or go to bed before midnight. I’ve been told those are the hours that most people keep in France. However, I went to Paris with Nina not long ago, and I don’t believe it’s true.
By seven thirty I was on the road. I stopped at a Robin’s Donuts. I was tempted to order a Bismark or a French Cruller, but felt I would be betraying the World’s Best Donuts in Grand Marais, where I intended to stop on my way south. Instead, I settled for a Sausage, Egg, and Cheese Brekwich that tasted suspiciously like a McMuffin—that is, not very good. I sat at a table and stared out the window. I had such a long way to go, and I was already tired. I drank a lot of Robin’s Coffee, resisting the impulse to pollute it with cream and sugar. It tasted much better than the sandwich.
For some reason I was thinking about gas. My Jeep Cherokee was parked just beyond the window. I needed to gas up before I drove much farther. Probably I should give it a wash, too. It was pretty grubby after the long drive from the Cities. You could tell by the contrast where a hand had rubbed off the dirt just above the hinge of the tire carrier on the back. After I bought the Cherokee a few years ago, I had a heavy-duty rock bumper and swing-away tire carrier put on. This not only freed up storage space inside the rear compartment—which I rarely used—it gave the vehicle a tougher, more rugged look—which, of course, was essential, even though I almost never took the SUV off-road.
I sipped more coffee and finished off the Brekwich and continued to stare at the handprint. It took a while before my brain caught up to what my eyes were seeing. Yet when it finally did, all my internal alarms blared at once.
There’s a handprint above the hinge of the tire carrier of my Jeep Cherokee, my inner voice shouted.
I could make out where the thumb and the fingers had rested.
Where did that come from?
I could have made it when I scraped the frost off my windows that morning, I told myself. I could have leaned against the frame …
No. The handprint was made with a right hand. I held the ice scraper in my right hand.
It looked like the print had been made by someone who had been leaning against the vehicle—the hand had come out to steady him, to keep him from losing his balance. It had to come from someone who was tampering with the Cherokee.
Had anyone been parked next to the SUV in the Chalet Motel lot?
I closed my eyes. In the image that formed behind them, the Cherokee was alone.
Funny thing about adrenaline—suddenly I wasn’t tired anymore.
* * *
The self-service car wash required “toonies”—Canadian two-dollar coins—and I had to dash across the street to an IDA drugstore to buy a few. The woman seemed reluctant to exchange them for my American money, which made me wonder just how sound the dollar was these days. Before returning to the car wash parking lot, I studied the street carefully. If someone was watching they were well hidden.
I crossed the street and went back to the Cherokee. Fantastic thoughts reverberated
“If the girl had screamed, someone would have heard her,” I told the room. “Why did no one hear her?”
No one in the room replied.
FIVE
I was awake by seven o’clock, an altogether uncivilized hour for a man to be up and about—and I had done it two days in a row now! Personally, I don’t think people should get up before 10:00 A.M. or go to bed before midnight. I’ve been told those are the hours that most people keep in France. However, I went to Paris with Nina not long ago, and I don’t believe it’s true.
By seven thirty I was on the road. I stopped at a Robin’s Donuts. I was tempted to order a Bismark or a French Cruller, but felt I would be betraying the World’s Best Donuts in Grand Marais, where I intended to stop on my way south. Instead, I settled for a Sausage, Egg, and Cheese Brekwich that tasted suspiciously like a McMuffin—that is, not very good. I sat at a table and stared out the window. I had such a long way to go, and I was already tired. I drank a lot of Robin’s Coffee, resisting the impulse to pollute it with cream and sugar. It tasted much better than the sandwich.
For some reason I was thinking about gas. My Jeep Cherokee was parked just beyond the window. I needed to gas up before I drove much farther. Probably I should give it a wash, too. It was pretty grubby after the long drive from the Cities. You could tell by the contrast where a hand had rubbed off the dirt just above the hinge of the tire carrier on the back. After I bought the Cherokee a few years ago, I had a heavy-duty rock bumper and swing-away tire carrier put on. This not only freed up storage space inside the rear compartment—which I rarely used—it gave the vehicle a tougher, more rugged look—which, of course, was essential, even though I almost never took the SUV off-road.
I sipped more coffee and finished off the Brekwich and continued to stare at the handprint. It took a while before my brain caught up to what my eyes were seeing. Yet when it finally did, all my internal alarms blared at once.
There’s a handprint above the hinge of the tire carrier of my Jeep Cherokee, my inner voice shouted.
I could make out where the thumb and the fingers had rested.
Where did that come from?
I could have made it when I scraped the frost off my windows that morning, I told myself. I could have leaned against the frame …
No. The handprint was made with a right hand. I held the ice scraper in my right hand.
It looked like the print had been made by someone who had been leaning against the vehicle—the hand had come out to steady him, to keep him from losing his balance. It had to come from someone who was tampering with the Cherokee.
Had anyone been parked next to the SUV in the Chalet Motel lot?
I closed my eyes. In the image that formed behind them, the Cherokee was alone.
Funny thing about adrenaline—suddenly I wasn’t tired anymore.
* * *
The self-service car wash required “toonies”—Canadian two-dollar coins—and I had to dash across the street to an IDA drugstore to buy a few. The woman seemed reluctant to exchange them for my American money, which made me wonder just how sound the dollar was these days. Before returning to the car wash parking lot, I studied the street carefully. If someone was watching they were well hidden.
I crossed the street and went back to the Cherokee. Fantastic thoughts reverberated
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