In The Arms Of The Enemy. Carol Ericson
Her head throbbed as she stared at the dead guy. He had to be dead. She zeroed in on his chest, watching for the rise and fall of his breathing. Nothing.
Dried foam clung to his parted lips and chin in silvery trails, clinging to his beard like gossamer spiderwebs. His open, bloodshot eyes bugged out from their sockets like those of a surprised cartoon character.
She checked the carpet around his body—no blood, no weapon, just a plastic water bottle on its side with a quarter of its contents still inside.
She sat back on her heels and massaged her temples, which now throbbed as much as the back of her head. What had happened in this cheap motel room? Who was he?
Who was she?
A sob bubbled in her throat. That terror had slammed into her head-on before she even saw the body on the floor, when she’d come to, lying diagonally across the bed, fully clothed. She’d put that problem on the back burner when she noticed the dead guy, but a complete memory loss couldn’t be ignored forever.
There had to be a clue to her identity somewhere. She rose to her feet, her gaze sweeping the room, with its upended lamp, disheveled double bed and cracked picture frame above that bed.
The dead man hadn’t gone down without a fight. With her? Had she killed this man in a fight?
She took in his large frame sprawled on the threadbare carpet and shook her head. Hard to believe. But then maybe—she glanced at her toes, painted with pale pink polish—she was some ninja amazon woman.
A hysterical laugh crackled through the room and she clapped a hand over her mouth. She didn’t like the sound of that laugh. Wrapping her arms around her midsection, she tiptoed toward the open door of the bathroom. She held her breath and flicked the light switch with her knuckle.
At least no more dead bodies greeted her. She shuffled toward the chipped vanity and slowly raised her head to face the mirror.
She gasped. Leaning forward, she traced the outline of a red spot forming high on her cheekbone, beneath her right eye. Then she rubbed the painful area on the back of her head, her fingers circling a huge lump. Had she and the man gotten into a brawl?
She stepped back, studying the fine-boned face in the mirror, a slim column of a neck and a pair of narrow shoulders encased in a flimsy T-shirt. That slip of a thing that stared back at her with wide eyes couldn’t have taken down a kitten, never mind a full-grown man.
She bit her bottom lip and winced. She hunched forward and dabbed at the lip she now saw was swollen. The dead guy had done a number on her before...succumbing. But what had he succumbed from?
Maybe someone had attacked them both and left her for dead. Maybe that someone would return. She backed away from the mirror and stumbled out of the small bathroom.
The walls of the dumpy motel room closed in on her all at once and she listed to the side like a drunken sailor on the deck of a ship. Reaching out a hand to clutch the faded bedspread, she sank to the edge of the bed. She should call the police, 911.
Her gaze traveled to the inert form on the floor and she shivered. Unless she’d killed him.
She crept to the window, where she hooked a finger between two slats of the blinds and peeked outside. She squinted into the gray light. The green numbers on the digital clock by the bed had already told her it was just after six thirty in the morning.
A small, dark car huddled in a parking space in front of the room. Could it be theirs? His? Hers?
She patted the pockets of her jeans—no keys, no ID, no money. She gulped back her rising panic and lunged for the closet. She swung open the door and jumped back as a small wheeled suitcase fell over on its side, just missing her bare toes.
Dropping to her knees, she scrabbled for the zipper with trembling hands. When she flipped open the suitcase, she plunged her hands into a pile of clothes—her clothes. She’d packed in a hurry.
She pushed the bag away from her and crawled on her hands and knees to peer under the bed. Nothing but dust occupied the space and she sneezed as it tickled her nose.
What woman didn’t carry a purse with her?
She searched the rest of the room, giving the body on the floor a wide berth. She ended in the middle of the room, hands on her hips.
One place left she hadn’t searched. She slid a sideways glance at the dead man, and then pivoted toward the bathroom. She yanked a hand towel from the rack. She returned to the man and crouched beside him. With the towel covering her hand, she tugged at his jacket, which fell open, exposing his neck and an intricate tattoo curling around it and down his chest. Vines, barbwire, a skull and the letters L and C intertwined. LC. Larry?
She rifled Larry’s front pockets and heard the jingle of the keys before she saw them. She closed her fingers, still wrapped in the towel, around a key chain and pulled it free of Larry’s pocket. She cupped the keys in her palm, frowning at the yellow daisy key chain—didn’t seem like Larry’s style at all. Maybe the car belonged to her.
A pair of boots, socks stuffed inside, was lined up near the door of the motel room, and she put them on—a perfect fit, kind of like Cinderella in an alternate universe. She eased open the door and pressed her eye to the crack.
Luckily for her, the motel didn’t seem to be a hotspot of tourist activity or any other kind of activity—except for in this room. She swung the door wide and stepped into a cool, damp blast of air. Tucking her chin to her chest, she scurried to the compact car and jabbed at the key fob hooked to the key chain.
The lights of the little car flashed once in greeting, and she blew out a breath. She dropped onto the front seat and slid down. Then she pulled open the glove compartment, and a stack of napkins tumbled out.
Leaving them where they fell, she plunged her hand into the glove box and started pulling papers out, glancing at each one before tossing it to the floor.
When she found the car’s registration, she ran a finger across the printed words and read aloud, her voice filling the car, startling her. “Hazel McTavish.”
The dead man in the hotel room didn’t look like a Hazel. Could she be Hazel? Hazel lived in Seattle, Washington. Was that where she was now? No bells of recognition rang in her head. Seattle meant about as much to her at this point as Timbuktu.
Peering into the back of the car, she scanned the seat and floor. She plucked a black leather jacket from the floor and shook it out. It had to be hers.
With her blood racing, she jammed her hands in the pockets. Her trembling fingers curled around a slip of paper, which she pulled free.
Timberline, WA.
At least there was a common denominator here—Washington. Could she be in Timberline now?
She scooted from the car and locked it with the key fob. She reached into the motel room and yanked the Do Not Disturb sign from the inside door handle, hooking it on the outside before slipping back into the room.
Larry hadn’t moved.
Tapping her toe, she assessed the big man on the floor. Did he have a wallet? A phone? He’d landed on his back, and if he kept his wallet in his back pocket, she doubted she could turn him over to do a search.
Her stomach churned. She didn’t want to try. Didn’t want to touch him.
She had to make some kind of move. She couldn’t hang out here until someone came looking for Larry—or her. And where was here?
She scurried to the other side of the bed and the telephone on the nightstand. She grabbed a cheap notepad printed with the words Stardust Motel, Seattle, Washington, and dropped it.
She