Lost Highway(4)

At some point, the man enters the room and stares at me. Incapable of concentrating on him, I revel in the fantasies of a different Odessa.

Eventually, our gazes meet, and I stare into the unreadable eyes of a killer.

“We’ve both spilled blood,” I whisper.

“Everyone spills blood in the Lost Highway. That or they have their blood spilled.”

“I spilled it before I came here.”

The man shows no reaction. When a tear rolls down my cheek, I’m too exhausted to wipe it away.

“Why did you take the Lost Highway?” he asks a long time after we last spoke.

“I had to get away,” I whisper, leaning over and resting my head on the pillow. “I was on the run. I sound so dramatic.”

The man doesn’t share my smile. He only watches me, and then his gaze is on the light flooding through the window.

“The storm is over,” I tell him as an excuse to end the silence in the room.

Disappearing out of the door, the man shuts and locks it. I close my crying eyes. Outside, the storm passes, and the world goes on, but I only want to sleep and forget.





Chapter Five


Odessa




I dream of hitting the laughing woman. Even after the bat cracks open her skull, I won’t stop pounding her head with the weapon. I turn her to mush in my dream and realize I’m the one laughing. Waking, I feel a smile on my face.

For years, I’d heard the Lost Highway was haunted. I even watched a TV show about the many reported disappearances on Highway 202.

John never believed in the supernatural. He claimed the hills around the highway were home to drug runners, and the missing people likely saw something they shouldn’t. He also said the police couldn’t control the area, so they allowed the haunted rumor to keep tourists from using the highway.

I hadn’t believed John’s theories. I’d preferred the haunted highway idea. Now I’m trapped in a room decorated with blood and suffering. A nameless man holds my life in his hands, and I don’t know how to find my way home.

Forcing my body into a sitting position, I remind myself how I can’t return home. Freedom from here will only be a prison somewhere else.

I stare at the door and wait for the man to return. Where is he right this moment? Is he torturing someone in another room? I wonder if he suffers nightmares from his sins. I even worry he might be dead, and I’ll starve to death in this room.

By the time the door flies open, I’m convinced I’ll never see him again. His expression is no longer unreadable. He reminds me of a hunted animal. On the edge, he nearly drops the tray next to my lap on the bed.

“Eat fast. Drink faster.”

“What’s wrong?” I ask, deciding there’s no harm in antagonizing him when my fate is likely sealed already.

The man says nothing. He glances at the tray and then back at me.

“You don’t talk a lot, do you?” I mumble, biting off a piece of bread.

“What is there to say?”

“You could tell me your name. Or at least give me something to call you, so I’m not forced to think of you as ‘the man’ in my head.”

“I’m called Quill. Does this information improve your situation?”

“Yes. Is Quill a nickname?”

“Stop talking. Eat and drink. I need to put you away while I hunt.”

Frowning, I empty the glass of water. What does he mean by putting me away? Do I even want to know?

Afraid now, I struggle against his grip when he pulls me to my feet. I reach out to hit him, but he easily seizes my wrist in his viselike grip.

“Never touch me,” he growls deep in his chest. “I am trained to kill when threatened. If you harm me, I will kill you whether I want to or not. I won’t warn you again.”

His words sting as much as his grip on my wrist. All morning, I hoped Quill was the virtuous type of captor. The kind of monster uninterested in putting objects in my body and turning me into a human suitcase. While he’s a step up from Dag, I can only passively stare while he drags me out of the room and down a tight hallway lined with family pictures.

Quill nearly carries me into a country-style kitchen with pale blue cabinets and a butcher block counter. Who in the hell owns this house? I know it’s not Quill.

Opening a small door, he yanks me down a narrow flight of stairs to the basement of my nightmares.

“No,” I say, fighting him despite his warning.

I’m struck in the face by the scent of torture while my bare feet find the floor sticky with blood. Quill grips my bicep, effortlessly tugging me forward regardless of my attempt to flee. When he presses a lever, a small door opens in the wall.

“You’ll stay here while I hunt,” Quill says, shoving me into the cramped closet.

My hands reach out for him, and I cry, “No!”

He slaps away my hands. “Don’t touch me,” he warns again.

“Please don’t shut me in here.”

His dark eyes remaining feral, he doesn’t care about my panic. I don’t think he even sees me. “If I fail my hunt, suffocation is preferable to what the Death Dealers have in store for you.”

“I don’t want to die.”

“Consider it a mercy killing.”

“No!” I scream as he slams the door.