Andrew Kaufman - The Lion, the Lamb, the Hunted - A Psychological Thriller

I waited there, ran my fingers through my hair, and realized I was sweating. CJ came out holding the key and gave me a quick, troubled glance, then moved on to the restroom.

I watched her go inside, knowing I was about to be caught. My dirty little secret brought out in the light. My world turned upside down. All these years I’d managed to keep it a secret. Now I was about be…

Exposed.

A few seconds later, the door swung open, and CJ came out, her face colorless, her eyes wide, staring right at me.

Exposed.

I lowered my gaze to the pavement in shame, closed my eyes tightly as she moved toward me. Slowly.

Exposed.

“ Pat? What the hell’s going on?”

I said nothing. There wasn’t much to say.

Exposed.

“How could you?” she said, voice trembling.

Head bowed, slowly shaking it, “I’m sorry…I…”

“How could you let me go in there? And how in the hell could they have known?”

I looked up. “What?”

“How could they have known we’d stop here?”

I swallowed hard.

CJ crossed her arms, looked away, and shook her head. “Behind us, now even ahead of us…it’s like they know our next move before we do. What the hell? Did they follow us here?” She looked around. “We’ll never get away from them, will we…ever? They’ll never let us go.”

I kept silent.

“Let’s get the hell out of here. Fast.” She began moving toward the car, then stopped and turned to me. “For God’s sake, Pat. Why didn’t you say something? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t want you go in there,” I said quietly. “I tried to stop you.”

Once inside the car, I locked all the doors, pulled out of the lot, got back onto the road. CJ was visibly shaken; so was I, but for different reasons.

I should have felt guilty for what I’d done in that restroom, for what I’d allowed CJ to think, for upsetting her. And part of me did. But the other part, the part that I couldn’t control, was bathing in the release of tension. That part of me thought it was much better for CJ to fear whoever was chasing us than to fear me.

And that part of me won.

Chapter Forty-Five

For the rest of the way, I managed to separate from my act, telling myself I was under extraordinary stress, that it wasn’t me in that bathroom.

That it was the disorder’s fault.

Telethon, Texas finally announced itself with an antiquated clapboard sign. Beyond that, it was no different than anything else we’d seen for the past seventy miles: more desert, more nothingness.

We drove past a service station with no customers, not even an employee in sight, then an old hardware store, and then—to my complete lack of surprise—a drive-through liquor store.

“Welcome to Telethon,” I said, enthusiasm absent from my voice.

“Welcome to hell,” she replied in a tone that matched.

Nowhere to hide. Not even a dumpy diner for strategizing. My stomach hit another nervous jag. Seeing the town made me realize even more what a big mistake this was.

“Just keep driving,” CJ said, jolting me from my thoughts and apparently reading them. “There’s got to be more to this place.”

“Yeah, the other side of hell.”

A few miles later, we hit the other side of Telethon and the Paradise Motel—an oxymoron if I’d ever seen one. Nothing remotely beautiful or tropical about it, just your basic motor inn: a single-story, nondescript, u-shaped affair with twenty or so homogenous rooms facing out.

“Pull in there,” CJ ordered, pointing to a vacant, gravel lot.

“Turning in,” I said. “Bates Motel, here we come.”

“Not funny,” CJ replied.

“Not trying to be.”

I pulled up in front of the office, turned the ignition key to off, then gazed at CJ—or maybe it was more of a glare. “Now what?”

“Let’s go in and meet Norman,” she said with her usual wry smile. “I don’t think his mom’s gonna be around, though. I hear she’s hanging back at the house.”

“Not funny.”

“Not trying to be.”

“Touché.”

We walked in past a rack of literature, presumably about Telethon, although I couldn’t imagine what there was to promote about the place. CJ grabbed a handful and shoved them into her purse.

About ten feet away sat a man behind the counter, fifty-ish and heavy-ish. He lifted his head as if we’d awakened him from a hundred-year nap.

“Looking to stay the night,” I said.

“Single or double.” It sounded like an automatic phrase.

CJ offered me a quick glance, then said, “We actually need two rooms.”

He dragged himself to the rack, grabbed two keys, then dragged himself back. The task looked painful.

I said, “Can we get adjoining rooms?”

“They are,” he replied.

“Is there anyone else staying here?” CJ asked.

“Nope.”

“Why’s that?”

“Off season.”

“When’s in season?”

“Summertime.”

“What happens then?”

“Nothing, really.” He shrugged. “Just …you know…summer.”

“I see,” CJ replied, but the look on her face said she didn’t.

Before even settling into my room, I sat on the edge of the bed and started writing forgiveness repeatedly. It hadn’t escaped me that my urge to list was becoming unmanageable, that I was out of control. I wondered where I’d be, who I’d be with, if the urge hit so strongly that I couldn’t stop it.

I made it to forgiveness thirty-five when I heard a knock on the connecting door. I shoved the pad into a drawer, then opened the door to find CJ waving a handful of pamphlets at me. The look on her face screamed, get me the hell out of here.

“It’s official,” she said. “This place sucks.”

She came in and inspected the bedspread for cleanliness before sitting down beside me. “According to these pamphlets, the town’s attractions are the jail, the water tower, and the train station…oh, and the cemetery. It’s a bad sign, Pat.”

“I didn’t need a pamphlet to tell me that. Did you happen to figure out where there is to eat around here while you were doing your research?”

“In fact, I did.” She opened one up and read it. “We have Covey’s Diner, famous for their cow’s tongue.”

“Seriously?”

“And if that don’t strike yer fancy, well, a half mile on up the road is the Hash House where they serve…” She held out her hand as if waiting for my answer.

“Hash.”

A smile, one of those wry ones again. “Which one you got a hankerin’ for? Besides the tongue place, that is.”

“Three guesses.”

“I’m gonna say hash.”

She pointed at me. “I’m gonna say good guess. We can save the tongue place for our special night.”

Chapter Forty-Six

The Hash House was everything we’d hoped it wouldn’t be: another filthy dive at the end of a dusty road. Country music twanged through ceiling speakers, with sizzling grease doing background vocals. I started to wonder whether Texas had any decent places to eat or if we were just missing them at every turn.

The sign said to seat ourselves, so we found a booth in back. Across the aisle from us sat a kid sporting a t-shirt that looked as if he’d spilled a can of oil down the front. He had a greasy ball cap to match and a serious case of teenage acne. He stared at us with his mouth half-open and a faraway look in his eyes—one that seemed to state the obvious: nobody’s home.

And then there was the young couple a few rows down who looked as though they hadn’t spoken a word to each other in years. She’d clearly used a fork to style her hair. He had a tattoo on the side of his neck that said Mercy .