The Last Motel Read online

  Eddy turned and gazed up. “Jesus.” What started off as a flat path quickly sloped upwards and into the mountains.

  “Can we take a five minute break?” Al breathed. “I need a rest before I embark up there.”

  “Okay,” Wayne said.

  “Just for five minutes,” Eddy said. “It’s almost three o’clock and we’ve got a long way to go.”

  They lowered the body to the wet ground.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Simon lay shivering, the gag in his mouth now bound, the pillowcases secured to his hands much too tight. His body was at once burning with pain, from all the numerous cuts, and excruciatingly cold.

  His feet and knees hurt the most. They stung and throbbed with every beat of his heart. His pecs were also in extreme agony.

  Can’t believe he bit my nipples off!

  He could barely feel his head and anus now. They were merely a dull ache, overpowered by the other more painful wounds.

  Each time Simon swallowed, a raw stabbing tore at his throat. It wasn’t very often, since his mouth was so parched. That man had really been savage with his choking, and each time he had throttled Simon, which had been at least a half dozen separate times, Simon would go all dizzy and start to lose consciousness. But as soon as Simon did begin to pass out, the man would stop choking and let him come back. It was simply torturous, and the man seemed to get a real buzz out of it.

  Simon now felt the need, and had built up enough saliva, to swallow. He winced from the agony, and waited until the burning subsided, then he began breathing again.

  And it was a slow, noisy breathing. His nostrils ached from the constant flow of air. The towel in his mouth tasted like sweat and dampness. He wanted so much to breathe through his mouth again.

  The door shook and through the gag in his mouth, Simon gasped and waited in dreaded anticipation.

  Every time the wind rattled the door, Simon thought that it was the man returning. His heart jumped and he felt his bowels tighten.

  The large, grotesque man didn’t come through the door, so Simon relaxed a little.

  He vaguely recalled the man telling him his name when he had gotten into the car. It hadn’t yet come to him. Not that it mattered, he supposed. No matter what his name was, it would all come to the same end.

  Don’t think that, he told himself. I’m going to be all right.

  The tears began. He couldn’t stop them, despite the aching puffiness of his eyes. He thought about David and the man who shot him. Had the police arrived there? Did they even know about it? What had become of his friend?

  In his sorry present state, Simon envied David. He had a quick death. A relatively painless death.

  How do you know? he thought. You’ve never been shot.

  But he couldn’t imagine it being worse than what he was going through.

  Simon turned his eyes away from the door and to the candles. He watched one of the flames. It was soothing, the way it gently moved with the breeze. He could feel a slight warmth from the two small flames – they were his only comfort.

  But he turned away, sickened. To feel soothed at a time like this was wrong. He should be trying to break out of the ties. Trying to save his life.

  How are you going to walk anyway?

  It was the sound of the man’s voice. It haunted and taunted him.

  How indeed, he wondered.

  Every time he tried to move his legs, an enormous pain shot up his entire body. His knees would begin to throb and he was left sore and drained. They felt like limp pairs of meat. It was a horrible feeling.

  He couldn’t walk, but he could take the gag out of his mouth and scream.

  Got to get my hands free, first, he thought.

  He’d spent the whole time the man had been gone thinking of ways to break free. He knew it wasn’t really possible, but he still had to hope that it was.

  He hadn’t come up with a way, though.

  At least not yet, he told himself.

  Where had the man gone? It bewildered Simon.

  He had gone into the bathroom, spent a while in there with the lights out, then came out and said, what were his exact words?

  Something, well, quite unbelievable has come up.

  Simon racked his mind of the possibilities, but couldn’t think of what the man could’ve meant.

  But he’d said he would be back.

  To finish him off?

  Simon shook his head. Every time he thought those kinds of thoughts he was giving up. And he couldn’t give up, not if he was to survive.

  The door rattled again. No man.

  He was so cold. He couldn’t stop his body from shivering. And it was a deep cold that penetrated his skin and went down to his bones.

  He looked at the clock radio.

  Three o’clock. How long have I been here?

  He didn’t have the mind power to think about it, though. He really didn’t have the strength to do anything except wait for the man to come back. Hopefully he would untie Simon to perform some sick act, and that’s when he would attack.

  Fuck the knife. Fuck his legs. He would use all his power to fight.

  So that’s what he would do. Save all his strength now, try and have a rest. Conserve what precious little energy and will he had left.

  Act weak, comply at first with every order, then strike out when the man was at his most vulnerable.

  But saving his energy, trying to get some rest was hard when he couldn’t stop himself from shivering. Every muscle in his body quivered. It felt like even his toenails were shivering.

  If only the cabin had a fire or a heater. He wouldn’t be so cold.

  He turned and looked at the flames again.

  Forget the soothing motion, think about the heat. Imagine that the tiny flames were great big bonfires.

  Those last words gave Simon an idea. An idea that might save his life. If it worked, the outcome would either be death, or life. As simple as that.

  And if it backfired, the death would be more excruciating than being suffocated by the man.

  But he had to try. It was also as simple as that.

  For it to work, though, he needed a lot more strength than he had now.

  So it was rest. Try not to shiver so severely, try not to think about the pain. Think about escape. Think about his family. Think about revenge.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  He wasn’t sure what to do. It was three o’clock and the women were still inside. He wasn’t sure whether they intended to stay the night. If that were the case, as he feared it might be, what was he to do? Leave and come back another night? Just go in and do what he came to do?

  He had been waiting the whole night. He was tired, still drunk and very upset.

  He tipped the last of the whisky down his throat and then threw the empty flask to the floor.

  He was working tomorrow night, so coming back then was not an option. And he wasn’t sure when her dork of a husband returned from his trip.

  This could be his one and only chance.

  While he decided his course of action, he settled back and listened to the rain.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Madge picked up a log from the metal basket and gently tossed it into the open fire. It landed on top of the other burning pieces of wood, and Madge watched with a smile as a small bit of timber caught fire, then quickly the flame spread to the rest of the log. She straightened up and wandered over to her chair. She sat down with a sigh and picked up a cup of herbal tea. The bottle of Black Douglas was empty. Besides, after what she had done with Morrie, she felt relaxed and happy enough. She sipped the warm tea and glanced over at the wall clock. It was 3:08.

  She was in her dressing gown and pyjamas, although she had no intention of going to bed until at least four. Even if she wanted to go to sleep, she was too restless. She couldn’t relax with these people staying.

  There was a late night (or was that early morning?) news update at ten past three, so she would watch that, th
en sit by the fire and read a paperback until she was too tired to keep reading.

  As she sipped her herbal tea, Madge’s thoughts went, as they had been for the past couple of hours, to Morrie.

  It had been such a wonderful experience. Even at her age, the need to feel close to another person hadn’t waned.

  And Morrie had been the perfect gentleman – most of the time.

  Madge didn’t mind, though. She did like the occasional dirty talk and rough housing.

  Not that she and Jack ever did such things. No, their sex had been simple, soft and loving.

  Two very different men.

  Maybe she was a different woman to when Jack had been alive.

  She closed her eyes and pictured Morrie asleep, in the dark, cold cabin, next to his wife.

  Judy, wasn’t it?

  She couldn’t say she felt especially guilty about having sex with a married man. If they were truly happy together, Morrie would have politely pushed her away back in the office.

  Would he ever tell her? she wondered. She doubted that he would.

  Madge loved this time of night the most. Everyone was asleep (unless a young couple were staying at the motel; they would be up all night). The grounds were quiet, and now, with the storm, Madge could listen to the rain falling on the roof.

  She was glad that those two young men hadn’t bothered her, as she thought they might. And there had been no more screams.

  Madge chuckled. A spider!

  She sipped the last of the tea and placed the cup down on the coffee table. The news update was starting, so she hopped up and turned up the volume on the television.

  She sat back down and watched the newscast. The first story was about some riot in Cuba. It showed scenes of hundreds of young men in the streets, fighting with each other and the police.

  Madge only partially concentrated on the story – her mind kept wandering back to Morrie.

  She didn’t catch the reason why they were rioting.

  The next story was about the royal family. Specifically about Prince Charles and his new lady-friend, Lady Diana.

  Madge didn’t take any notice of what that story was about, either. She didn’t care much about the royal family. Her mind was reliving her and Morrie’s kiss in the office.

  Prince Charles was now off the screen. The newswoman was speaking, and when she uttered the names, Morrie and Judy Prescott, Madge sat up and listened.

  “…in connection with the shooting of a nineteen-year-old in Lilydale. Police want to speak to the couple, and urge them to come forward. Nick Wallace has the details.”

  The screen changed to a man standing outside a house at night, the wind blowing his hair and coat about. Police were searching around the house, and there was yellow tape around the perimeter.

  “A man driving past this house earlier tonight noticed what looked like a body lying on the front lawn. When police arrived, they found the dead body of nineteen-year-old David Lau, who had been shot twice through the chest. When there was no answer, police were forced to break into the house, but the occupants, a Morrie and Judith Prescott, were not home. The couple are only suspects at this time as police are not ruling out the possibilities of a gang-related shooting or a drug deal gone wrong. Police are urging the couple to come forward in an attempt to determine what exactly happened here in this quiet street. And on Halloween night, no less.

  “Nick Wallace, for channel six news.”

  * * *

  Before Madge switched off the TV, there was mention of the still missing Jeffrey Olsen, but the story was cut off.

  Madge sat down in her chair and stared at the dark screen, a tight constriction in her chest. Her mouth was dry.

  It couldn’t be possible; Morrie wasn’t a murderer. He looked a bit rough, but when you got to know him, he was a sweet, honest man.

  Not honest at all, she thought. That’s why they’re here tonight. They’ve run away from their house.

  Where Morrie shot a kid.

  She had to really let that fact sink in.

  Morrie…is…a…murderer.

  She shook her head and began to cry. She had given herself to a criminal. To the worst type of criminal. To the very people her dear Jack fought his life to catch.

  She had made love to a murderer. It made her feel dirty and diseased.

  She stood up with shaky legs and waited for the dizziness to subside.

  She had to call the police.

  Not only were there two murderers at her motel, but that bastard had lied to her and allowed her to be as intimate as any two people can be, all the while knowing who he was and what he had done. She felt the most furious and hurt about that.

  And if Jack was still alive, he would do the same.

  She could hear his voice now, deep and hoarse, telling her that they had to call the police station. That it was the right thing to do.

  Wiping away the tears, she hurried over to the phone.

  She picked up the receiver and dialled the number for the police. She placed her ear to the handle and heard nothing. Confused, she hung up the phone, then tried again.

  Still dead air.

  “Oh please no,” she cried softly.

  She bent down and studied the cord under the table. It was still plugged into the socket.

  She stood up and rushed into the cold office. She hurried to the phone that was sitting on the desk, and put her ear to the receiver.

  This one was dead as well.

  “Jesus,” she whimpered.

  How can this be happening?

  Fear began to sink in.

  The last time she’d had a problem with the phone line was fifteen years ago, when a tree branch had broken off during a storm and snapped the wire.

  The next day the line had been fixed, and the surrounding trees cut way back.

  In the fifteen years since, many storms had passed through, some more furious than tonight’s, but the phone lines had always been fine.

  So Madge doubted that the phones were dead because of the storm.

  She hurried through the curtain and into her bedroom. She took off her dressing gown and then slipped out of her pyjamas.

  Morrie shot a kid.

  She went over to the cupboard and grabbed a pair of old jeans and some old shirts and a woollen jumper. She also took out an old pair of sneakers.

  After she was finished getting dressed, Madge grabbed her rain jacket and her keys, then headed into the kitchen.

  She placed the keys on the kitchen table while she put on her jacket, zipped it up to the neck, and then picked up the keys.

  Before she went outside, Madge grabbed the heavy-duty, waterproof torch that was sitting on the kitchen bench, then rushed over to the back door.

  She slipped on the jacket hood then unlocked the door and made her way out into the night.

  She switched on the torch and pushed her way through the strong wind and pelting rain.

  Around the corner of the cabin, Madge tracked the torch beam along the wall, up to the roof and found where the telephone wire went into her lounge room.

  Nope, the storm hadn’t torn the wire.

  She followed the wire down the wall, then left along the side of the cabin, where it was fixed in-between the logs.

  She had almost reached the point where the wire ended and ran all the way back to the highway, to the telephone pole, when the light came across the cause of her phone problem. Her heart fluttered and she let out a high-pitched squeal.

  The telephone wire had been cut.

  She moved closer and gazed up at the split cord. There was no doubt that somebody had purposely severed the phone line.

  The wire ran above the large window, so Madge could not reach it. But a tall man, standing on his toes could very well cut the wire.

  A tall man like Morrie.

  She could not comprehend Morrie performing such an act, but it did make sense. He had reason to cut the phone line.

  Madge was scared. If somebody – Morrie – we
nt to this extent then she was in potential danger.

  Have to get in touch with the police.

  Since there were only two phones – the one in the office and the one in her house – there was no way to get a hold of the authorities other than to drive to Hutto and call from there.

  She didn’t want to leave her motel, but she had no choice.

  Madge hurried over to her Jeep. As she neared her car, the torchlight bounced over the right side, including the tyres; which, even from a couple of metres away, she could see were flat.

  Madge stopped until the faintness had passed. She told herself to remain calm and that she had a spare tyre in the back of the Jeep, and that she could drive the car with one flat tyre.

  What about the left side tyres? If they’re flat too, then I’m screwed.

  She hurried around to the rear of the Jeep and flashed the light at the back tyre. It was flat. Slashed just like the others. So was the front one.

  By this stage Madge was crying. It wasn’t heartache and sorrow caused by Morrie anymore, it was tears of panic.

  Madge stood up and looked over at the cabin that Morrie and his wife were in. She could just make out light behind the curtains.

  Still up, she thought.

  She left the car and tramped back to her cabin. She stepped inside, flicked off the torch and placed it down on the bench.

  She wiped the tears away and flipped the hood off her head.

  What could she do now? No phones and no car. She was trapped here.

  Unless...she could take the two hour hike through the mountains, the one that led to Hutto.

  Two hours walking in this weather? I’ll probably freeze to death or get hit by lightning.

  She shook her head. That was no good.

  She walked through the lounge and into her bedroom.

  Morrie is a murderer. He betrayed you and made you fall for him.

  He also slashed my tyres and cut the phone line.

  That bastard. Don’t let him scare you. Be strong. Don’t let him get away with any of what he’s done to you.

  Hurt and anger now overshadowed her fear. This was her motel, after all. She’d be damned if she was going to let anybody destroy it or her.