Fortunately, Alex's massive Tahoe was the lone vehicle riding the black ribbon of two-lane asphalt through the wooded terrain, headlights piercing the darkness. So transfixed by his dash navigation system, he scarcely watched the winding road, occasionally jerking the steering wheel when he'd veered into the oncoming lane.

Blake slumped against the passenger door unconscious, his ankles and wrists bound with duct tape.

Alex hollered, "Yo, bitch. You still breathing?" He gave his prisoner a shove.

Blake stirred. To him, consciousness meant only one thing. Pain. Throbbing, deepening, vice-like agony tethered him to the world of the living. The dull ache in his lower back no doubt signaled some level of organ failure and most likely internal bleeding. His strategy, if this panicked excuse for a plan could be labeled a strategy, was to buy time. Buy time to look for an opportunity to signal for help. Admittedly, it was a plan born of sheer desperation with terribly low odds of succeeding but if it worked just long enough to provide Rachel a greater chance of escaping, then it was well worth it.

"You better not be making me drive all the way back to Pittsburgh for nothing." Alex shook his mega head. "You think you been through hell already? You ain't even knocked on the front door." He grinned, overestimating his clever remark. "There it is," he said as Getty's Motel faded neon sign came into view. "What a fuckin' dump."

########

Reclined on a spacious king-size bed, Damon popped a few Percocets into his mouth then washed them down with a long drink of beer. He heard a man's voice from the hallway, "Room service. Your champagne, sir."

Damon lifted his head then haltingly, got to his feet, grunting in misery. "Coming."

The bathroom door flew open. Rachel emerged wearing only a bath towel and a stern expression. In an angry whisper, she growled, "What're you doing?!"

The delivery man knocked on the door. "Sir?"

"Just leave it," Rachel responded. The clatter of the champagne bucket outside the door drew her to the peephole. She turned the stink-eye on Damon.

"What?" He shrugged. "Nobody saw me come in here."

"You're willing to bet your life on that? And mine?"

"Trust me. I've been careful. Super careful. Why can't you just chill like a normal person?"

"You think you're normal? That's hilarious."

"Lighten up." He opened the door and then returned with a bottle of champagne nestled in a silver ice bucket. Between his fingers, he carried two champagne flutes. He set the glasses down then tugged at her bath towel, his eyes bright. "Let's get this party started."

"I don't see a steak."

"It's probably on its way."

She made an evasive half-spin when he groped for her towel and came up empty.

"No steak, no party."

########

Alex was right. Getty's Motel was a dump. The dark, wood-paneled walls stunk of mold and cigarette smoke. He sprawled across the bed nearest to the door, his eyes on the TV, his muscled, tattooed arms protruding from his T-shirt.

On the other bed, Blake's wrists were duct-taped to the bedposts. Slouched against the headboard, his discolored face was scarcely recognizable, though both eyes were now functioning.

A dim second-hand table lamp stood on the nightstand between the two motel beds along with a roll of duct tape, and car keys.

A muted knocking at the door induced Alex to lower the TV's volume. Grabbing his handgun, he gestured to Blake with a finger to his lips. "Shhhhhhh." He peeked through the curtains, then shoved his pistol into the waistband behind his wide back. He opened the door to face a young, unshaven delivery guy who recoiled at the size of the beast filling the doorway.

"You order from Happy Dragon?" he asked.

Alex peeled a couple of bills from his clip in exchange for two takeout bags. The delivery guy fumbled in his pocket for change.

"Keep it," said Alex, slamming the door in his face. He dropped the sacks onto the table.

Lumbering to the bed where Blake was secured, he sliced the tape from Blake's wrists with a pocketknife. Blake winced. He struggled to the edge of his bed, then set his feet on the carpeted floor. Rubbing his wrists, he waited for a wave of dizziness to pass before attempting to stand. The smell of Chinese food reminded him that he hadn't eaten anything all day.

A ragged cough tore through him from deep in his gut and sent him lurching onto the mattress. When he wiped the spittle from his mouth with the back of his hand, he discovered blood.

"Jesus," said Alex. "You gonna be able to eat or you wanna just lay there?"

"No," Blake's voice came out like a choppy whisper. "I need some food." He sat up slowly.

Alex set a bottle of iced tea on the table, then ripped a 2-liter bottle of Dr. Pepper from the bag. He twisted off the cap, guzzled, then belched.

Blake shuffled toward the table, massaging his forearm and flexing his fingers, trying to alleviate the numbness. He lifted the glass bottle of tea.

Alex tossed his pistol onto his bed, positioning himself between his captive and the gun. The desk chair moaned as Alex parked his immense butt. "You use these ching-chong pick-up sticks or you eat with a fork like an American?"

"Fork works."

Alex tossed him a plastic fork. He opened the flaps of a white cardboard container, jammed his fork into a nest of lo mein, then shoveled it into his mouth.

Blake grimaced from the pain in his ribcage when he made the mistake of inhaling a deep breath. He rubbed his side then retrieved a carton from the paper bag, taking a seat at the foot of his bed, eyes on the TV.

"I don't get it," said Alex. "Why you tryin' to protect that black dude? Geo knows he was in on it."

"He had nothing to do with it. Nothing."

"Right. And I'm Elvis fuckin' Presley."

Blake stopped himself from asking what proof they had because he already knew the answer. James was Black and in their world, that's all the proof they needed.

Through a mouthful of lo mein, Alex mumbled, "My egg rolls in there?"

Blake passed the wrapped egg rolls to Alex. He then removed two fortune cookies, cracking one.

Alex chortled. "Don't waste your time, bitch. I can tell you your fortune."

Blake unfolded the slip of paper and read. "When fortune flatters she does it to betray."

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

Blake shrugged, dipping his fork into the container. "You gonna read yours?"

Alex took the bait, unwrapping the cookie, and breaking it open. With his eyes diverted to the slip of paper, Blake made a desperate move, ferociously swinging the bottled tea.

WHACK! The full glass bottle split Alex's forehead. He recoiled, stunned, just the whites of his eyes visible. He rocked backward, swiping for his weapon, but he missed, crashing to the floor like a 300-pound sack of baked hams.

Blake attacked with wild, vicious swings. The blows landed with such force that his forearm went numb.

CRACK! CRACK!

Alex wrapped his broad hand over the corner of the nightstand. SLAM! His knuckles were pulverized by a crushing blow. Two skull-cracking strikes disrupted Alex's scream. The lamp wobbled and toppled. The giant lay motionless, his neck angled, his legs splayed like he'd been thrown from the back of a moving truck.

Standing over him, spattered with iced tea and blood, Blake gripped the neck of the broken bottle, his chest heaving. Adrenaline sent tremors down his arms, widened his pupils to the size of dimes.

He duct-taped one of Alex's thick wrists securely to the nightstand, the other to the bed frame. He wrapped the roll of tape twice around Alex's wounded head, sealing his mouth. Blake foraged in Alex's pocket, found the car keys, then grabbed the gun.

Alex came out of shock when he felt the cold metal barrel of his own gun pressed against his dented forehead. He blinked his eyes open but one drifted.

A burst of hatred filled Blake up, almost drowning him. He cocked the hammer.

Helpless, Alex narrowed his glassy eyes in anticipation. For a guy who seemed impervious to danger, he looked genuinely scared.

Blake could taste the sweet satisfaction of squeezing the trigger but he reconsidered. The gunshot would attract attention. And despite the fact that he would probably be doing the world a favor by putting the wounded creature out of its misery, he didn't have it in him. He snatched Alex's wallet and cell phone, tucking away the gun.

A brutal cough bent him in half. He tasted blood.

He lifted the cheap lamp from the floor, surprised that the lightbulb remained intact. He set it on the nightstand then straightened the stained cloth lampshade, thinking that he'd just added to the collection of spatters and spots. On his way out of the room, Blake grabbed his container of Chinese food.

While crossing the parking lot to the car, Blake heard the motel manager whistling some familiar tune as he exited the laundry room, carrying an armful of towels. Until he saw Blake, he wore a carefree expression like the mayor of the town where nothing bad ever happens. Then his mouth dropped, and the whistling went with it. 

He sized up Blake's swollen, discolored face, looking at him like he just rode in on the back of a Stegosaurus. "You okay there, friend?" His voice fluttered.

"I'm good." He strained to produce any volume.

"Stayin' another night?"

"Couple more nights. We're good with sheets and towels. Appreciate it if you'd just leave the room alone."

"Leave it on your buddy's card?"

"Yep."

The manager nodded, resumed whistling, and then continued on his rounds with his stack of towels.

"I've Been Working On The Railroad." Blake identified the tune the manager whistled. He'd forgotten all about that happy-go-lucky song.

He stiffened at the sharp pain burning in his lower back. When it passed, he groaned, climbed into the Tahoe, and sped off, eating from the carton between his legs, masking the taste of blood with soy and MSG. In between mouthfuls, his breaths sounded like defective bagpipes, a reedy high-pitched wheeze.

Using Alex's phone, with blind hope, he dialed Rachel's number. The recorded message said, "The AT&T customer you have tried to reach is not available. To leave a message--"

He cut off the call, wondering if he'd dialed the correct number. His brain jerked and for a moment, he went to a place where he could smell Rachel, her scent so vivid he could almost taste her. He drove aimlessly, chasing stars, putting distance between himself and the Getty Motel.