Ken Douglas - Gecko

He jammed his hands deep into the pocket only to find it empty. He looked up at the front door and wondered if it was locked. The chain wasn’t drawn and he couldn’t tell if the lock was engaged or not. If it was locked, would the dead man’s boss break it in? No, of course not. He’d get a key from Phil. He worked his hand into the other pocket as he heard the engine shut off.

No key there either. He only had seconds left. He scooted toward the man’s midsection, fishing in the left front pocket of the man’s jeans as he heard the car door open. He wondered if the man outside had a gun. The dead man didn’t, at least he hadn’t seen one. Maybe he should have looked. He heard the car door close.

No key in the pocket. He quickly checked under the man’s leather jacket for a shoulder holster and found none. One front pocket left. Last hope. He had to slide up onto the body to get at it. He straddled the dead man’s waist and with his hands behind himself, he eased his right hand into the man’s pocket. There was a knock on the door.

Loose change and no key.

The knocking resumed, louder.

“ Hey, Tony, it’s us.” The boss man wasn’t alone. There were at least two of them, three, counting Phil, the desk clerk, and he was trapped.

“ See if there’s a pocket on the inside of the jacket,” Donna thought.

Jim spun around, still straddling the dead man, so that he was facing the feet. He cringed when it sounded like he pushed air out of the corpse. The body still felt alive. He hurriedly ran his hand inside the jacket and breathed a sigh of relief when he found a pocket there.

“ Get Phil and get a key to this room,” a squeaky voice whined from the other side of the door.

Not much time left. Bingo, the key was there. He fumbled it out of the pocket, fumbled it into the keyhole and felt a sharp wave of pleasure as the handcuffs unlocked.

He looked around the room for a weapon and realized that even without the handcuffs he wouldn’t be a match for three men. He was still trapped.

“ The window, there’s a park out back.” Once again it was Donna to the rescue.

He hurried around the bed and opened the window.

“ Hurry up,” he heard from outside the front door.

The wallet. He dropped the wallet when he kicked the man in the head. He had to get it. And his bag. He had to have it. The passport was in it. Without them he’d have no money, no credit, no ID, and no place to go.

“ It’s about time,” he heard from out front. He didn’t have time to go back for the wallet or bag.

He pushed the screen off, stepped out the window and into the night as he heard a key being inserted into the front door. He ran across the park toward a group of bushes about fifty yards from the motel and he slid into them like he was sliding into home, trying to beat out a throw from second base.

He woke, kissed by the sun and fighting for breath. Thursday, he thought, exhaling into a violent coughing spasm. He gasped air between the racking coughs and jerked himself into a sitting position, slapping dirt from his face. He struggled for a breath, exhaled, took another and the coughing subsided. He recognized the symptoms. He was having an asthma attack. His last one had been over forty years ago.

The grass was wet with frost. His clothes were damp. The seasons, like his life, were upside down. It was winter in July and the cold night spent outside had brought back the dreaded asthma of his youth. He needed to see a doctor. He couldn’t go all day fighting for air, not if he wanted to find Donna.

He looked through the bushes to the park beyond and a profusion of bright flowers. Across the street were middle class homes with middle class lawns, and on the corner, a cafe. He watched as people came and went, knowing he wouldn’t be one of them. He had no money. He gasped again and again was racked by a coughing spasm. He would have to do something. He had to see a doctor.

He crept out of the bushes and stood to greet the dawn. He looked around, making sure he was unobserved, and brushed off. He wished he had a coat hanger to scratch under the cast and he wished he had some warm clothes.

He started across the park, hoping a walk would warm him. Every other breath was punctuated with a cough and every other cough, punctuated by a sharp spasm, his stomach muscles clenching and jerking, forcing him to bend over, hands on his knees, till it passed.

“ I’m back.”

“ You were gone?” He hadn’t noticed she’d been away.

“ I went away just as you were going to sleep. I remember the police were still over in the motel room when you closed your eyes. When I opened mine, I was back in my body. And I was on a boat.”

At the mention of the police, memories of last night came flooding back. From his hiding place in the bushes he’d been able to see into the room he’d fled. The two men who’d entered were not the kind of people Jim wanted to cross sides with. Both big, wearing black woolen sweaters and seaman’s caps. They’d looked like a body building advertisement.

He’d watched as they came to the window and looked out. It seemed as if they’d been looking right at him and he’d been tempted to get up and run, but he knew they couldn’t see him through the dark and the bushes. When they turned away from the window he had half expected them to come around the motel and look for him. Instead, they’d left.

He’d hidden in the bushes, shivering for another fifteen or twenty minutes and, seeing no activity, decided to crawl back in the window and get his things. He was halfway across the park, when the front door opened and the police came in. He’d turned, darted back into the bushes. They were still there an hour later when he’d drifted off to a cold, fitful sleep.

Now awake, with a wheezing cough that seemed to be getting worse, no money for a doctor or even breakfast, he was fast running out of ideas and the asthma attack had sapped his strength.

“ We could go by my brother’s, he’ll help,” Donna thought.

“ Do you know how to get there?” He thought. Any idea was better than no idea.

“ No, but I know the address. 1737 Norfolk Street and I remember from one of his letters, he said it was a two minute walk from the center of town. So it can’t be far.”

He stopped a jogger and asked directions to Norfolk Street. Five minutes later he was standing on the front porch of a small home with a trimmed lawn, surrounded by a white picket fence. He could have been in any small town in America forty years ago.

He rang the bell and doubled over, coughing and gasping for air.

“ Can I help you?” Jim heard a soft woman’s voice, but couldn’t straighten up to see the face.

“ In a second.” He waited for the spasm to finish.

“ Come in.” She took him by the hand. “What is it? Asthma?” The concern in her voice was real and he was impressed that she would invite a stranger into her home. Not in America, he thought. Not anymore.

“ I think so, hasn’t affected me since I was a teenager.” It was a struggle to force the words out.

“ You’re American?” She led him to a sofa.

“ Yes.” He looked into her deep brown eyes, clear, wide and honest. Then he bent forward and coughed his way through another attack.

“ Here, this will help.” She put a blue inhaler to his lips. “It’ll relax your bronchial tubes and let you breathe.”

He inhaled the medicine as she released it and within seconds he was breathing.

“ Now this,” she said, handing him a brown inhaler, “the blue one helps to stop it once it has started and the brown one contains a steroid that helps keep it from starting.”

He took three puffs from the brown inhaler and handed it back to her, feeling better.