The Lonely Mile(19)
So, the fact that his soon-to-be special friend Carli Ferguson happened to live in the immediate area was one more stroke of good fortune, all of it leading Martin to the conclusion that she might actually be the perfect temporary companion, the one special girl he had been searching for all these years. Time after time, he thought he had found her, only to discover upon closer inspection that the girl’s eyes were placed too closely together, or she refused to shut her mouth when ordered to, or she was too tall or too short or weighed a couple of pounds too much. It was always something.
None of that mattered in the long run, of course, since seven days was such a short length of time—a drop in the bucket, really—but Martin considered himself extremely discriminating, and although he could still have plenty of fun with a companion who possessed a few flaws, he had lived his life waiting and hoping that the perfect one would eventually appear. The search had been exhausting, both mentally and physically, and there were times when Martin had begun to fear he would never find the girl of his dreams, that she was nothing more than the figment of an overeager and overheated imagination.
But now, with the delectable Carli Ferguson nearly in his grasp, combined with the perfect method of lowering the boom of vengeance on her busybody father, Martin felt like climbing onto his roof and shouting out to the world, “Yes! Yes! I’ve found her! This girl is the one!”
It was obvious to Martin that the fates had been at work. The girl he had chosen back at the rest stop was unworthy; he could see that now with the benefit of hindsight. The one he had nearly been stuck with was not quite tall enough, and her dishwater blonde hair was dull and lackluster compared to Carli Ferguson’s, whose golden locks seemed somehow to contain rays of sunshine itself. He stared at the screen, awestruck by the serendipitous way things had turned out.
Martin would have been thankful for Bill Ferguson’s interference, but for the knowledge that the wannabe hero had had nothing to do with this afternoon’s good fortune. That had been karmically preordained: it happened because Martin Krall was meant to possess Carli Ferguson. Of that he was certain. He gazed at her photograph, imagining the things they would do together, and marveled that such an angel had been produced by the likes of Bill Ferguson, so clearly a representative of the shallow end of the gene pool.
Ultimately, though, he knew it didn’t matter. In addition to finally possessing the one—his soul mate, the girl who would worship him and serve him and make this whole dreary existence worthwhile, at least for a short time—Martin Krall would enjoy the added bonus of evening the score with that gun-toting fool Bill Ferguson. Because, even though it was preordained that he experience a week of bliss with the angel Carli Ferguson, he would still derive tremendous satisfaction out of making that stupid bastard Bill Ferguson’s life a living hell. That fool would regret the day he had ever stepped between Martin Krall and Martin Krall’s objective.
Another thought struck Martin out of the blue. It came to him fully formed, with the clarity of divine inspiration. Why couldn’t he enjoy his perfect angel for months, or even years, rather than the agreed-upon seven days? Why should he turn her over to his contact at all? Why couldn’t he snatch some other girl to satisfy his contact, and keep Carli for himself? Hiding her from his conspirators would not be easy, but it could be done. It was definitely something to consider.
Martin shut down his laptop, but only after making Carli’s goal-scoring photo the background on his computer screen, so he might gaze upon the sight of his angel whenever he booted up the machine. Then he turned his attention to the big-screen television. The credits were rolling across a black background, something Martin had always thought was ludicrous. Credits for a porn flick? Okay, people might want to know the name of the star, so they could buy her other movies, but who the hell cared what the director’s name was? It’s not like anyone would confuse Naughty Nurses Five with a lost classic from Alfred Hitchcock or something.
Martin snickered to himself at the picture of fat Alfred shooting video of naked models, and thumbed the “Play” button on his remote. Instantly, the film began again, the same tired blonde with the same used-up features writhing and moaning in the same patently phony way, but Martin didn’t care. All he saw when he looked at the screen was Carli Ferguson, and she wasn’t used up at all.
At least, not yet.
CHAPTER 17
THE DREAM IS ALWAYS the same.
You’re lying in bed, tucked under the covers, fresh from a bath, squeaky-clean and warm. You fall asleep almost immediately because there is so much to do when you’re ten years old, and you’re so tired at the end of the day.
After midnight, it’s always after midnight when it happens, your bedroom door cracks open and a sliver of hallway light flashes across your carpeted floor, followed immediately by the figure of a man. He is tall and bulky, but he moves with surprising stealth and speed. He sits on the edge of your bed as you pretend to sleep. The springs squeal, protesting the added weight of his body, and he knows you are awake, that you are only pretending to sleep, but you do it anyway. You can’t help it.
You know what’s coming; it’s the same thing that is always coming. You wish it weren’t, but wishes don’t matter, even in dreams. The man places his hand tenderly atop your head and strokes your hair gently, almost reverently. Soon his touch takes on a more insistent quality and he begins to caress your face. His hand feels fevered, sweaty. “I know you’re awake,” he whispers.