Snippets of Midnight

By J.T. Savoy

Unlock the secrets that begin in Snippets of Midnight. Escape into dark, twisting realms embedded within these ten tales.
"Remembering Emma", Zoë Chandler tracks a ritual killer into a macabre and hostile wilderness to seek revenge. "Kimble's Demons", a man loses all he loves over some hasty words. "The Writing On The Wall", one small girl's talents are overlooked with dire consequences. "Jo Jo's Little Girl", as debt continues to strangle resources, Jo Jo agrees to deliver blood and syringes to a mysterious benefactor. "The Boy Scout Marching Song", a father's words fall short as a young man, recently orphaned, resorts to violence. "Snippets of Midnight", a serial rapist and ritual killer meets his match on the backroads of rural America. "Gunner", gunned down while escaping a covert mission gone wrong, a squad of American soldiers encounter a malevolent entity in Cambodian waters. "Reb", a young child finds freedom from his oppressive father in the ways of the occult. "Chasing The Dragon", a cursed blade finds harmony in murder. "Ink", a blackout, beautiful new ward, and an ambitious cop working off book ruin Dr. Fabrik's rounds one night in Cobb Psychiatric Hospital.

This interconnected tapestry is woven with the sinew of dread and terror. Along this eerie path life teeters on the serrated edge between hope and damnation.
A saga of malevolent fantasy awaits.

• Language: English
• Publisher: J.T. Savoy
• Release date: Feb 14, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310542862

J.T. Savoy

I go by J. T. Savoy. The name itself, like my creativity, is derived from two central influences in my life. I am a dweller in two worlds, at home in none. It has made for interesting perspectives throughout the course of my lifetime. In essence, I am a Brooklyn bred scribe with roots in the rural South. I am the author of Snippets of Midnight and The Bloat King, tales of assorted madness.I grew up in the 70s and 80s in Brooklyn, NY. My geeky inclinations sprouted at a particularly young age which left me adrift with all the other nerds and outcasts. Huddled like field mice over superhero comics and fantasy TV shows, or delving deep into mythology and the lore of swords and sorcery. Dabbling here and there with one story after another until my synapses sparkled with creativity.I still recall reading Lovecraft, H.G. Wells, and P.K Dick styles of fiction well into the early morning hours, armed only with a flashlight and covers for a tent. My love leans toward almost any classic horror tale, pulpy scifi flicks and thrilling action films.Cultivating the best of my influences- the frenetic pace of action flicks, the visceral visuals of the pulp slasher genre, and the underlying panic of the classics- I enjoy crafting unique tales of the human spirit and condition set against the backdrop of terror or mayhem. The world itself is filled with its own brand of madcap characters and wild engagements. I invite quick, literary excursions into a universe full of macabre characters and decidedly wicked supernatural beings.I am upfront, open, and love to meet and speak with people from all walks of life. My sense of both story and life grows with each person I meet and each interaction I have. I welcome input, advice, and many thoughts from other creatives, and hope to exchange my own observations with those I meet as well.All best,JT

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Snippets of Midnight

By J.T. Savoy

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Copyright 2014 J.T. Savoy

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this eBook with another person please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or if it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy.

Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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This book is a work of fiction. All of the characters, places, events and situations portrayed in this book are purely fictitious or used in fictitious circumstances. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental

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Cover Design by Aroldo Lodolini

DEDICATION

To God, for my talents, strength, and abilities. And for the dark things that occupy my thoughts.

To Bruce, Chellie, Frances, Joyce, Aroldo, Karel, MJ, Josh, Mary

Family and friends

All of you have a unique perspective on life

To my fans, without your support these words would wither in the void.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Remembering Emma

Kimble’s Demons

The Writing On The Wall

Jo Jo’s Little Girl

The Boy Scout Marching Song

Gunner

Reb

Snippets of Midnight

Chasing the Dragon

Ink

From the Author

REMEMBERING EMMA

Suspended behind a deep autumn haze the sun hung low over a remote marshland in Southern Louisiana. The steady pitter-patter of soft raindrops striking its rich green flora echoed across the landscape. Restless, a dragonfly dipped from beneath a leaf to test its skill under adverse conditions. Birds whistled from an unseen locale as gators idly nosed about the murky waters. It was peaceful outside. The afternoon seemed to be simply going through the motions until it could give way to night. The only thing out of place on such an otherwise ordinary day was the sight of a distraught young woman desperately fighting to stay alive.

Nicked and bruised, Kendra Wendell waded through chest-high water. Her frightened eyes never stopped moving. She had not slept in two days, unable to relax since she had slipped away from that slaughterhouse she once called home and made her escape. Now on the run, she found herself constantly looking over her shoulder, ever fearful that he was still behind her, closing in for the kill.

In the stillness of the afternoon, Kendra’s mind continued to play games with her as it had done all night. Force-feeding her images cloaked in red as she softly picked her way back to civilization. She thought of what stalked her. Saw its thick, brutish silhouette flush against last night’s wide white moon; always appearing that much closer as night progressed, no matter how fast she moved or how well she hid.

Synonymous with butchery and carnage, it was a dark thing that lived only for death.

Kendra knew the man behind the shadow. She recalled his lethal size and unyielding brutality. Those hands of his were trapped in her mind’s eye, like two monuments of flesh forged by death and dismemberment; and Kendra pictured them closing in on her every time she stopped to take a breath or was slowed by terrain.

Then there was Tim. Arrogant, bullheaded Tim, with his opinionated mouth and holier-than-thou attitude. Kendra’s brain would not purge Tim from her thoughts. Seeding her instead with pictures of the living room drenched in blood. Colored by an organic crayon and tie-dyed fists. She thought of Tim dangling in her pursuer’s hands like some old rag that had been dipped in red paint. Still wet. Still dripping.

Tim Roberts had been twenty-seven. Practically an old man by her standards. He had once been a grad student and a loudmouth. Now he was little more than a difficult stain squished into an old carpet. On the other hand, Kendra Wendell was seventeen. Her next birthday was still some weeks away. And yet, no matter how valiantly she forged ahead Kendra knew she would not be alive to see that day. The only thing that kept her moving through such a wet and desolate hell was the notion that she could not die like Timothy Roberts. She could not let the man that was coming lay his hands on her.

He could take me back there if he gets me, she thought. Oh God, I can’t go back. Not there. I can’t end up like the others.

Kendra felt her heart quicken. She kept her arms clutched across her chest as she slowly inched her way forward.

It had been Tim’s sudden outburst that had started it all. Visibly upset with his role in the group, his flare-up had been loud, emotional, threatening. He had felt that he was the smartest one out of the bunch. He wanted to be the person that Father counted on most, not Krystie. More than that, Tim had followers himself in an assortment of followers. Both Luann and Cliff had sided with him, each believing he should be next in line.

Only they all forgot that there was only one voice that had a say in the group. A gentle voice that belonged to Father. He alone knew what was best for them. And only he could pick and choose among them.

Why couldn’t they see that and just leave well enough alone? Kendra cried angrily. Why did they have to ruin everything?

She had sided with Father. What choice was there really? He had promised her the gift of tomorrow, not Tim. How could Tim have ever guided any of them to the truth? He had only been concerned about himself. Always trying to find what was best for him, never the group. But Kendra had kept the faith and that was why she did not have to watch as Tim was punished. She didn’t have to stay near the house and listen to him screaming for forgiveness, no matter how briefly those cries lasted.

Luann and Cliff did, but not her.

There was a soft slope up ahead. It was frustrating to have to move so cautiously under the circumstances; but there were few things in the swamp that would show pity if given the chance to catch her. A city girl, Kendra had never navigated the region on her own. More often than not she traveled by car, or hitched a ride on a boat of some kind. However, steadily chugging along in the safety of a vehicle was a far different experience than the slow, torturous hike across such an unforgiving landscape. Being there was nothing like she ever expected. How was it possible for anyone to go for so long without seeing smoke rise from the chimney of a house or hear the passing of a car? Even that far out in the bog it seemed abnormal that she had not once crossed even the semblance of a road.

Mud engulfed Kendra’s hands as she hauled herself out of the water. Crawling on her hands and knees she pulled herself up the embankment using rough weeds and twisted roots for support. As she reached level ground Kendra once again took stock of her surroundings. It was awful. She still had no idea which way to head. No matter which way she turned it all looked like the same thing to her. A tomb. A place where she would die and there would be little more than a bony protrusion jutting from the earth left to mark her passing.

Don’t people live near the marshland, her mind argued. Shouldn’t there be more roads or something somewhere? For god’s sake, this is Louisiana. It was her home state. A place where she had grown up and gone to school. It wasn’t supposed to be so cold and merciless, and filled with so much death.

An egret picked its head up to stare at the passing waif, having never before seen its kind in the swamps. Kendra took little notice of the colorful bird. Her timid eyes were dedicated to seeking more hostile observers. From the clutches of recent memory she thought of the shape that followed her. She imagined his elephantine steps thundering through the bog in a frenzy. Thrashing tiny trees by the dozens in its fury.

Rain continued to fall at a slant as the sun peeked through the drifting haze. Kendra felt her teeth chattering. She hoped it was just because she was cold. Even before the rain her clothes had become soaked from the countless hours she had spent crawling in and out of the marsh. And while the surrounding waters were warm the dampness of her jeans had worked into her legs; seeping all the way to the bone until a perpetual chill radiated throughout her body.

The warm air teemed with tan bugs restlessly dancing up and down. Knowing she could not linger, Kendra moved off following the waterline as best she could. The light of day provided some relief, but not enough to chance taking a rest. Not with what was coming. She also knew better than to stay too close to the edge. Alligators were known to lurk near the shore for wild pigs and such. Ever ready to leap out and snatch the unsuspecting and drag them to a rolling, turbulent death. It was an end she would prefer to avoid.

Wet and exhausted, Kendra felt the guilt of her actions like a thumb jammed against her temple. It was hard for her not to think about the others. All of them had been left behind when she had made her escape, but their faces were firmly impressed upon her mind from the very first step. How could they not be? She had known Luann since grammar school. They had joined Father’s group together. Krystie was already there by that time and, like them, Tim was a recent arrival. Cliff came aboard later in the year but they had all become extremely close friends in a short period of time. More like family, she remembered. As Father said it should be. That closeness was what made it hard to keep from thinking about them.

How could I have not seen this coming, she wondered as she snaked through a tall stand of reeds blocking her path. How could I have been so dumb?

Even as Father started to chain up the others Kendra had not protested. Deep down, she had always thought of herself as his favorite, despite the fact that in the group they were all thought of as one. That was hard given the way he was always looking at her. Those gentle touches he sometimes placed upon her shoulders, cheek and thigh. So she had not been bothered at all when Father began imprisoning the rest of the group for their betrayal. Nor did she let herself think too much about what was going to happen to them next. Such faith held true even when Father asked her to assist him by keeping the ceremonial knife clean and ready.

With the same aloofness that they had all watched him work on complete strangers, Kendra had calmly watched him paint the odd, ancient symbols across the flesh of her only friends.

It wasn’t until I saw the living room, she thought, terrified by her own ineptitude. I was blind until then. Completely blind.

Father had sent her upstairs to fetch a clean robe because his had become too stained with Krystie’s blood. That’s when it happened, she realized as her jaw began to shake uncontrollably. That’s when the first prickle of doubt came over me. On her way back from his bedroom Kendra had peeked inside of the living room to see how Tim was faring. That was when she first saw the bloody smear that had been spread across the windows and walls, and found poor Tim beaten into molasses on the living room floor.

Standing there watching bits of Tim’s entrails drip from the ceiling made Kendra think of all the things she had left behind. She thought about how angry she had been when she left home. How sour her mother’s face had looked when she had stormed out, evidently not knowing how serious Kendra was about never coming back.

Then, for the first time in what seemed like forever, Kendra understood how empty she had become without those missing pieces of her life. Felt the dismal hollowness of her existence engulf her. She thought about old friends and what few plans she had once held for her future.

And staring at those bright crimson streamers spilling across the sparse furnishings suddenly made her realize that no other future could look so bleak.

The next step had been surprisingly easy.

She ran.

Fueled by the dread of her own destruction, Kendra had taken flight. She barely remembered racing through the trail of slaughter coating the living room, or bursting through the front door into the awaiting arms of sunlight. She didn’t know why she had veered toward the trees instead of taking the path which led to the unpaved road nearby. Perhaps her subconscious was just trying to give her an edge if Father decided to pursue. Whatever the reason, Kendra only remembered the running. Even lost she could still hear traces of Father calling her name when he quickly discovered her gone. Yelling it again and again until she was so sick of hearing it she wished her parents had named her something else.

I bet he still had the knife. She said trembling. He wanted me to come back all right, because he still had the knife. Because he still had the knife.

Shoving the brutal imagery aside, Kendra forced herself to concentrate on where she was headed. For twenty minutes she pushed through a field of overgrown weeds as high as her head. The rain continued to fall around her shoulders. At no time did she abandon the fear of being captured. She just steadily made her way as best she could with one eye ever turned over her shoulder.

Sometime later, the last of the weeds parted to reveal another body of water between her and the next patch of land. Her spirit wilted at the sight. This one was large, seemingly impassible. Just looking at it crushed Kendra’s reserves with the weight of hopelessness. Weak in the knees, she spilled to the ground and buried her tiny face in her hands as she burst into tears.

Two days she had been at it. Two days. Trudging through the swamps with no sleep and little rest. Miserably picking her way by inches at night because there had been no light to see. All for what? More water? More wasteland? Stuck in the vast emptiness of an endless swamp, Kendra Wendell curled up in a fetal ball and lay in the mud weeping. There was no point going back. No hope lay ahead. Every decision she had made up until then seemed mapped solely toward her demise. So she gave in to defeat simply because it was pointless to go on.

Her ordeal was just too much for anyone to bear.

Kendra had no idea how long she stayed there, but eventually even pity ran dry. By then the sun was much lower and a second night of being lost and alone beckoned. She thought of her home and her folks again as she picked herself up out of the muddy earth and began to wipe the slick from her arms. Her eyes were red and stinging but Kendra forced herself to look at the next obstacle.

I’ve come this far. She reminded herself. I can’t give up. Her father had once told her that she should never feel right about giving up hope because no one could predict any outcome. The only thing worse in his book than giving up hope was for anyone to give up trying. Keep going. He had always said. You never know where the next step will lead. Kendra repeated those words to herself as she gazed across the cloudy water and thought about how she might make it across.

Suddenly, two hands shot out from the weeds behind Kendra and made a violent grab for her shoulders. Had she not immediately thrown herself to the side those hands might have had her. Instead the bestial fingers got tangled in her hair. Her head jerked back as dozens of strands were snatched from their roots, but the weight of her fall kept her from being caught.

Kendra turned to crawl away as a gigantic form rose from the weeds. The scream perched in her throat could not escape as fear snatched the sound from her voice. She stared back over her shoulder in time to see two massive hands still caked with blood reaching for her with frightening menace.

Just then, the still waters erupted as an enormous alligator leapt out and clamped its jaws around the man’s midsection. Kendra watched as the beast forced the man to the ground and began pulling him into the swamp. Without caring to see who won, she stood up and dove past the gator into the water and began swimming toward the other side. Caught between the powerful jaws, the man never screamed as he clawed at the mud, trying to stay aground. But the gator proved just as strong and had the better leverage. It jerked its prize into the water where it could savor a distinct advantage.

Kendra never looked back. She swam across the soupy marsh as though it were an Olympic event and her mother was watching. She didn’t think of any other predators save the two animals thrashing behind her. Every bit of her being was focused on the next stroke, the next kick, and making it across the water in one piece. Not until she clambered up the opposite bank and her lungs begged for a reprieve did she dare to glance back at one battle she hoped had ended in her favor.

It hadn’t. Worse, the man had somehow managed to haul himself out of the water. Atop the muddy bank he stood locked in combat with the alligator. She watched as he pried open the gator’s massive jaws with his bare hands. The roar of the lizard filled her ears. No. she cried frantically. He can’t win. Not against that.

Unable to bear any more, Kendra stood up and raced into the tall reeds, not even bothering to look for a route. As the sharp greenery razed her face and hands Kendra swore she heard the gator’s jaws crack open with a definite finality. Oh shit, she thought knowingly. He just killed it with his bare hands.

She had heard that sort of sound once before. Could remember with awful clarity the severity of that moment when the man had pried another leathery thing’s mouth open. How he had held it there by sheer strength alone until he had first snapped then twisted the top of its mouth clean off.

Those hands would be coming for her next. Coming to grind her up and turn her into some doughy thing like Tim. Only Kendra’s legs could save her from that fate.

So she ran. She pushed herself through the river of weeds in her path and ran without knowing or caring where she was heading. Her heart felt so thick in her throat it likened to strangle her. Gasping, she dashed through the mire, urgent to escape that which pursued her. Rain pelted her face, made her feel heavy, sluggish. But still she ran.

Kendra ran until the weeds thinned and she emerged on a muddy tract that looked like a road. Breaking stride, she came to a stop and frantically looked to her left, then right. There was no clear solution on the hairpin turn she found herself on, so Kendra just decided left and ran some more.

The road was narrow and curvy. It seemed to snake along with no apparent scheme or design. She could hear herself screaming. Could feel the wet paste of her tears staining her cheeks as the dread of death and the stark terror of what might happen after sped through her veins. Numb, Kendra barreled forward gasping out breaths in warm, frothy pants. Her lungs clawed at her insides but she would not let herself stop. She simply refused to give up until her body gave out.

Stooped at the waist as she barreled forward, Kendra looked back at the green vegetation. Her eyes never left the direction of the swamp as she stumbled onward, expecting at any moment for the devil itself to come bursting upon her with those reddened hands and knots of coiled muscle.

He would break her. Snap her like so many twigs bound for the fireplace. Beat her like Tim and turn her inside out to be left like carrion in the wild. The man was faster than her and, unlike him, she could not keep going on forever. It would only be a matter of time.

As she came upon a bend the ground tripped Kendra up and sent her crashing to the earth. She tried to stand but nothing seemed to work. Every muscle burned. The soaked clothes she wore felt like sandbags laced across her shoulders. Crying openly now because what did it matter anymore, she tried to scream but again nothing came out beyond a pitiful squeak of air. Get up, she told herself. That was the only thing that mattered. Get up. Get up. Get up.

Showing no quit, Kendra got a knee under her. It wobbled as she tried stand. She forced herself to rise just as a pickup truck roared around the bend. She never saw its dark headlights or silvery grill until the metal met her meat. And before the brakes could be applied Kendra Wendell was once again parallel with the earth, frozen beneath a soiled rear tire.

Bruised, bloodied, and now without a prayer in the world, Kendra lay in the dirt dying. The heat steaming off the truck’s belly brushed the outskirts of her consciousness. At the edge of her vision she saw two large boots heading her way. Coming to make sure you’re dead, whispered the reaper. Or worse, coming to drag you back to the house. Back to the tattoos and the knife and an endless walk to find the glory of tomorrow.

Only that glory no longer seemed like paradise to her. It only seemed like a nightmare from which there was no escape. Like her run from the house. Like her trek through the swamp.

Like the brutality that would certainly mark her end.

Silently, Kendra screamed at her body to move. She tried to will herself to stand even though there were too many pieces of her that no longer functioned.

Finally, as a large frame knelt down beside the wheel she knew there was no other recourse save to let the budding darkness overtake her.

One thought lingered on Kendra’s mind as she let herself tumble down the well of oblivion. Please God, I can’t go back. Don’t let him take me back. Please. I can’t. I just ca…

For, unlike most, Kendra Wendell possessed the knowledge that death was not the end. There were still many terrors that could be visited upon a body when all natural activity ceased. In those last, fleeting moments of life, the dying girl could only pray that that same living nightmare would not soon be visited upon her.

Zoë Chandler pulled her stubborn Jeep Wrangler up to a wooden log marking one of the motel’s parking spaces and stopped. Letting the car run idle a moment she lifted her glasses to rub the grit from her eyes. The road seemed to have stretched on forever and that was exactly how long Zoë felt like she had been driving. Mercilessly abusing her jeep for days on end she had come all the way from her home in North Carolina to the northernmost tip of Vancouver, chasing the past like a zealot. Up along route 19 past places called Woss and Kokish. She had pushed through Port McNeill onto Coal Harbor, and then got lost trying to make Quatsino, wherever the hell that was.

Driving doggedly with little rest, she had pressed on to Port Hardy and Holberg before cutting down into the more remote spot of tiny Winter Harbor. That was where the body had been discovered. She had lingered long enough to pick up the trail and then set out again. Backtracking the 40 miles to Holberg toward Cape Stanton Park, Zoë had persevered until she ended up where she was- parked outside of a seedy looking motel at the edge of civilization.

Not knowing when she would have another chance to do so, Zoë paused to enjoy the momentary quiet. It felt so good to just sit for a spell after so much driving. She took a soft, lingering breath and then slowly exhaled. That was when she felt the first real tug of exhaustion. For a second the lull of sleep began to weigh on her eyes. Then a young face appeared in her thoughts. Dancing. Twirling. Laughing with a childish glee rarely found in an adult. It was that face that pushed her. That image of youth draped in blood that would not let her rest.

Fending off the weight of exhaustion, Zoë shook her head clear and climbed out of the jeep. Her knees sounded like a couple of nuts cracking open as she stretched out the kinks of the long drive. It was nippy out. The midday breeze pulled gently at her hair and sent particles from the dusty earth skittering across her sneakers. Nearby a little boy sat on a rusty bench swing near the corner of the motel. Dressed in black shorts and a white, sleeveless shirt, the kid did not appear to mind the chill at all. Although it had been a long time since she had felt cold herself, Zoë still kept a sweater handy for practical reasons. She had also picked up some seasonal gear over the past few days. It was better to be prepared in case she had to be outdoors longer than expected.

As she twisted around to grab her laptop case from the passenger seat a grimace sprang on her face. Her back was acting up again down by her tailbone. Brushing aside the pain, she picked up her computer and glanced at the sky. Dull clouds hung low overhead, dragging a dreary grayness around like a sour stepchild. Zoë thought about rolling up the cover on the jeep but figured the weather might hold a bit longer. At least long enough to get checked in, she hoped. Leaving the rest of her gear stashed in the back Zoë turned and headed toward a small sign marked Office.

Checking out the motel’s exterior as she made her way across the lot, a faint but familiar smell caught her attention. Morgan, she thought uncomfortably. He had been there all right. His stink hung like beads in the air.

She drifted near some of the rooms and could smell where his hand had brushed against the wall. She thought about the body leaning there, leaving flecks of dead skin cells locked in the paint. Something in her chest fluttered. She wanted to get back into it. Wanted to keep pushing forward until she found them.

Soon. Zoë told herself in an effort not to rush things. Then refraining from touching the place where a body once leaned, she continued walking toward the office. I have to get ready. Take care of the other stuff first.

A tiny bell tinkled as she pushed the office door open. Startled by the sudden intrusion a small mouse quickly dashed across the room and dove into a hole in the floor. The air smelled of smoke, as if a stale cigar had been left somewhere to burn. Zoë glanced around. It was disgusting inside. Tiny brown gnats filled the air. Thick flies, black as raisins and twice as ugly, crept along the window. Against the far wall to her left an old German Shepherd lay napping by a puke green and blue sofa. The old dog’s eyes were gummy with a yellowish paste. It also appeared to be having a tough time breathing.

The floorboards creaked with age as Zoë walked across the large room toward the front desk. The dog did not bother looking up at the newcomer. Only a noticeable turn of its ear, like radar locking onto an approaching plane, signaled it was aware of the woman’s presence. At the desk Zoë shouldered her laptop case by its strap and leaned over the counter. A thick cigar sat in an ashtray on the other side. It was not lit, but one end was dark and wet and looked a little chewed. A long trail of ash lay broken in the ashtray and the smoky, malodorous rot hanging around it stung Zoë’s nostrils.

Atop the desk was a little silver bell. It was a round, flat-bottomed one with a plunger. Fanning away a gnat, she tapped the bell and was rewarded with two pleasant dings. Only the dog seemed to notice. Picking its head up slowly, it gave a big feisty yawn, letting its tongue loll out like a red carpet as its head shook. Then the dog shifted into a more comfortable position and put its head back down without once opening its eyes. Zoë fanned away a second gnat that had landed on the bridge of her nose and tapped the little bell again.

Hold your horses, dammit! Bellowed a gruff voice from behind a closed door next to the sofa. I’m in the middle of a delicate transaction here.

Zoë smiled. The voice reminded her of her uncle Wilbur. He had been a large man with one of those bellies just perfect for a young child’s head to snuggle. He had died the day after Zoë’s sixth birthday, but she still remembered going by to visit him every Saturday afternoon in the summer. He had also liked to chew on big fat cigars while tending to his laundromat. He had also owned an old, crusty mutt like the one that lay napping.

She thought fondly of how large and full of life Uncle Wilbur had been, with that deep bellowing laugh of his, those dark hands and grease stained overalls. He had stunk of cigars too, but Zoë had not minded the smell as much back then. Back then, she thought fondly, everything was so easy and relaxed. No one rushing you to grow up and face the world. Just you, a fat uncle and his stinky cigar, with a crusty old mutt you would never forget.

Zoë let her eyes drift to the slumbering dog. Yeah, back then…how’d that song go? I had the world on a string.

The sudden flushing of a toilet interrupted her reverie. She heard someone behind the door fumbling with their pants, then with the latch of the door. A rush of warm, pungent air spilled from the tiny bathroom like an uncaged beast and immediately filled the office. Slugs in a ditch. She gagged through her teeth, blocking her nose with a finger. That reeks.

As she wiped a tear from the corner of her eye the author of that particular tragedy stood in the doorway with a newspaper folded under his arm. He was a small, bony man whose mouth had sunk back into his face for lack of teeth. He scratched his ass and shifted his belt then stared at the young face across from him. Zoë stood up straight. She tried to ignore the stink emanating from the bathroom even though her eyes were already watering and her stomach had coiled in a knot. She could not help but wonder what manner of beast could have crawled up such a small man’s ass to die.

The man sniffed and coughed once before he walked over to the desk. He had not bothered to close the bathroom door or turn off the light. Zoë tried not to gag at the repulsive aroma as she spoke. Hi. She said with a withered smile. I’d like a room, please.

Well, this bein’ a motel and all I guess you come to the right place then. Replied the bony man, who then added with a smirk. Less of course you that gal was supposed to come round earlier this week to take care of little Al. He rubbed his belly as he said this and let his eyes wander over Zoë’s body. You wouldn’t be her would’ja? Cause if you is you kind of late and I think that’s gonna bite into your tip.

Zoë ignored the leering man. She wanted nothing more than to get the hell out of that smell before she died. A sound caught her ear and she turned in time to see the old dog slinking out of the rear door through a flap in the wood. Even the bitch got offended, she noted.

Big Al turned and reached onto a shelf behind him when he saw his advances were being ignored. He pulled out a set of keys. Room 18 is open. Jus’ sign the book there and cough up forty for the night, plus another twenty on deposit for phone, cable, and other such things.

You take credit cards? Zoë asked, pulling a yellowed logbook closer and grabbing a nearby pen.

The man turned back around and tossed the keys on the desk in front of her. He then sat on a stool and pulled out his paper. Machine broke two years ago and the fella ain’t been by yet to fix it. Another smirk slithered across his crusty lips as he peeked over the corner of the paper. Course if you ain’t got enough money I’m sure we can work out a barter system or somethin’.

Zoë did not look up to meet his eyes, moving instead from the guest book to her front pocket as she fished for some money. Pulling out her wallet, she counted out a hundred ninety dollars. She frowned as she tossed nearly the last of her cash on the desk. I’ll only be here until the end of the week tops.

She noticed he was looking at her funny. Uh, is there a problem?

Nah, I just don’t like pigs is all.

What? Zoë followed his gaze and saw he was staring at the ID visible in her wallet. She flipped it closed and rolled her eyes. Don’t worry, mister. I’m not a cop. I’m a licensed Bail Recovery Officer.

When his eyebrow raised a notch she added. I’m a bounty hunter.

Al snorted and reached for his cigar. Yeah, right. He scoffed, then popped the damp end into his mouth and began to gum it with some satisfaction.

Aggravated, Zoë scooped up the keys. She could feel an oily slickness from where he had touched it rub against her fingers. The thick raisin flies were everywhere now, dancing joyfully in the rancid air along with the gnats. It was hard enough to breathe much less talk. Without another word she pushed away from the counter and walked briskly toward the door.

She had barely gotten a hand on the knob when he called after her. Check out is noon everyday. No drinking. No smoking none of that dope. And no funny business. Don’t want to see no string of fellas in and out of your room like you selling insurance. And if you that car I heard pull up while I was taking care of the business, its five dollars a day extra to leave it parked there.

Closing her eyes as she choked off a litany of expletives, Zoë turned around and pulled out another twenty, plus her last five-dollar bill. Crossing back to the desk she slapped the money down on top of the other bills and shot Al a dark venomous look. I promise I won’t be any trouble whatsoever. She said, holding the stare until Al’s bravado wilted and he turned back to his paper looking ashen and slightly humbled. I’d like to remain undisturbed for my stay. No room service. No wake up calls. Nothing. If that’s not too much to ask.

Al removed his cigar and spat into a nearby pail. Then he stuck the cigar back in his mouth and continued reading his paper without acknowledging her comments. That suited Zoë just fine. She headed back to the door fanning the air as she went.

Outside the wind had really picked up. Zoë closed the office door behind her and stood a moment drinking in great draughts of the sweet wilderness air. It took nearly a minute for her nostrils to stop flaring. Finally, when she felt composed enough, she pushed away from the door and headed back toward her Jeep. The area had darkened visibly by then. Overhead, the clouds seemed cross. Deep battleship gray hues spanned the entire area, coating the territory with a long, depressing shadow. With a crumpled frown Zoë cast her eyes up at the threatening sky to gauge the weather. It looked like the mother of all thunderstorms was brewing above her.

Cursing her black luck as she made her way to the jeep, Zoë also noticed that the ground had become littered with scraps of white paper. There were hundreds of the tiny bits skittering about in the wind. She glanced around the lot, but could not spot the source of the mess. Just then a fleck of dirt kicked up by the wind smacked her in the eye. Zoë lifted her glasses to rub the spot vigorously. She managed to take a few steps forward but had to stop because the tiny fleck stung like a chunk of gravel. It took some doing before she managed to get it out, leaving one eye sore and red in the process. Letting her glasses settle back on her face Zoë put a hand up against further debris as she continued to her car.

After she rolled up the cover and zipped the plastic window flaps to the jeep, Zoë unloaded her travel bags and knapsack, and then locked her car. Even though there were no other vehicles present and the place looked fairly deserted, the last surprise she needed was to have her only way home stolen.

With all of her things gathered Zoë turned toward the motel to find her room. A little boy sitting on a nearby bench-swing had a notebook in his lap. He appeared to be tearing the pages out, crumbling them up quickly and setting them on the ground. She watched as the wind picked up each little wad and dragged them off across the lot as fast as the boy set them down. He was making a spectacular mess.

Having more pressing matters to deal with Zoë tried to ignore the scene. A man’s life was at stake and she felt like was running low on time. The last time she had tried this there had been a lot of territory to cover. Not knowing the lay of this particular land, Zoë realized she might be out searching the hills for several days. Is it hills or mountains in this region? She wondered aloud. With the weather acting the way it was, it would be just her luck if she got caught in a monsoon the second she was stuck in the wild.

I wouldn’t worry none about that. Came a squeaky voice.

Zoë stopped and looked down at its owner. She had absently wandered by the boy on the swing. Excuse me? She said.

To this the high-pitched, prepubescent voice replied. I was just saying that I wouldn’t worry about the rain none. It never rains when he’s around.

Quizzically, Zoë scanned the empty lot wondering what the hell the kid was talking about. Ah, he who?

The man in the silk robe. My papa says he don’t like to get wet. Used to rain like crazy all year round, but it don’t do nearly as much now. Not since he come here. Not here to live in this motel, I mean. No, here he just stops by from time to time. Whenever he’s in the mood I guess. I don’t really know why. Don’t think no one knows why. Not even old Mr. Tyler, and he owns the place. The she-man just comes and goes as he pleases and it don’t never rain for sometimes a month when he does. Not ever.

The steady wind pushed the old swing making it squeal with delight. Having said his piece, the boy pushed his round sunglasses closer to his face and sat staring off across the lot as if that was all there was to it. Zoë watched as he resumed tearing out more pages from his notebook and crumpled them into meaningless wads. Since they were already talking she decided to go ahead and address that particular topic. Say kid, you’re making a big mess you know. Won’t your dad get mad or something?

My papa don’t mind. He’s off at work anyway. ‘Sides, when the wind is up like this is the best time. The wind makes them run. And seeing how the she-man ain’t been coming around as much…

The what?

With a hiccup of a laugh the little boy smiled. The she-man. He repeated. The one who doesn’t like rain. Papa calls him the she-man. Gently leaning in Zoë’s direction his voice suddenly dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. Personally I think that sounds pretty gross. If you think about it that is. But I know that my papa don’t like that man one bit.

What the hell is wrong with this place, Zoë thought privately. It’s like everyone I’ve met around here is some kind of nut. Even their offspring speak in tongues. I swear, if I never set foot in this godforsaken state again for as long as I live I’ll die happier for it.

The little boy sat back up and continued to rip out additional pages from his book. He did not even bother to look down at his hands. Instead he gazed across the lot as his stubby fingers fiddled with the frivolous bits. Then it hit her. Man, I think this kid’s blinder than a bucket of worms. Moving her head to the side so she had a better angle, Zoë stared at the small eyes behind the sunglasses. Both appeared to be vacantly surveying a deep emptiness. With a gentle sigh Zoë wondered why she had not noticed it before.

I must be really exhausted, she decided. Then she added, gee, I wonder why. It’s only been a week since I’ve had a decent meal or slept more than an hour at a clip. Wearily, Zoë shifted her gear. She needed some R&R, big style.

Your room is three doors down. Said the small blind boy. It’s real clean. Nancy came by early today and did a bang up job on all the rooms. Told me herself what a good job she done.

Thanks kid. She said as she started off. I’m so tired right now I could probably sleep in a bowl of mud.

At this he laughed. You’re funny, lady.

Zoë managed a grin even though she could not imagine whose benefit it was for. Then, with her body aching for rest she wearily trudged off in the direction of her room.

Hey, Funny Lady. Called the boy after she had taken only a few steps. Tired, Zoë’s shoulders slumped visibly, but she turned around nonetheless. The boy was holding something out to her. I made you something for making me laugh today.

Deciding to play along Zoë stepped up to him. She shifted her gear to one hand as she graciously accepted his gift.

Careful. It’s delicate.

Zoë took a closer look at the trivial scrap of white, which actually turned out to be a little paper unicorn. She looked back at the kid who had resumed staring off into space. I usually just make chickens on days like this. He explained. I like chickens the best. When the wind is up they scatter all around and look like the real ones on a farm. Go ahead and look. Can’t you see them run? Don’t they look real?

Stooping down, she picked up one of the crumpled bits that had not blown away yet. This time the smile on Zoë’s face was real. Well I’ll be damned, she thought as she turned over the origami replica. Yeah, kid. I gotta admit it looks exactly like a chicken. She let the figurine fall from her fingers and stood back up. That’s about as real as they get.

As the boy resumed tearing up his notebook Zoë turned away and walked toward her room. Stopping in front of the correct door she palmed her key. An odd notion wormed its way into her mind. She glanced back at the kid on the swing, already half-turning in his direction with her obvious question dangling from her lips. I really don’t want to ask how he knew which room I’d be staying in, do I? Especially since I never bothered to mention it.

Zoë tucked the thought away as she slid the key into the door and entered her room. As described, it was indeed neat and tidy if a bit small. The room was also alive with a distinct bouquet of odors. She could smell everything from wallpaper glue to a hint of disinfectant clinging to the bathroom tiles. The residue of drunken but ambitious sex was trapped in the sagging, yellow-stained mattress, but the sheets were clean enough and she was not there to rest. Once those same smells would have blasted into her sinuses like a shot of cocaine. Thankfully those days were long behind her. She was more in control now, more familiar with that other aspect of her being.

A hint of Evergreen Forest air freshener came to her through the crowded air. It had been years since Zoë had smelled the scent. She used to keep that brand of air freshener dangling from the rearview mirror in her car. It came in the shape of a little pine tree. Almost everyone she had known had one flavor or another. They all used to come in a variety of smells like cherry, lemon, apple blossom, and such. Each with its own color-coded tree.

For her it had always been Evergreen Forest.

Can’t find the suckers anywhere nowadays. She mumbled, dumping her bags on the floor. Not since the governor lobbied to have stuff removed from rearview mirrors. All because her nephew bought it in a traffic pile up and people made her think the things were some kind of hazard.

That train of thought continued as she plopped down on the edge of the bed. Just like fuzzy dice, though not nearly as tacky, Evergreen’s now gone the way of the dodo. Another fad forgotten. I mean, c’mon. A kind of safety hazard? Who ever thinks of such crap? Don’t people have better things to do with their time?

Zoë placed her little unicorn on the table beside the bed. The boy had done a man’s job of crafting the mythical horse from paper. It had a little barrel chest and reared back on its hind legs supported by a long twirled tail. There was a bit of her that prayed no special interest group ever got the bright idea of origami being some kind of health code violation or some other such nonsense.

Letting her laptop slide off her shoulder onto the bed, Zoë leaned forward and put her head in her hands. Soreness crawled along her neck and shoulders like infant spiders.

If only she could rest a minute.

If only she could stop to catch her breath.

Running a hand through her hair she mentally tried to block out the kinks. However, that little exercise turned out to be pointless. So instead of relaxing Zoë ended up grabbing her knapsack off the floor and pulling out her cell phone.

She knew the number by heart.

It took quite a few rings before someone answered. Hello?

Hi. Kendra?

No, this is Kendra’s mother. May I ask whom I am speaking with?

Oh no, Zoë groaned inwardly. Anyone but her. Stephanie Wendell was the last person she felt like dealing with right then. It was better to dance with the devil himself than risk a conversation with such a witch. Zoë held her tongue through a brief series of hellos as she gathered her strength. Then, just when the other woman appeared ready to hang up, she found the courage to speak. Ah, sorry. Um...bad connection. This is Zoë, Mrs. Wendell. Zoë Chandler.

Oh. Came an icy reply.

When an ugly silence fell between them Zoë was forced to continue. Um, is Kendra there, ma’am?

Kendra has had a very rough day of physical therapy, Miss Chandler. She is resting now and cannot be disturbed. Is there something I might help you with?

The woman’s tone of voice said it all. Just say no thank you, Zoë told herself. C’mon, just say it, and then hang up. Uh, ok. Well, actually maybe you can tell her something for me.

Hm. And what might that be? The elder woman replied with all the efficiency of a snob.

Well, I was hoping that you might pass along to your daughter that I…um…well I have a new lead and… And that was all she managed to say before Mrs. Wendell broke in.

I’m sorry, but did you say you had ‘a new lead’? Snapped the voice on the other end. Then, without bothering to wait for a response Mrs. Wendell dove into a rant. Ms. Chandler, you know that I of all people appreciate what you did for our family when no one else would listen. When you first came to us offering to help I thought you were such a sweet person. And, prior to your ringing us up last week, I was still under the assumption that you were only concerned about the welfare of my poor daughter. But this is getting to be a bit much. This obsession you have has become intolerable. To be quite frank Ms. Chandler, you’ve become a little more than just a nuisance.

Stunned by the unexpected hostility Zoë’s mouth dropped open. Although they had not gotten along well, Mrs. Wendell had never been that harsh before.

As you are well aware, the mother continued nastily. After her coma, Kendra spent more than a year in the intensive care unit. Surgeries this. Procedures that. And while she has managed to pass out of that phase, she still has a lengthy rehabilitation period to go through. This persistent intrusion into my daughter’s life only serves to bring back those horrific events tenfold. As I told you a few months ago, my family is not interested in having anything more to do with those swamp people. You were there. You brought us closure, or so I once believed. But since then you have not let the matter drop. Every time I seem to turn around there you are. Calling up saying you have some new piece of information, or read something suspicious and wanted to run it by Kendra.

Zoë could picture the barbed wire frown etched into the mother’s face.

The fact of the matter is that there isn’t anything left, is there? Mrs. Wendell stabbed. The police have already assured us that all of the culprits involved with my daughter’s kidnapping were killed. A fact you yourself must know. And with all of them dead I cannot see why you keep pestering our family with these untimely phone calls. Can you tell me? I mean, why must you insist on harassing us all with this nonsensical quest of yours?

Ma’am, I assure you I only have Kendra’s best interests in mind when I…

No, Ms. Chandler. You are not family, therefore you can only have your own interests in mind. But Bill and I have discussed this at length and we agree that it really is time for you to move on. We are her parents, not you. And I will no longer be as tolerant of these interruptions as I have been in the past. Kendra cannot help you. My husband and I cannot help you. We are not out looking for revenge because there is none to be had. The people responsible for my daughter’s misfortunes are dead. Kendra’s best friend in the world is dead. But I have my daughter back thanks to the grace of God, and I will not have you ruin her recovery by constantly dredging up that miserable episode.

Zoë had to pull the phone away from her ear because the woman was practically screaming; but she knew it would be suicide to hang up on Mrs. Wendell. That would shut her off from Kendra completely and she could not afford to have that happen. So, unable to say anything, she had no choice but to sit there fuming.

Unaware of what Zoë was thinking, Mrs. Wendell kept up with her tirade. "Honestly, I just don’t know how you can continuously phone up without invitation. Filling my daughter’s head with such rot and nonsense. For you, Kendra is not a person, but some article clipped from a paper tacked to your wall. But it must stop. And it must stop now. I have already asked you once before to keep from reminding her of her ordeal, and yet you insist. You don’t understand how she feels when she is done speaking