Andrew Neiderman - Deficiency

Someone had stolen all that from him, he thought. Someone had done something terrible to him and he didn't even remember it being done. What was most frightening was he couldn't recall who had done it, and that meant he might very well confront this person and not know he was his mortal enemy. Therefore, everyone must be thought to be his mortal enemy, he concluded. He would trust no one, not that he ever put much trust in anyone he could recall, but especially now he would invest not even an iota of faith in anyone's words. He decided he was out in the world like Cain or like Judas. Once anyone discovered who he was, they would despise him.

He hated being this analytical, this philosophical about himself, and especially this paranoid. It had been so easy, so enjoyable just taking things as they were, gliding along, tasting, touching, never having a single responsibility, and concerned only with his own pleasure and well-being. Who needed anything else, especially all this deep thought? The more intelligent you were, the more unhappy you are, he concluded. Pity the ant who suddenly realizes how small and vulnerable he is among the moving humans around him. Be oblivious to your own mortality and weakness and you will never be unhappy, he told himself.

The headlights of an approaching vehicle swept over the office walls and ripped him out of his musing. He was grateful for that and sat up quickly to watch as a slightly built, dark-haired man with glasses emerged from the car that had just pulled up in front of the motel office. When the door opened, he could see the woman in the passenger's seat. She didn't look very happy.

"Evening," the man said after entering. "I think we've gone off the beaten track, so to speak. How far is it to Kingston?"

"Kingston," he repeated. "That's a good eighty miles," he said, even though he wasn't sure. From his understanding of the area, it seemed reasonable, however. At least he would appear to know what he should know.

"Eighty? Wow." The man scratched the back of his head and then looked toward his car and his wife. "She's not going to be happy about that. We've been driving all day. You have any availability?"

He really wasn't in the mood for anyone, but he also realized he had to keep up the charade of being the motel owner so he wouldn't cause any undue interest and attention. He didn't have time to think about any of that. He had to work on where he was going, when, and how. He had to free his mind of everything else so the messages would come, as they always had before, the sense of direction, the new target, so to speak. He had to be receptive, and as long as he permitted all this static in his head, it wouldn't happen.

"Yeah, sure," he said quickly and got up. He scooped a set of keys off the rack.

"Ten will be fine for you," he added handing the man the keys. The man stood there looking at them and smiling dumbly.

What am I doing wrong? he wondered. What have I left out?

"Well, don't I have to sign in first?" the man asked.

"Sure, sign in," he said and turned the book toward him. The man still stared at him, a confused smile on his face.

"How much is the room?" he asked.

"Thirty-eight fifty," he said. "All the rooms are thirty-eight fifty."

"Oh." He looked out at his wife again. "She gets annoyed when we don't stay at places that advertise on TV."

He started to take the key back. Maybe the man wanted to go. Good. Go, he thought. I have to have peace and quiet so I can hear the voices.

"But I'll tell her that we've gone far enough," the man suddenly decided and reached for the keys.

"Suit yourself," he told him and gave him the keys. The man took them and then signed the book. He reached into his jacket to produce his wallet and slip out the credit card.

It put him in a small panic. He had to process that. "Where was the credit card device?

The man watched as he searched.

"Everything all right?"

"Yeah, yeah, my brother puts things where I can't find them," he replied.

"Oh." The man smiled with relief as if he had a brother who was always doing something similar to him as well.

"Here it is," he announced and produced the device. He took the man's card and slapped it on. Then he wrote in the amount and gave the receipt to the man to sign, which he did quickly and handed it back.

After he ripped off the customer copy, he handed it to him.

"Oh, my card," the man said.

"What? Right, Mr. Samuels," he said reading off the card before he gave him that too.

"So I suppose there's a good place for us to have some dinner nearby?"

"Yeah, sure," he said.

"Any recommendations?"

"No, they're all about the same," he told him. "Just go east." Charles Samuels stared at him with some surprise and then nodded and smiled. He started out and stopped.

"Any of those advertisements, pamphlets about the area, something that would describe the nearby restaurants?" Charles asked. "My wife is very particular about what she eats. Is the place clean? That sort of thing, you know." He shifted his gaze and searched the lobby. There wasn't anything.

"No, I'm sorry."

"Maybe the phone book in the room then, or a newspaper. Thanks," Charles Samuels said and hurried out to the car. For a few moments, he sat there talking to his wife.

He could see Samuels raising and lowering his arms and shaking his head. Finally, he started his engine and drove slowly toward the units, pulling in at Unit 10. He could see the woman getting out slowly, reluctantly. In the dim light of the motel walkway, he could see she was wide in the hips and had her hair cut short, almost shorter than her husband's. She walked like someone pouting would walk, refusing to take anything out of the car. Charles Samuels opened their trunk and brought out two bags. She stood by the door, facing it like a woman on death row. Samuels fumbled with the key. She offered no assistance. Finally, he opened the door and they disappeared within. He sat back, hoping he wouldn't have any hunger tonight, or if he did, hoping he could find someone better than a woman like that from whom to draw what he needed. He was tired, and being tired this early in the evening was not something he was accustomed to experiencing. Rising with concern, he went into the bathroom and looked at his face. He didn't have as healthy a complexion, he decided. The fatigue he felt was showing itself in his eyes and the deepened lines in his face. This wasn't good. This wasn't good at all, he thought. He had just fed, just renewed his bodily needs. Why was he still tired?

He went back to the lobby and sat thinking again. It wasn't until he heard a noise, the sound of a car door opening and closing, that he opened them just in time to see Charles Samuels and his wife. Samuels had returned to the office, apparently to get a newspaper to read the advertisements for a restaurant and then drove away.

He closed his eyes again. He was so sleepy, and this was so unusual. Maybe he would have to visit Unit 10 later, he reluctantly thought. He would wait for them to return. At least, he should be grateful it was all still coming to him, all still easy to acquire. Get rest. Get strong, he told himself and permitted himself to doze.

"Go on," Garret Stanley ordered Darlene Stone. He waved the pistol at her as well.

He had forced Terri to drive them toward Neversink and then pull into a side road that had once been the driveway for a moderate size tourist house, now deserted and left with a foreclosure poster on its front door. The poster was faded enough to suggest it had been closed down for some time. Windows were broken, shutters hung on a single hinge, grass and weeds grew wildly around the chipped and cracked cement front steps. The bannister was broken on the left side and had fallen to the ground.

"He said he was staying at a small tourist house and the old lady who ran it told him about the tavern," Darlene continued.